“A woman, attractive rather than beautiful, came up to me; she didn’t approach the reception desk but appeared from behind me, despite the notice saying STAFF ONLY. I said, ‘Sorry, all inquiries must be made from the front of the desk.’ She laughed and said, ‘All right, Efraim, we heard you the first time.’ I said, ‘If you don’t get out of here, ma’am, I’ll have to ring my bell’ (although I haven’t got a bell). At these words the woman laughed again, a pleasant, graceful laugh, like a burbling brook. She was slim-shouldered and had a slightly wrinkled neck, but her breast and stomach were well rounded and her calves covered by silk stockings with curving seams. The combination of curvaceousness and vulnerability was both sexy and touching. Or maybe it was the contrast between the shapely body and the face of an overworked teacher that was touching. I had a little girl by you, she said, and now it’s time for our daughter to meet her father. Although I knew I wasn’t supposed to leave the clinic, that it would be dangerous to follow her, especially barefoot, which I suddenly was, a sort of inner signal formed itself: If she draws her hair over her left shoulder with her left hand, then I’ll have to go. She knew; with a light movement she brought her hair forward until it spread over her dress and covered her left breast, and she said: Come. I followed her through several streets and alleys, several flights of steps and gates, and more stone-paved courtyards in Valladolid in Spain, though it was really more or less the Bukharian Quarter here in Jerusalem. Even though this woman in the girlish cotton dress and sexy stockings was a stranger and I had never set eyes on her before, I still wanted to see the little girl. So we walked through entrances to buildings that led to back yards full of loaded clotheslines, which led us to new alleyways and an ancient square lit by a street lamp in the rain. Because it had started to rain, not hard, not pouring, very few drops in fact, just a thick dampness in the darkening air. We didn’t meet a living soul on the way. Not even a cat. Suddenly the woman stopped in a passageway that had vestiges of decaying grandeur, as if it were an entrance to an Oriental palace, but probably it was just a tunnel joining two sodden courtyards, with battered mailboxes and flaking ceramic tiles. Removing my wristwatch, she pointed to a tattered army blanket in an alcove under the steps, as though removing my watch was the prelude to some kind of nakedness, and now I had to give her a baby daughter. I asked where we were and where the children were, because somehow along the way the daughter had turned into children. The woman said, Chili. I couldn’t tell whether this was the little girl’s name or the name of the woman herself, who was clasping my hand to her breast. Perhaps she was cold because of the nakedness of the skinny daughters, or else it was an invitation to hug her and warm her up. When I hugged her, her whole body shook, not with desire but with despair, and she whispered, Don’t be afraid, Efraim, I know a way and I’ll get you safely across to the Aryan side. In the dream this whispered phrase was full of promise and grace, and I continued to trust her and follow her ecstatically, and was not at all surprised when in the dream she turned into my mother, nor did I ask where the Aryan side was. Until we reached the water. At the water’s edge stood a man in a dark uniform, with a blond military mustache and legs spread wide, and he said: Have to separate.