Fima considered this too, and by the time he reached the other curb he agreed with the driver. And with Yael, who had decided not to have his son. And also with the possibility of being run over here in the street this Sabbath eve instead of running away to Rome. Like the Arab child we killed two days ago in Gaza. Being switched off. Turned to stone. Reincarnated, as a lizard perhaps. Leaving Jerusalem to Yoezer. And he decided that this evening he would call his father and tell him firmly that the painting was off. In any case he would be going soon. This time he would not give in or compromise; he would see it through, and get Baruch’s fingers out of his pockets and out of his life once and for all.

Near the Medical Center at the corner of Strauss Street and the Street of the Prophets a small crowd had gathered. Fima approached and asked what had happened. A small man with a birdlike nose and a thick Bulgarian accent informed him that a suspicious object had been found, and they were waiting for the police explosives experts to arrive. A girl with glasses said, What do you mean? It’s not that at all. A pregnant woman fainted on the steps, and the ambulance is on its way. Fima burrowed toward the center of the crowd, because he was curious to know which of these two versions was closer to the truth. Although he bore in mind that they might both be mistaken. Or both right. What if it was a pregnant woman who had discovered the suspicious object and fainted from the shock?

From the police patrol car which drew up with flashing lights and siren blaring, someone with a megaphone told the crowd to disperse. Fima, with a good citizen’s reflex, obeyed at once, but even so he was pushed roughly by a sweaty middle-aged policeman whose peaked cap was tilted back at a comical angle.

Fima was furious.

“All right, all right, no need to push, I’ve dispersed already.”

The policeman roared at him with a rolling Romanian accent:

“You better stop being clever, quick, or you’ll get it.”