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BECAUSE REPAIRS TO THE prime minister’s residence in Jerusalem are not considered a priority in a capital where entire ministries must be rebuilt from the ground up, Yigal chooses to remain at the villa in Herzlia and commute to Jerusalem. In truth, he does not wish to live where his predecessor died, especially after her mutilated body was discovered in the Jerusalem city dump. Besides, his home suits him, and Judy, and Cobi. His son has just taken off on his motorcycle for some sort of party at the same beach that so recently was a slum on its way to becoming a graveyard. If anything, Yigal is aware how slim is the line between vibrancy and rot, hope and despair, attending the funeral and being the corpse. Yigal Lev is determined Israel will not be the corpse.

The phone rings.

Judy looks in. “Good luck,” she whispers. Then shuts the door.

“Good day, Mr. President,” Yigal says into the phone.

“And a good evening to you, Mr. Prime Minister. Yogi—may I call you Yogi?” A pause. “Yi-gal, of course. My Hebrew’s a bit rusty. Barely made it through Spanish in high school. I’ll tell ya, every time I stand up to say something to a group of Messicans I’m thinking, ‘Dear Lord, help me not to say fuck instead of luck.’”

When this is greeted by silence, the president merely continues: not everyone has a good sense of humor.

“Yi-gal. Bible name, is it?”