At six on Thursday morning the telephone rang while Dr Koekentapp was in the bath. Despite repeated variations in the timing of his ablutions, Dr Koekentapp had discovered that the telephone invariably rang at the precise moment he was decently wet. He had tested this thesis on several occasions by conducting mock sittings in an empty bath. The telephone had never rung and with almost paranoid clarity he had come to realise that only definitive bathing was linked to the telephone exchange.
At the same time, Mrs Levy was sitting in her nightie with curlers in her hair and planning her Friday-night dinner. Mrs Chaimowitz’s feedback to her had been largely unsatisfactory. Aside from the fact that Dr Koekentapp hadn’t had a bar mitzvah at the Greenside synagogue, she had learnt nothing new. She was at her kitchen table where she always preferred to do her planning for important occasions. Mrs Levy regarded the immediate presence of her cooking utensils as a talisman to invoke her culinary muse. Fish, chicken or meat? she asked herself. Meat, she decided. She opened a cupboard and lovingly retrieved a large black pot from its shelf. A treasured inheritance in the Levy family, the pot had served to produce strictly kosher meat dishes for four generations of Levys. It had concentrated and delivered sufficient saturated fats and cholesterol to ensure that no Levy male had ever reached his promised three score and ten years. ‘My old friend,’ Mrs Levy murmured into its stained and oily depths, ‘what magic should we make on Friday? You know another generation depends on you. Dr Koekentapp looks like a man who can handle his meat.’
‘I’m sure he can,’ said Sylvia, having gained the same impression in a completely different context the previous day. She was standing at the kitchen door and marvelling at her mother’s resemblance to a witch at her cauldron.
Mrs Levy eyed her in delight. ‘Sylvia!’ she cried. ‘I’m so glad you are up early. I was just planning tomorrow’s dinner. I want it to be a very special meal. Do you think I should serve a lovely brisket and tsimmes or a tasty pickled tongue with the roast chicken?’
Sylvia thought both were dietetically noxious. She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mom. I’m sure either will be fine.’
‘Doesn’t matter?’ bawled Mrs Levy. ‘Here I am working my fingers to the bone to ensure your future happiness and you tell me it doesn’t matter?’
‘I can’t believe that you think my future happiness depends on a pickled tongue,’ Sylvia replied.
‘So you do prefer tongue,’ snapped Mrs Levy. ‘What’s wrong with my brisket?’ She hefted the family pot and shook it at Sylvia. ‘You think it’s not important. Let me tell you that it’s true when they say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’
Sylvia looked distastefully at the greasy heirloom. ‘I agree. Eating from that pot would give any man a heart attack,’ she said.
Mrs Levy clasped her beloved pot to her breast. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she wailed. ‘This pot was made in Lithuania by your greatgreat-grandfather! Four generations of Levys have eaten from this pot!’
‘And died from it,’ Sylvia commented. She thought the pot would make a great indoor planter.
‘You are impossible! You have no respect for tradition! This pot will be yours one day. Let’s see if you are so uppity when I die!’ Realising that she would not be around to see whether Sylvia was uppity or not, Mrs Levy paused.
Sylvia took the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Mom, I’m worried about asking Dr Koekentapp to make the brocha tomorrow night. What if he’s not religious?’
‘Not religious?’ shrieked Mrs Levy. ‘You sound like your aunt Naomi! What do the two of you know about religious? Nothing! I find the perfect man, a doctor, a gentleman, a god, and what does my family, my own flesh and blood, do? I’ll tell you what they do. They behave like traitors!’
Mrs Levy placed the pot next to the sink and, slumping over it, began to weep bitterly, her cries booming within the oleaginous walls.
Taken aback by the intensity of her mother’s reaction, Sylvia softened. Taking care not to disturb the nest of hair curlers, she put her arms around Mrs Levy’s shoulders.
‘Now, now, Mom,’ Sylvia murmured, ‘it was only a suggestion.’
Mrs Levy swivelled a shrewd eye in her daughter’s direction.
‘Keep your suggestions to yourself,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ll handle the details of the dinner.’
Sylvia decided to opt for peace. ‘As you like, Mom,’ she said. ‘You take it easy. I’ll fetch Dad from the hospital this morning. You can take the time to make yourself beautiful for him.’
Mrs Levy huffily drew herself up and made for the telephone. ‘You take it easy yourself. I’m phoning Greenstein’s for a few snacks to welcome him home,’ she said.
