He suddenly felt a longing for Uri’s presence: his broad shoulders, his jokes, his deep warm laughter, his youth leader’s manner, his peasantlike habit of hugging your shoulders, punching you in the stomach, and saying, for instance, Come here, you Salman Rushdie; where have you been hiding yourself? And after a furtive sniff and an ostentatious wrinkling of the nose, When did you last change your shirt? For Ben Gurion’s funeral? And then again: All right, get on with it, if there’s no alternative: give us your lecture on Christian ascetic sects. But first help yourself to a slice of this smoked ham. Or have you turned Muslim on us?

The longing for Uri’s warm voice and body brought with it a desire to rest his own pale fingers on his friend’s huge freckled hand, gnarled like a stoneworker’s, and to generate flashing sparks of wit that would cause the discussion to take amazing turns at every point. Like three weeks ago, at the Kropotkins’, when Shula was voicing her fear of Islamic fundamentalism, and Fima interrupted her and dazzled everyone by arguing that our feud with the Arabs is merely a hundred-year-old episode, a mere dispute over land, whereas the real danger always was and still is the bottomless chasm between the Jews and the Cross. Despite his longing, Fima hoped that Uri was still in Rome. He dialed Nina’s office, and hung on patiently until the secretary passed him Nina’s tobacco-charred voice saying, Yes, Fima, but make it short; I’m in a meeting. He tried to tempt her into going out with him that evening, to see the late showing of the film with Jean Gabin at the Orion. I made a real ass of myself two nights ago, he said, but tonight I’ll be on my best behavior. You’ll see. Promise.

Nina said:

“As it happens, I’ve got rather a long day today. But why not call me here at the office between seven-thirty and eight and we’ll see how things look. Meanwhile, Fima, just count how many socks you have on.”