It occurred to him that he ought to sit down and compose a short but heartfelt appeal to the hawkish right. To suggest to them, in Ha’arets, the broad outline of a partial national consensus. A sort of new deal between the moderates and the nonmessianic hawkish element, which might be willing despite everything to swallow a return of some of the Territories were it not for what it sees as the left’s tendency to uncontrolled appeasement. The taxi driver was right: Our worst mistake over the past twenty years has been not to take seriously the sensibilities of Pizanti and his wife and hundreds of thousands of other Israelis like them, in whom the Arabs stir genuine feelings of anger, fear, and suspicion. Such feelings surely deserve not contempt but a gradual rational effort to allay them by means of intelligent argument. Instead of reasoning with them, we emptied a chamberpot full of patronizing ridicule on them. It would make sense therefore to try to draw up an agreement that would define the precise limits of our, the moderates’, willingness to make concessions to the Arabs. So that they don’t imagine, like Baruch, that we arc, so to speak, advertising a going-out-of-business sale. So that they know what we, the left, are even prepared to go to war for again, if it turns out that the Arab side is reneging or taking us for a ride. In that way, we may be able to mollify some of the hawks and bring about a thaw.

The word “thaw” reminded him that he had forgotten to light the heater. Bending down, he was relieved to discover that there was enough kerosene left. After lighting the heater, he felt the need to consult Tsvi Kropotkin before he sat down to compose his appeal. In his enthusiasm he did not care if he disturbed Tsvi in the middle of shaving again, because he felt his new idea was potentially fruitful and beneficial and indeed very urgent. But once again the telephone was silent. Fima thought the silence was, if anything, less deep than last night. A sort of intermittent rumbling sound, like the grinding of teeth, was almost audible. A moaning from the depths. Fima diagnosed faint signs of life, a first indication of recovery. He felt sure the instrument was not dead but merely in a very deep coma, and that now, even if it had not recovered consciousness, it was beginning to make a feeble response, a faint groan of pain, a slight pulse giving grounds for hope. Even taking into account the fact that the fridge had just started rumbling in the kitchen. It was therefore possible that the hope was not premature.