His upsurge of fury yielded some benefit: as soon as he left the shop, he cut across a waste plot, entered an unfinished building, and barely had time to unzip his fly before his bladder emptied itself with a rush. He felt so triumphant that he did not even mind getting his shoes and trouser cuffs muddy. Proceeding northward, he walked past the bank without seeing it, but observed with excitement that the almond tree in his back garden was not the only one that had blossomed without waiting for the Trees’ New Year. Although on second thought he was not sure about this, because he did not know the date according to the Jewish religious calendar. He could not even remember the secular date. At any rate, there was no doubt that it was only February and already spring was raising its head. Fima felt that there was a simple symbolism here: he did not ask himself what was symbolized, but he was happy. As though he had been given responsibility for the entire city, unasked, and to his surprise it turned out that he had not entirely failed in the discharge of his duties. The pale blue of the early morning had turned to a deep azure, as though the sea were suspended upside down over the city and were showering it with nursery-school cheerfulness. Geraniums and bougainvilleas blazed in front gardens. The low stone walls gleamed as though they were being caressed. “Not bad, eh?” Fima said mentally to an invisible guest or tourist.

At the turning to Bayit Vagan stood a young man in an army windbreaker, a submachine gun over his shoulder and surrounded by buckets of flowers. He suggested that Fima take a bunch of chrysanthemums for the weekend. Fima asked himself if this wasn’t a settler from the Territories, who grew his flowers on other men’s land. He immediately decided that someone who was prepared to make peace with Arafat should not excommunicate his own domestic opponents. Although he could see the argument for excommunicating. But he could find neither hatred nor anger in his heart, perhaps because of the radiant light. Jerusalem this morning seemed to be a place where all should respect the different opinions of others, and so he put his hand in his pocket and found three one-shekel coins, no doubt the change he had been given last night by his new minister of information. He pressed the flowers to his chest as though to protect them from the cold.

“Pardon?” said Fima. “Did you say something? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear it.”

The boy selling the flowers said with a broad smile:

“All I said was have a good weekend. Good Sabbath.”

“Absolutely,” Fima agreed, laying the foundations for a new national consensus. “Thank you. And a good weekend to you too.”