The rain had not resumed. The air was saturated, and Fima’s nostrils picked up the tang of rotting leaves. He recalled how once when he was a child, at such a time as this, at the onset of the Sabbath, he was riding his bicycle up and down the dead street. Looking up at this building, he saw his mother and father standing on the balcony. They were stiffly erect, of similar height, both dressed in dark clothes, standing very close to each other but not touching. Like a pair of waxworks. And he had the impression that they were both in mourning for a visitor whose arrival they had long since despaired of and yet whom they continued to expect. For the first time in his life he sensed the depth of the shame concealed in the silence that lay between them, all through his childhood. Without any quarrels or complaints or disagreements. A polite silence. He got off his bicycle and asked shyly if it was time for him to come in.

Baruch said:

“As you wish.”

His mother said nothing.

This memory awoke in Fima a pressing need to clarity something, to ask Uri, to make inquiries. He had the feeling that he had forgotten to check the thing that mattered most. But what it was that mattered most he did not know. Although he sensed that now his ignorance was thinner than usual, like a lace curtain behind which dim shadows moved. Or a threadbare garment that covers the body but no longer warms it. While he knew in his bones how much he longed to continue not knowing.

As they climbed the stairs to the third floor, Fima put his hand on Uri’s shoulder. Uri seemed tired and gloomy. Fima felt a need to encourage, with this touch, his large friend, who had once been a well-known combat pilot and still went around with his head thrust aggressively forward, a sophisticated airman’s watch on his wrist, and his eyes sometimes giving the impression that he saw everything from above.

And yet he was a warm-hearted, honest, devoted friend.

On the door was fixed a brass plate inscribed, in black letters on gray: NOMBERG FAMILY. Underneath it, on a square piece of card, Baruch had written in his firm handwriting: “Kindly refrain from ringing the bell between the hours of one and five p.m.” Unconsciously Fima shot a glance at his watch. But there was no need to ring anyway; the door was ajar.