Having washed himself by the simple expedient of leaving his telephone off the hook for five minutes, Dr Koekentapp arrived at his rooms just before eight. He was greeted by a chorused ‘Good morning, doctor’ as Elizabeth and Anne cheerfully welcomed him. Elizabeth was compiling his patient list and Anne was sorting through the latest laboratory results. Anne’s deep tan, a temporary souvenir of her coastal holiday, contrasted sharply with the snow white of her nursing sister’s uniform. Dr Koekentapp smiled at her.
‘You’re looking well, Anne. It’s nice to have you back.’
Anne grinned. ‘It’s nice to be back,’ she said. She brushed a stray curl of her long dark hair away from her forehead. ‘I was getting a bit bored enjoying peace and quiet.’
‘You can definitely say goodbye to peace and quiet,’ grunted Elizabeth as the phone rang.
Dr Koekentapp was delighted to hear Sylvia’s voice when Elizabeth put through the call. ‘Sylvia! How nice of you to call. What a surprise. I hope it’s nothing medical.’
‘No, Jerry, nothing like that. It’s about tomorrow night.’
Dr Koekentapp felt a sudden twinge of disappointment. ‘Is dinner cancelled then?’ he asked.
‘Oh, no. Far from it. My mother is already making her preparations. I’m phoning about the brocha.’
Dr Koekentapp stared blankly into space. ‘The brocha?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. Mom wants you to make it before we eat.’
‘Me make it?’ Dr Koekentapp mumbled.
‘Yes. She wanted to surprise you, but I thought it only fair to warn you to be ready.’
Dr Koekentapp’s mind was reeling. ‘Ready?’ he squawked.
Sylvia squealed with delight. ‘Are you really? How absolutely marvellous! And there I was worrying that you couldn’t sing! Mom was right, after all! Please pretend to be surprised when she asks you to make it.’
‘That won’t be a problem, I can promise you.’
‘Lovely. I’m really looking forward to the dinner now. Mom’s been so enthusiastic about it. By the way, do you prefer pickled tongue or brisket and tsimmes?’
‘Brisket and tsimmes?’
‘Terrific. That’s Mom’s speciality. She will be absolutely delighted. I must go now. It’s time to fetch Dad from the hospital.’ Sylvia paused for a moment. ‘And Jerry . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I really am grateful for the kindness you have shown my family. See you at eight on Friday. Bye.’
The seconds ticked by. Dr Koekentapp sat holding the receiver in his hand and gazing blindly at the wall. Sudden panic galvanised him into action. He slammed down the receiver.
‘Elizabeth!’ he bellowed into the intercom, ‘Get me Izzy Peruvnick on the phone! I want to speak to him now!’
‘That no-good gambler?’ returned Elizabeth. ‘What do you want to speak to him for? He owes you a fortune! He’s a BD! I’ve already got one sitting here!’
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Dobkins.’
‘What’s a BD?’
‘A Bad Debt!’ Elizabeth hissed. ‘This one thinks she noticed blood in her urine today.’
Dr Koekentapp sighed. ‘Send her through.’
Still preoccupied by the unknown requirements of making a brocha at a Jewish dinner, he listened listlessly as Mrs Dobkins described the possibility of a slightly reddish tinge to her urine.
‘You haven’t perhaps eaten beetroot recently?’ he asked.
‘No. My husband hates beetroot.’
‘Are you perhaps due?’ Dr Koekentapp asked.
‘No. I’m Catholic,’ replied Mrs Dobkins. ‘Why do you ask?’
Dr Koekentapp shook his head. Brochas loomed. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Just go through to the toilet and pass a specimen. I’ll test it.’
As Mrs Dobkins retired to pass her specimen, Dr Koekentapp buzzed the front desk.
‘Elizabeth, get hold of Mr Peruvnick. I really do need to talk to him urgently.’
‘Yes, Sir, Commander, Sir. Whatever you say, Sir.’
Taken aback by Elizabeth’s icy insistence that Dr Koekentapp wanted to speak to him personally about an urgent matter, Peruvnick hastened to apologise when Dr Koekentapp came on the line.
‘Look, Jerry, if it’s about my account I can explain. I’m very sorry but I’ve had a run of bad luck lately.’
