I didn’t expect you to recognize him right away, it’s been so many years. Social Services glanced back at the door, and again her mother caught sight of the old man in a hat and dark suit, standing mutely in the hallway. We just found him a few days ago, he’s still a little out of sorts, Social Services said. Do you recognize him?

I thought he was your sidekick, her mother said, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa and trying to remember if there was someone to whom she owed money. Social Services laughed, showing his big Turkish teeth.

Now, he said, suddenly serious. Since you asked about my family, would you allow me to tell you a little story?

Her mother looked at the clock and was dismayed to discover that it wasn’t yet eight thirty. It had been years since she’d fallen asleep before midnight. But I thought to myself, the television can wait, she tells Tamar. Who am I to turn away such a polite Scheherazade?

All right, she said, trying to ignore the old man that someone spilled at her front door like a puddle.

Social Services took out his handkerchief, and once more blotted his forehead.

Shall I open the window for some air? her mother asked.

Why not?

Because someone with a knife might come through it.

What?

A little breeze would do me a world of good, too, but I live by myself, Mr. Azrak, my daughter lives in New York, and my son is a long story.

Call me Ron.

I live by myself, Ron, and I’m no longer young, as you can see, so I have to be cautious.

Tamar imagines the warm air wafting in, carrying the sound of a moped and a couple arguing as they pass on the street below, and Social Services beckoning to the old man still standing at the door, who, without removing his hat, enters, walking slowly, until a few feet in front of her mother he stops, and with a calm and unreadable expression studies her hair dyed copper, her broad face with its freckled cheeks, still surprisingly smooth, her sharp brown eyes, her T-shirt that says “Trust Me, I’m a Doctor.” Tamar imagines how suddenly her mother wishes she’d worn something that might have made a better impression, because it has been a long time since anyone looked at her with such care. How she gestures to a chair, trying to ignore the skin prickling at the back of her neck, and how he takes off his hat and holds it to his chest and takes a seat by the open window, sitting upright as if waiting for the plane to take off before daring to recline. How her mother puts the kettle back on the stove, and when she returns Social Services is also peering at her curiously through his silver-rimmed glasses, since when did she become so interesting to everyone?