With that, Fima decided to stop standing idly at the window and to start getting the place ready for the painters, who were coming after the weekend. The pictures would have to come down off the walls. Also the map of Israel on which he had once penciled reasonable compromise borders. All the furniture would have to be moved into the middle of the room and covered with plastic sheeting. The books would have to be put away. So would all the dishes and the pots and pans. Why not take advantage of the opportunity to get rid of the piles of old newspapers, magazines, pamphlets, and newsletters? The bookcases would have to be dismantled, and that would mean enlisting Uri’s help. Is it tonight he’s coming back? Or tomorrow? Or the day after? And then Nina could deliver her detailed report of how she tried not once but twice to give me my regular service and how she found the tap blocked. Perhaps Shula Kropotkin could be brought in as reinforcement to help with putting all the kitchen things away. Possibly Annette Tadmor would be glad to lend a hand. And the Pizantis also expressed a readiness to help, provided they didn’t murder each other first. And Teddy would willingly come to take down the curtains and the wall lights. Maybe he’d bring Dimi with him. The old man was quite right: it’s well over twenty years since this den was last spruced up. The ceiling’s filthy, grubby from the kerosene heater. There are cobwebs in the corners. There’s mold in the bathroom. The ceramic dies are cracked. The plaster is peeling. There are patches of mildew. There’s a dank, sweaty smell here the whole year, an old bachelor’s smell. It’s not only the bottle of worms on the balcony that smells bad. You’ve grown so used to it that you don’t even care.

Surely habit is the root of all evil. It’s precisely what Pascal was thinking of when he wrote about the death of the soul.

In a corner of his desk Fima found a green advertisement announcing huge discounts at the local supermarket. On a corner of this notice he scribbled the words:

Habit is the beginning of death. Habits are a fifth column.

And underneath:

Routine = lies.

Habituation—deterioration—dilapidation.