Dr Koekentapp shook his head irritably. ‘It’s got nothing to do with your account, Izzy. I need your help. I’m in a fix, and if you can get me out of it you can consider your account paid in full.’
‘You need my help to get you out of a fix?’ Peruvnick’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You haven’t been nicked on an illegal abortion charge? You’re not in any drug trouble with the police I hope. I do know this captain who owes me a favour—’
‘It’s got nothing to do with abortions, drugs or the police,’ Dr Koekentapp interrupted. ‘I need to know what a brocha is and what tools I need to make one.’
‘What?’ yelled Peruvnick.
‘I also want to know why I have to sing while I’m building my brocha before we eat. And what are a brisket, tsimmes and a goy when they are at home?’
Peruvnick began a gargled wheezing that slowly increased in force and pitch to that of full-blown croup. ‘I’m dying,’ he gasped. ‘I’m telling you, I’m dying!’ He took a huge shuddering breath, then began wailing all over again.
Dr Koekentapp maintained a stoical silence until Peruvnick’s laughter had settled to a spasmodic dry rattle.
‘I don’t see what’s so bloody funny,’ Dr Koekentapp snapped.
Peruvnick’s mirth threatened to bubble over once more. He clamped a hand over his mouth and fought for self-control.
‘I’m sorry, Jerry, I really am. I don’t mean to be rude but when I think of my doctor the goy making a brocha . . .’ Peruvnick lost control and succumbed to a new paroxysm of joyous whooping.
‘Izzy, I’m getting bloody annoyed with you,’ threatened Dr Koekentapp. ‘I made you a straight offer and all I get is your mockery.’
Peruvnick settled down. ‘I’ll help you,’ he giggled, ‘you bet I’ll help you. This will be the easiest debt I’ve ever settled.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You don’t build a brocha. You make it by singing or reciting it. A brocha is a blessing made before starting a meal. It is a prayer thanking God for having provided bread. It is equivalent to saying grace.’
‘Is that all?’ Dr Koekentapp sighed with relief. ‘I can do that without too much trouble.’
‘I doubt it, my dear Dr Koekentapp. I very much doubt it. A brocha is read and sung from a Hebrew prayer book.’
‘Jesus,’ whispered Dr Koekentapp. ‘I can’t do that. I’ll have to phone and cancel.’
Peruvnick saw his windfall disappearing down the telephone cable.
‘No problem at all,’ he countered hastily. ‘I told you I’ll help you and I will. I’ll write the brocha in phonetic English lettering on a sheet of paper. You simply pronounce it as you read it and, hey presto, my doctor – to whom I now owe nothing, incidentally – prays in Hebrew!’
Dr Koekentapp became nervous. ‘Are you sure this is all right?’ he asked. ‘It seems like fraud to me.’
‘Fraud? All right? Of course it’s all right!’ Peruvnick fibbed. He compounded his transgressions. ‘It’s actually a great honour. I’ll have the transcript at your rooms just now. Oh, by the way, a brisket tsimmes is a beef dish with sweetened fruits or vegetables, commonly prunes and potatoes, and a goy is a Gentile or anyone who isn’t Jewish.’ Peruvnick stopped to think for a moment. ‘It’s actually a little more complicated,’ he continued. ‘If you happen to be a Mormon, Jews are also Gentiles.’
‘I’m not,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
‘Then you are a goy,’ said Peruvnick confidently.
Dr Koekentapp was still trying to assess the possible social and ethical ramifications of a goy making a brocha when Peruvnick arrived. Elizabeth glared at him as he entered the waiting room. She took in his balding head, beefy face and the grubby shirt tightly stretched over his beer-belly with unconcealed disgust. He was grinning and clutching his transcript of a brocha in a sweaty hand.
‘Your account’s overdue. Pay!’ she demanded without preamble.
‘I’m quits,’ Peruvnick replied happily.
‘What?’
‘I swapped my account for a brocha.’
Elizabeth shuddered at the sight of the dried spittle at the corners of Peruvnick’s mouth. She stood up and hurried to Dr Koekentapp’s room. ‘The no-good gambler’s here and he says you have written off his account!’
‘Well, let’s say we did a little trade,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
Elizabeth became suspicious. ‘Do you owe that animal money?’ she asked. ‘I hope you haven’t begun betting with him.’
‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t dare with you around,’ said Dr Koekentapp. His expression was one of pure innocence. ‘Please hold my calls while I’m with Mr Peruvnick.’
