“Look,” said Annette. “In novels, in plays, in films, there are always these mysterious women. Capricious, unpredictable. They fall in love like sleepwalkers and fly away like birds. Greta Garbo. Marlene Dietrich. Liv Ullmann. All sorts of femmes fatales. The secrets of the female heart. Don’t make fun of me for drinking vodka in the middle of the day. After all, you don’t look too happy yourself. Am I boring you?”

Fima called the waiter and ordered her another vodka. He ordered a bottle of mineral water and some more bread and cheese for himself. The three conspirators got up to leave. As they passed his table, the settler gave him a sweet, saintly smile, as though he could see into his heart and forgave him. He said:

“Bye now, and all the best. Don’t forget, when it comes to the crunch, we’re all in the same boat.”

In his mind Fima relocated this moment to a coffeehouse in Berlin in the last days of the Weimar Republic, putting himself in the role of martyr: Carl von Ossietzky, Kurt Tucholsky. Immediately he canceled the whole picture because the comparison was ridiculous, almost hysterical. To Annette he said:

“Take a good look at them. Those are the creatures that are dragging us all down.”

Annette said:

“I’m already as low as I can go.”

And Fima:

“Go on. You were talking about fatal women.”

Annette emptied her second glass. Her eyes were gleaming, and a hint of coquetry slipped into her words:

“The nice thing about you, Efraim, is that I really don’t mind what sort of impression I make on you. I’m not used to that. Generally, when I’m talking to a man the most important thing for me is what impression he has of me. It’s never happened to me before to sit like this with a strange man and talk so freely about myself without getting all sorts of signals, if you know what I mean. Just one person talking to another. You’re not offended?”

Fima unconsciously smiled when she used the expression “a strange man.” She noticed his smile and beamed at him like a child consoled after tears. She said;