“Tell me, Annette, aren’t you hungry at all? Here am I gulping down bread and cheese nonstop, and you haven’t even touched your cake. Shall we take a look at the menu?”

But Annette, showing no sign of having heard, lit a fresh cigarette, and Fima passed her the ashtray, which the waiter had emptied, and the vodka he had brought her. “Coffee, perhaps?”

“No, really,” said Annette. “You make me feel good. We only met yesterday, and it’s as if I’ve found a brother.”

Fima inwardly almost used her husband’s favorite expression, Azoy. But he refrained and, reaching across almost unconsciously, stroked her cheek.

“Go on, Annette,” he said. “You were talking about the Alps.”