Elizabeth snorted. ‘I’ll send in the piece of rubbish. Just be careful. I can’t imagine what you could possibly want from him.’
She returned to her desk, sat down and, with an imperious wave of her arm, indicated that Peruvnick could proceed.
‘If you laugh again I’ll break your neck,’ Dr Koekentapp said as Peruvnick entered. ‘No, even better, I’ll ask Elizabeth to do it. She’d love to, you know.’
Peruvnick casually placed a sheet of paper on Dr Koekentapp’s desk. ‘Here’s your brocha,’ he said.
Dr Koekentapp snatched up the paper and stared at it. Typed in uppercase letters the note read:
BARUCH ATAH ADONAI ELOHEYNU MELECH HA-OLAM HAMOTZI LECHEM MIN HA-ARETZ. AMEN.
‘Is that it?’ asked Dr Koekentapp.
‘That’s it,’ replied Peruvnick.
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘Dear God,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
‘That’s precisely what the words really mean,’ explained Peruvnick. ‘Let me translate for you.’ He withdrew a yarmulke from his pocket, placed it on his head and intoned with absolute seriousness:
‘Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who bringest forth bread from the earth. Amen.’
Dr Koekentapp was strangely moved. Without knowing why, he echoed Peruvnick’s amen. Peruvnick removed his yarmulke and gave it to Dr Koekentapp.
‘Keep this as a gift from me,’ Peruvnick said with unwonted generosity. ‘Who knows when you’ll need it again.’ Peruvnick switched moods and became businesslike. ‘Now,’ he announced, ‘the “c-h” in Hebrew is pronounced as in the Scottish “loch”. It’s a throaty guttural sound. The other sounds are phonetic. Pronounce them as they read. Now put on your yarmulke and try the first word.’
‘Baruch,’ said Dr Koekentapp, carefully emphasising the ‘uch’.
‘Good. Now the second word.’
‘Atah,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
‘Excellent!’ applauded Peruvnick, feeling rather like a Semitic Professor Higgins.
Three minutes later, Dr Koekentapp could not only pronounce all the words, but he had the whole brocha memorised. Peruvnick was impressed.
‘Okay. Tochis afn tish,’ he said.
‘What?’ Dr Koekentapp asked in bewilderment.
Peruvnick shrugged. ‘Just an expression. Literally translated it means “buttocks on the table”. In practice it means “let’s get down to brass tacks”. I want to teach you to sing the brocha now.’ He began humming, pointing at the written words to demonstrate how they corresponded to the melody.
Elizabeth entered and was flabbergasted to see Dr Koekentapp wearing a yarmulke and singing in Hebrew with Peruvnick conducting. Peruvnick grinned at her, exposing decayed front teeth. Elizabeth averted her gaze.
‘Mrs Kindel’s on the line again,’ she reported to Dr Koekentapp. ‘I told her you were fully booked this afternoon, but she says if you can’t fit her in you’ll just have to call at her home this evening.’
Dr Koekentapp sighed and removed his yarmulke. The thought of having to view the photograph of smiling Mr Kindel again while his ex-wife donned a negligee was too much.
‘Tell her I’ll see her here,’ he answered, ‘and ask her what the problem is.’
‘She’s already told me. She’s got a rash under her breasts.’
‘That shouldn’t take long. Tell her to come in as soon as possible.’
Dr Koekentapp rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. ‘I’m done here. You can put my calls through now. Oh, and Elizabeth . . .’
Elizabeth looked inquiringly at him. ‘Yes?’
‘Tochis afn tish.’
Shaking her head sadly at this unexpected lapse in her employer’s mental state, Elizabeth returned to her desk and carefully added Mrs Kindel OB (Old Bag) to her day’s list.
Two hours later Anne escorted Mrs Kindel into the consulting room. She had her son Darren the Lust in tow.
‘Hello, Jeremiah,’ she smirked, ‘thank you so much for squeezing me in. I am so sorry I kept you waiting. I had to ask our neighbour Mr Goldsmith to bring us here. He’s sitting outside talking to Elizabeth. Such a dear man. He’s been like a father to me since the divorce. I don’t know what I would have done without him.’ She laughed and patted her bleached hair. ‘While I’m here, I want you to look at Darren. I might as well get my money’s worth. He’s got a sore winkie.’
