Next to him on the kitchen table was an open package of butter biscuits. Unconsciously his fingers reached for it, and he started eating the biscuits one by one. While Yael passed him his white coffee, he described to her in a somewhat oblique way what had taken place two nights previously, and how he had come to fall asleep in her bed while Dimi was still awake at one in the morning. It wasn’t very fair of you two, either, having a night out in Tel Aviv and not even bothering to leave an emergency phone number. Suppose the child had a bilious attack? Or electrocuted himself? Or poisoned himself? Fima got into a muddle because he did not want to give away, even indirectly, the business about the dog sacrifice. Nevertheless, he muttered something about the way the neighbors’ children made Dimi’s life a misery. “You know, Yael, he’s not like the rest of them, he wears glasses, he’s so serious, he’s an albino, he’s shortsighted, you could almost say he’s half-blind, he’s very small for his age, maybe on account of some hormonal disturbance that you ought to be doing something about, he’s hypersensitive, he’s an internal—no, that’s not right—an introverted child—even that isn’t exactly the right word—perhaps it’s soulful or spiritual; it’s hard to define. He’s creative. Or, more accurately, he’s an original, interesting, you might even say a deep child.”

From that Fima moved on to the difficulties of growing up in a time of universal cruelty and violence: every evening Dimi watches the TV news; with us, every evening murder is trivialized on the screen. He also talked about himself when he was Dimi’s age: he too had been an introverted child, he too had had no mother, and his father had systematically tried to drive him insane. And he said that apparently the only emotional bond that this child had formed was with him of all people, even though Yael knew perfectly well that he had never seen himself as the fatherly type, fatherhood had always scared him to death, nevertheless he sometimes had the feeling that this had been a tragic mistake, that things could have been totally different, if only . . .

Yael cut him short again. She said frostily:

“Finish your coffee, Efraim. I have to go.”