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problems and that I had refused to be examined. But let’s not talk about that now, it’s Bruno I want to discuss. She slowly raised the shutters of her eyes and smiled her weariest smile, and I was sure that instead of responding to the beautiful things I wanted to tell her about Bruno, she would go off ona tangent about the way I dressed (“So, Ruth’s still picking out your shirts”), or my hairstyle, or she would simply unbutton my collar button, saying it choked her just to look at me in the middle of summer; in short, she would try to make me feel like a flea. But all she said in fact was that deep inside she was sure I had contempt (!) for Ruth because she couldn’t conceive. This, of course, was sheer nonsense. It’s true that to a certain extent I believe everyone is responsible for his own weaknesses, for not possessing the inner strength to fight these weaknesses, whereas I consider myself to be a person who has achieved liberation from a biography thoroughly out of keeping with his private history, education, and even—yes, definitely—his character, and as for the other things Ayala referred to, scientific studies show there is a definite correlation between the patient’s will and his prognosis, even in cases of infertility, though to say I have contempt for Ruth is plain stupid, stupid and malicious. Ayala listened patiently, and remarked with sweet innocence, “Weakness means suffering; and suffering means sharing; and sharing means exposure. You are an artist, Shlomik, with a strange, evasive art, and sometimes you really scare me. Because cowards like you are capable of anything, when they sense that their art is in danger.”

Suddenly I knew what I had to do in order to win her again with one stunning and ingenious move. On impulse I informed her that I intended to set off in Bruno’s footsteps. And again she smiled her tolerant smile, and politely wished me luck. She didn’t believe in me, which only confirmed my decision. She painted a round toenail, saying it amazed her the way I unconsciously chose to live two such contrasting ages. “Sometimes you’re too old and sometimes too childish. I think you’re simply running away from the problems of your true age.” Hurt, I answered, “You used to appreciate my complexity.” And she: “You have no idea how true that is. I believed in it so much. And in you, too, you know.”

I woke up in a panic. It was 6:00 p.m. already. I had been sleeping on the beach for a whole hour. Later on I remembered my dream, which merely recapitulated what happened in reality. Ayala used to say that my dreams were as neat as a bookkeeper’s ledgers. This is true enough, except for my nightmares, which are really disgusting—and which I would never divulge to her or anyone else. I woke up irritable and fuzzy on the beach chair, and shuddered in horror: yesterday’sbouquet of violets lay at my feet in a tiny heap … and the beach was strewn with the tiny wet prints of a small and very fast wave …

I threw down my towel and sunglasses and nose guard, and ran straight into her, burning with rage, though at the same time—and I find this hard to explain—I had the strangest feeling that she was running toward me, too, that we were about to share a moment of unexpected reconciliation, of forgiveness, and perhaps even affection, and when at the least likely moment I plunged into the water and struck her with my stomach, and thrashed her with my hands, she only droned, Don’t be a child, Neuman, I have flowers of my own, deep meadows of beauty and color, and how silly you were to think you could persuade me, oh no, not like that, though there is something you could give me to soften me up, only don’t be such a miser, just think about him whenever you’re inside me, because you know how hard it is for me alone … a minor health problem, a temporary thing … Think about him for my sake, be inventive, make up a story, think Bruno, say Bruno, for my sake, dearest, for your sake and mine …

Very well. I will tell you. Only you’ll be sorry you ever asked.

Now listen.

You mentioned how hard it was for him to laugh, and I’ll tell you about his fears. About the loneliness his character and talent ordained for him. There was the fear of the bonds of love and friendship, the fear of the abyss between one minute and the next, and of what he would discover on the page after it was touched by his magical magnetic pen, which sucked up the magma of ancient truth, that rose steadily upward through layers of caution and self-defense—and then he would stop and scream in fear, because what he had written seemed to come from someone else, and he began to suspect that he, too, formed the weak link through which irresistible human longings burst forth into the world, and then my Bruno stood up and paced around the room, taunting himself that he was suffering from megalomania, and had lost the ability to distinguish between his real life and his stories, and that through a nyedoenga, like him, a shlimazel, only abstract essences of preposterous errors and blunders—could possibly—

But he knew, and was afraid. And it drove him to cheat at times: he would pay social calls, write sentimental letters (he almost believed the sentimentality himself), feign candor, and address acquaintances in the intimate “thou” form (though he rarely addressed people thus in writing,perhaps because he couldn’t pretend in writing). He agreed to give lectures and occasionally allowed himself to be dragged to parties and fancy balls, where he would smile awkwardly while he let people get him drunk in order not to disappoint them, and even chuckled when they clapped him jovially on the