Fima feverishly downed the brandy in one gulp, tipping his head back the way Russians drink vodka in the movies. He could see a detailed image of this log with steel-wool eyebrows bringing Yael a glass of orange juice in bed on Saturday morning, and of her, drowsily, luxuriantly, with her eyes still half-closed, reaching out and stroking the opening of his pajamas, which were doubtless made of real silk. The image aroused in Fima not jealousy or rage or fury but, to his astonishment, profound pity for this diligent, upright man, who made one think of a beast of burden, working day and night at his computer, searching for a way to perfect the jet propulsion of vehicles, and with barely a single friend in the whole of Jerusalem.

“The saddest thing,” Fima said, “is the way the left is paralyzed.”

Ted said: “True. You’re quite right. It was much the same with us at the time of Vietnam. Coffee?”

Fima followed him to the kitchen and continued heatedly:

“The comparison with Vietnam, that’s our biggest mistake, Teddy. This is not Vietnam and we’re not the flower people. The second mistake is to expect the Americans to do the job for us and get us out of the Territories. What do they care if we’re going to the devil?”

“True,” said Ted, in the tone he used for praising Dimi for getting his sums right. “Too right. Nobody does anybody else any favors. Everyone looks after himself. And they don’t always even have enough sense for that.” He put the kettle on and started emptying the dishwasher.

Fima excitedly pushed Ted out of the way and started to help him unbidden, as though bent on proving him wrong. He pulled a large handful of knives, forks, and spoons out of the dishwasher and ran around the kitchen with them, flinging doors open, pulling out drawers, looking for somewhere to unload his booty, and not interrupting for a moment his lecture on the difference between Vietnam and Gaza and between the Nixon syndrome and the Shamir syndrome. A few stray items of cutlery slipped through his fingers and lay scattered on the kitchen floor. Ted bent down to pick them up, and expressed his unfamiliarity with the Hebrew word for “syndrome”: was it a newly invented word?

“Syndrome: like the Vietnam syndrome that you went through in the States.”

“Didn’t you say a moment ago that the comparison with Vietnam was a mistake?”

“Yes. No. In a certain sense yes. That is, perhaps we need to distinguish between a syndrome and a symptom.”

“Here,” said Ted, “just put them here in the middle drawer.”