Early in the morning a neighbor rang the doorbell. Draped over his arm was Molkho’s wife’s big fur coat, slightly torn and wet with dew; he had found it hanging on the fence and was sure it must have fallen by mistake. Molkho was thunderstruck. “What, they even took this old coat?” he asked aggrievedly, handling it with care, he explained, so as not to leave false fingerprints for the police, who were due to arrive any minute. “Fingerprints?” snorted the neighbor. “Before you know it, they’ll be accusing me!” Molkho, however, did not hear him, for he was already hurrying into the ravine, vainly searching for additional belongings.
The burglary was so on his mind all day long that he forgot about his visit to Jerusalem. The police did not show up until the afternoon, when they lackadaisically wrote everything down. “Do you think it was just a chance hit or an inside job by someone after your paintings?” they asked, pointing out to Molkho the bedroom window through which the thief had entered and proceeding to lose all interest in the case as soon as they were told that the paintings’ value was purely sentimental. Then he waited for the insurance agent, who came that evening, examined the apartment at length, haggled over the worth of each stolen item, and insisted that bars be put on the guilty window.
No less worried than the agent, the neighbors suggested that he install an alarm. The next morning, he went downtown to look for one, but he soon gave up the idea, for the thought of having to tiptoe to the bathroom at night for fear of setting it off seemed thoroughly absurd. Bars were the best solution—though by no means a simple one, he realized, discovering the great price differences among them. Nor was there anyone to consult, since his sons made light of the whole business and he did not wish to worry his mother-in-law. His wife had always made such decisions herself, and this was the first one left up to him. Yet, while he was tempted to put it off until his daughter’s return from abroad, he was fearful of another burglary.
IT STAYED HOT, and Molkho waited to hear from Jerusalem, jumping up whenever the telephone rang, though relieved each time it proved to be someone else. On Tuesday night, however, Uri called at last, sounding muffled over the wires, which crackled with other voices. “I’ve been burgled,” Molkho informed him at once. “It happened the same night I saw you.” His counselor was unimpressed. When did Molkho plan to be in Jerusalem again? he asked. “I don’t know,” Molkho answered. “I really haven’t made any plans. I thought you might want to come to Haifa.” “Fine,” replied Uri at once. “When would be the best time for you—morning, afternoon, or evening?” And when Molkho, taken aback, had trouble deciding, he added, “What time do you get home from work? Or do you take a nap then?” “As a matter of fact, I do,” admitted Molkho, straining to hear the voice on the phone, which seemed tired and tentative, “But I don’t mind missing it.” “How about four or five o’clock, then?” asked his counselor. “That’s perfect,” replied Molkho. “I’ll pick you up at the bus station. Just call me before you leave.” But when, his counselor wanted to know, was the last bus back to Jerusalem? “I couldn’t tell you,” Molkho said. “I’ll have to check. I never go to Jerusalem by bus, but I’ll find out.”
There was silence at the other end of the line. Was his counselor offended? “But why not sleep over here?” he offered weakly. “There’s plenty of room.” “No, that isn’t possible,” replied Uri. “Although maybe Ya’ara would like to spend a few days with you by herself.” “That’s an excellent idea,” responded Molkho. “Really, it is!” But his counselor chose to backtrack, asking Molkho whether he couldn’t perhaps come to Jerusalem after all. “Well, I suppose I could,” conceded Molkho. “Maybe this Saturday.” “Saturday?” The voice on the phone sounded more doubtful than ever. “On Saturday someone’s liable to throw a rock at your car; let’s make it Saturday night.” “What, Saturday night again?” objected Molkho. “What’s the point of spending another Saturday night at your place?” Once more there was silence while the interference on the line grew worse. “You’re right,” admitted his counselor, his voice fading in the distance. “That won’t get us anywhere. You know what? Let me think about it. I’m a bit tired now. I’ll be in touch.”
The torrid weather continued, and Molkho, picturing Ya’ara’s bare feet sticking out of her old housedress and her gray hair done up in its adolescent braid, felt the need to see her again. But his counselor did not call back. By Friday morning he was so impatient that he decided to drive to Jerusalem, and so, phoning his mother-in-law, he canceled her standing invitation to the Friday night meal. “Are you planning to visit your mother again?” she asked. “Yes,” he answered tersely. “Isn’t she feeling well?” asked his mother-in-law. “She’s feeling fine,” he told her, anxious to forestall further questioning—and indeed, there was none. After lunch, he packed a small suitcase and set out. Less than halfway there, however, he stopped the car and turned around. I need more patience, he thought, heading back to Haifa. I’ll just scare them off this way. I’d better give them more time.
A FEW DAYS LATER some men came to install the bars and Molkho left work early to be on hand when they arrived. In the middle of all their hammering and drilling, he suddenly spied Uri, tall, pale, and bony, standing in the doorway with his black cowboy hat in one hand. “I thought I’d come see where you lived,” said his counselor matter-of-factly, stepping inside. “It’s an awfully nice area. Is anyone else here?” “Just some workers,” replied Molkho, offering him a drink. His counselor declined. “No thank you, I’m fasting today,” he said, entering the living room and glancing at the books on the shelves. “They’re putting up some bars,” explained Molkho. “Bars?” asked the visitor, vaguely interested. “I told you I had a burglary,” Molkho reminded him, bringing him to the bedroom to see where the thief had broken in. “What a view!” marveled Uri, saying hello to the two workers, who were drilling holes in the wall by the window. “And the air is so fresh up here. Does that wadi down below have a name?” “I wouldn’t know,” Molkho said, feeling proud of the splendid green ravine. “But it must,” said his counselor. “Not necessarily,” reasoned Molkho. “This neighborhood isn’t very old. It was only developed in the last twenty years or so.”
His counselor said nothing and looked curiously around him, his glance falling on Volume I of Anna Karenina, which lay on the bed that the workers had moved from the window. “Are you reading that?” he asked. “Yes,” Molkho said. “For the first time?” asked his counselor warmly, picking up the book and leafing through it caressingly with his long, thin fingers. “Yes,” Molkho confessed. “I never got around to it before. Back in school, if you remember, all they ever gave us to read was a bunch of boring Hebrew authors.” His counselor looked at him curiously. “Do you like it?” “Yes,” replied Molkho, “as a matter of fact, I do. Sometimes it’s a bit on the dull side, but it’s really quite moving, all that business about Anna leaving her husband and child for love. I wonder how it ends. I don’t suppose very happily.” “No,” said his counselor gently. “In the end she kills herself.” “She does?” cried Molkho distraughtly. Uri nodded. “She does?” he repeated. And seeing that the visitor was not about to change Anna’s fate just for him, he added, “I wish you hadn’t told me that. But why? Does Vronsky leave her?” “Oh no,” said Uri. “He stays with her, but she loses all sense of freedom. Since her husband won’t divorce her, her affair remains a scandal, only now she’s no longer at liberty to break it off. And being an unusually independent woman, she feels trapped.”