Now he was pacing hurriedly through one of the streets that branches off from the pedestrian mall; his old heart was still beating wildly, but he did not allow himself to pause for a moment and relax. He could still see the girl’s eyes, pleading, in front of him, and understood that she was in big trouble. The farther he walked, the more his thoughts expanded in front of him…

Excited and on the alert thanks to the affair in which he was embroiled, Honigman walked through the streets, his thoughts in a whirl, weaving horrific plots that reached their climax the moment the girl turned to him. In between the story and his thoughts, he blessed the good fortune that made him look so normal, so average, so trustworthy. Consequently, he tried to look even more normal, mediocre, even, and in his effort to resemble a kindly, nearsighted grandfather, arranged his features into a horrible grimace.

After walking around like this for a while hour, arousing the suspicion of most of the passersby in the street, he entered Café Rimon, ordered himself a grilled cheese sandwich, and switched to his reading glasses. He removed a Ma’ariv newspaper from his attaché case and opened it with a businesslike flourish. He hid his head (and most of himself) and then, only then, finally opened the note.

“Dear Sir or Madam,” she had written.

My name is Tamar and I need your help very badly.[…]Ask to speak with a woman named Leah […]please tell her the in the footsteps: Tamar asked me to let you know: on the agreed hour, the agreed day, on Shamai Street across from the taxi station.”