She went down to the market Jerusalemites call “Cats’ Square” and passed between the booths, lit with spotlights, secretly caressing the heavy hangers of harem pants and Indian shirts. She loved the square, even though Idan and Adi had deemed it nothing more than a “poor man’s Piccadilly.” Her hips would begin to sway in a different, elaborate rhythm when she walked through the booths with hookah’s and exotic oils and colorful stones. She tried on the Bukharan caps, and fat vendor teased her about her pointy Ashkenazi head; one boy, a world-class expert (so he said), offered to write her name on a grain of rice, and she said her name was Brunhilde. A beautiful young man in shorts with a turban on his head sat on the ground, holding the smooth leg of a girl in his hand, gently painting on it a henna tattoo. Tamar stood and watched, a little envious. She pulled herself together and walked away, passed once, and twice, through the booths, inhaling the thin smell of incense and the clouds of weed that billowed up here and there. She pretended to be deeply interested in the candle booth, in all the shapes and colors, hoping that the slight shiver she’d been feeling in her back for the past few seconds was telling her that someone was inspecting her, but when she turned around, no one was there.

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