"Okay."

"Do you know the word for 'foreigner'?"

"No."

"Ajnabi. If anything happens, speak English and say you're a foreigner, and you're there to support Palestine. Don't take your ID with you."

"You think everyone in Palestine is a terrorist!"

"No, of course not, but somehow it only takes one bullet to die, not three million."

"I won't go in alone, I'll go with Ella. I'm not going to lie to Palestinians about who I am. And everyone knows Ella. I can't believe I'm going to see my husband. I'm going to see him! Maybe in just a day or two, I don't know how I'll make it through the next few hours. Do I look okay?"

Coby laughed. "Well, you're not as pale as you were earlier this morning."

"I'm so nervous, you can't imagine. Should I bring something? This is boring for you ..."

"No, not at all. Though I should probably be getting back to work." He yawned and stretched his arms. "Never enough sleep. We had two busloads of tourists yesterday."

"Tourists ..." I said, barely listening.

"Yes, a Christian group. 'Jesus Is the One,' something like that. At least someone wants to visit the Holy Land."

"Thanks, Coby. Thanks for the address. You don't know what this means to me."

"I'm sorry I didn't have better news."

"This is great news. He isn't dead, he isn't with another woman. I can't wait!"

"I hope it works out. I hope you can convince him to come home."

"Yes. Yes."

"I have to get back to work. Let me know how things turn out. I'm not sure I did the right thing-if anything happens to you, it's on my shoulders."

"Nothing will happen."

"Help yourself to the breakfast buffet, by the way. There's always a lot left over anyhow. Even with the Christians here."

I sat at the table in the hotel dining room and tried to imagine my husband in Qal'at al-Maraya, living in a little flat there, or maybe renting a room in someone's house. How well did he know Arabic? Had he taught himself? He must have hired a teacher. Could he read and write Arabic too? Did he go out? How did he support himself? Maybe the money from the army was enough-things were cheaper there. What were his days like, day in, day out, alone in a Palestinian city? He had probably made some friends. But how did he get them to trust him? He had vanished during the uprising- how had he managed to move in without being killed? And what about now? Everything he loved was here: going to shows and walking down the streets and the crazy people on television, laughing at them and cracking jokes and making all sorts of puns, and the sea ... well, he still had the sea. I could have sent him a message in a bottle.

From the window of the dining hall I saw a man approach my building. He was carrying a large toolbox and walking very deliberately to the front door. I wondered who he was; it was way too early for Tanya to be prophesying. Maybe she or her mother had some sort of plumbing emergency. Then it hit me: this was probably the locksmith Rafi had promised to send my way, to protect me from evil. I hurried out of the hotel and into the building.

The locksmith was standing at the door to my apartment, knocking loudly. Then he kicked the door. "Open up!" he yelled.

"It's me, I'm here," I said.

"You Dana?"

"Yes."

"Unlock."

"It's open," I said.

He flung the door open and bellowed at me, "Out of my way!" Then he reconsidered. "Money up front or I'm going home."

"Okay. Just tell me how much it is."

"Two hundred."

I gave him the money and he stuffed the bills in his back pocket. I was a little worried about him; I was afraid he was going to have a nervous breakdown in front of my eyes. I could imagine him picking up his hammer and smashing all the walls in the building.

He began taking apart the lock on my door. He was a short, stocky man with a wide face, narrow eyes, and a pursed mouth. His eyes weren't naturally narrow; he was just very tense. He began cursing the door and various other opponents.

"Fuck his fucking mother," he said.

"Who?" I asked.

He looked up at me and tried to decide whether to swear at me or to answer. Finally he said, "Fucking son of a whore who attacked me, I'll rip his fucking heart out and throw it to the dogs. Look what he did-"

I saw that his arm was covered with blood and that in fact he was still bleeding. I wondered how I'd failed to notice: maybe it was because he was hairy, or maybe his anger eclipsed everything else about him.

"I'll get something for that," I said.

"Don't bother."

I went to the kitchen and ran a towel under warm water. I brought it to the locksmith and said, "Here, put this on it."

"What are you, a fucking nurse?"

"You could get an infection. You should really come in and wash your arm."

