The Fury of Rachel Monette by Peter Abrahams

and began to plow.”
    Cohn appeared unmoved by the story. His eyes were far away, on the Old City. The clouds had hidden West Jerusalem in an obscure gloom, but they had yet to cover the Old City. By an accident of light and shade the centuries were rolled back like cheap rugs, and the walled city seemed more than a tourist attraction. But in a moment the vision was gone, and the golden Dome of the Rock looked once again like gold paint, and the limestone towers, churches, and synagogues like rubble.
    Calvi realized that he had probably recounted the whole episode before, perhaps even in a speech somewhere; a speech written by Moses Cohn. And he realized too that this time he had told the story with no real bitterness. No sense pretending: he had been so grateful to be in Israel he would have happily planted apple trees in granite.
    Cohn had been the radical in those days, a European socialist who believed in the impossibility of comparing cultures. Therefore no one could be superior to another. Just different. Did Cohn regret the political tutoring he had given him? He could see it on his face, feel it in the tension between them. They were like a married couple growing apart: united only by a contract and the accumulation of common property.
    Cohn’s clear blue eyes looked closely at Calvi. “What’s behind Grunberg’s heavy-handed little visit, Simon? Why this pressure?”
    Before Calvi could answer the rear door of the house opened.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” Gisela said. “I didn’t realize you had a visitor.”
    For one who had been in the country for less than a year her Hebrew was excellent, but neither man paid much attention to her speech. She wasn’t wearing any clothes. She showed no trace of embarrassment, although she and Cohn had never met. No haute couturier would look twice at her body, but other men would. It was unfashionably heavy, especially in the hips and legs, but still retained remnants of the springy underpinning of nubility. With old-fashioned politeness Cohn looked away.
    â€œDo you want breakfast?” she said.
    â€œBreakfast?” Calvi asked Cohn.
    â€œI really haven’t the time this morning. But thank you.”
    â€œHe can’t stay,” Calvi said to Gisela. In some way her nakedness required him to become an intermediary in the conversation. “But I’d like something, please.” Gisela turned and disappeared in the house.
    â€œBritish?” Cohn asked.
    â€œGerman. They are rather easy to attract in this country, you know. It must be some form of restitution.” Instantly he regretted the facetiousness of his remark. He felt more for Gisela than that.
    â€œIt doesn’t bother you?”
    â€œWhy should it?” His cigar had gone out and he relit it. “She wasn’t even born during the war.”
    Cohn shook his head, the way faithful married men often do at their bachelor friends. Especially bachelor friends who are pushing sixty. He rolled up his pant legs and remounted his bicycle.
    â€œI’m going to tell Grunberg all about this,” he called over his shoulder as he rode away. “Now you’ve gone too far.”
    Calvi laughed and turned to the newspapers. Politicians read the news avidly, the way actors read theatrical reviews. Calvi was not aware of the first few snowflakes that drifted through the trees into the garden, melting as they touched the ground. He scarcely noticed Gisela return, dressed in old jeans and a woolen sweater and carrying a breakfast tray. Politics are serious in Israel and the word crisis means what the dictionary says it does. Gisela sat beside him eating her breakfast. After a while she ate his, too. When she felt cold she went inside to do the dishes, or at least to stack them in the sink.
    Because he read each paper from beginning to end it was some time before Simon Calvi reached the classified page of the International Herald Tribune. Among the