He took the towel and threw it on the floor. "Screw this," he said.

"What happened?"

"Fucking maniacs. Her husband wasn't supposed to be anywhere around, and what's it my business anyhow, I just do the locks, I'm not her fucking lover, I don't know this person from a whore on the street. But I'm the one who gets attacked."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

He guffawed. "Anyhow, I beat him up good. Gave him a run for his money, damned bastard."

"I guess I'm out of my depth here."

"That's right, baby. Nice place you got here. Who you keeping out? I swear if I have any more crazy boyfriends today I'm not responsible for my actions."

"I'm not keeping anyone out, and I don't have a boyfriend. And I think everyone's responsible for their actions."

He looked up at me. I stepped back.

He returned to his work, letting out his rage on the lock. I made coffee while he worked and when it was ready I handed him a mug. He seemed very surprised.

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome. You know, you're very good-looking, but your face is so strained."

"Yeah, well, life's a bitch."

"I guess you're in a hard line of work."

"Better than fixing people's toilets. Better than being up to your arms in other people's shit."

"Is that what you used to do?"

"Still do. Why you changing your lock?"

"I gave my key to a lot of people. And the guy who called you thinks it isn't safe, he wants me to have a new lock. That's all."

"He's right. Everyone's a fucking crook out there."

"Do you want to come in and wash your arm?"

"Yeah, may as well."

He had a strident way of walking and I was afraid he'd bump into something or accidentally turn over a piece of furniture. He went into the bathroom and rinsed his arm. "Looks like the fucking Taj Mahal in here," he said, as the water from the tap turned red. I gave him another towel. "What are you, Mother Teresa?"

"If I were injured, I'd expect you to do the same for me. And I'll bet you would."

"I'll bet I wouldn't."

"I'll bet you would."

"I'll bet I wouldn't."

"I'll bet you would."

"You're pretty stubborn, in your own quiet way."

"Yes, I am."

He smiled. "You're okay."

"You look very nice when you smile."

"What, are you coming on to me?"

"No, as I'm sure you can tell."

"Yeah, you're a bit of a cold fish, aren't you?"

"Thanks."

"Not really a cold fish, but, I don't know, a mermaid maybe?"

"Yeah, okay."

"I'll just finish up with the door. It's nearly done."

"There's a woman upstairs who tells fortunes. You should try her out." I figured one of Tanya's massages would do him good.

"Why?"

"She's really good."

"I don't believe in that fucking shit."

"She's different."

"What, you getting a cut?"

"I don't care if you go or not. It was just a suggestion."

"Well, maybe. How much does she charge?"

"Around fifty."

"I'll think about it."

When he'd left I knocked on Volvo's door. I was hoping Alex would be there.

Alex was Daniel's oldest friend. In high school he had formed the little band that had played at my cousin's wedding, and when Daniel finished his army service, they traveled together to Italy, Paris, Greece, and South America. Alex had a release from the army because he was albino; there was a military clause somewhere that exempted albinos, for no good reason-but Alex wasn't complaining.

Alex still had white hair, of course, but it was very short now. He was a professional musician, and he'd worked with just about every singer and group in the country. He was also active in Gays Against the Occupation; he was the one who had come up with their slogan, No Pride in the Occupation. Alex was the only volunteer Volvo didn't complain about, and the only one who could tease Volvo. He called him "pinup boy," "irresistible," "heartthrob," "sex object." Remarkably, Volvo was amused.

Alex answered the door. "Dana! I'm happy to see you. My handsome friend and I are having a heart-to-heart."

Volvo was sitting in his chair, and I could tell that they really had been having a serious conversation.

"Hi, Volvo."

"Hi, Dana," Volvo said courteously, possibly for the first time since I'd known him.

"Alex, when you have a moment, can I see you? It's about Daniel. You don't mind, Volvo, do you?"

Volvo waved his hand regally to indicate his consent, and Alex followed me to my flat. We sat on the sofa and Alex took my hand and held it in his lap. His transparent blue eyes danced because of his astigmatism, but made him look as if he was concentrating hard on what you were saying and deliberating upon every word.

"Listen, Alex. I've found Daniel."