Darren was staring at Anne’s shapely legs, adolescent lust written all over his pimply face. Anne hustled him into an examination room.
‘You’re way out of your league, kid,’ she said, passing him a conical glass. ‘Use it for something useful. Pass some urine into this and wait here.’
Dr Koekentapp went to examine Mrs Kindel in the other examination room. She was lying flat on the bed. She smiled at him and lifted her drooping breasts towards her shoulders. The skin creases under her bosom were shiny red and excoriated.
‘It looks like a fungal skin infection,’ Dr Koekentapp said. ‘I’ll take a swab and get a culture grown to confirm it.’
Anne passed the swab to Dr Koekentapp then went to look in on Darren. The door was partly ajar and Darren was standing at the sink, the half-filled urine glass sloshing in one hand and the other hand pulling and yanking at his turgid winkie with all the fervour and enthusiasm of a classical Spanish guitarist playing appassionato.
Anne returned quietly. ‘The way he’s wanking, it’s no wonder his winkie’s sore,’ she said.
‘What?’ screamed Mrs Kindel. She leapt off the bed and, pulling the patient’s gown around her, ran to Darren’s room and yanked the door wide open. They all witnessed Darren’s hand reach blurring speed as he climaxed into the basin.
‘Now, now, son,’ admonished Anne, ‘there’s a time and a place for everything.’
Mrs Kindel took a wild swipe at her son. ‘You dirty little swine!’ she shrieked. ‘You filthy rotten stinking little bastard! You are just like your father!’
Darren’s winkie, unaccustomed as it was to public viewing, had retreated, and now peeped like a one-eyed strawberry from between his fat thighs. He hurriedly pulled up his underpants.
‘I was just playing!’ he screeched. ‘I didn’t mean to! It was her legs! It just happened!’
Mrs Kindel released a swinging slap that rocked his head back. ‘Playing?’ she bellowed. ‘I’ll give you playing! Don’t you know you can go blind? Just wait till I tell Ms Smelkin!’
Darren blanched. ‘Why do you have to tell my Hebrew teacher? She’ll never let me hear the end of it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean anything!’
‘Oh, I’ll tell her alright,’ Mrs Kindel snarled. ‘I’ll tell her exactly what a filthy sonofabitch you are!’
‘Like father, like mother,’ Anne muttered.
Darren decided to get nasty. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, ma,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll fix you for sure.’
Mrs Kindel walloped him over the head again. ‘Are you threatening me?’ she shrilled. ‘Me, your mother? Oh what have you come to? Oh what have I done to deserve this? Oh what would you grandmother have said?’
‘I’ll tell you something for sure, ma,’ yelled Darren, ‘if you say one word of this to Ms Smelkin I’ll tell everyone how I saw you give old man Goldsmith a blow job!’
The sound of an outside door slamming echoed through the rooms as Goldsmith beat a panicky retreat. In the silence that followed, Dr Koekentapp and Anne tiptoed through the doorway to the hushed waiting room. Elizabeth, ever practical, was on the telephone.
‘Hello. Please send a taxi to Dr Koekentapp’s rooms for a Mrs Kindel and son. Their lift had to leave suddenly. No, it’s nothing infectious, just a minor problem.’
Levy was welcomed home like a returning hero. Mrs Levy, fully aware of the fact that she wouldn’t be planning for a wedding if it hadn’t been for Levy’s lucky kidney stone, fussed over him with a solicitousness he hadn’t experienced since buying her a two-carat blue-white diamond ring on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She met Levy at the front gate and escorted him straight to the dining room. The table was covered with Mrs Levy’s best Irish linen and laden with dainties personally delivered by the effusively obsequious proprietor of Greenstein’s delicatessen. As an unheard-of gesture of goodwill to his very best customer Greenstein had included a large platter of chopped chicken liver sprinkled with boiled and grated egg white with ‘GET BETTER SOON AARON!’ artfully applied in shredded egg yolk. Mrs Levy had been so touched by the gift she hadn’t objected to the substantial deposit on her account for the plate.
While Sylvia made the several trips to and from the car necessary to bring in all Levy’s flowers and the meagre remnants of his fruit and nut arrangement, Mrs Levy engaged her husband in serious conversation.
‘Aaron, I think this is it,’ she began.
Levy stopped chewing on his chopped liver. ‘What has the doctor told you that I should know?’ he demanded. He took a deep breath. ‘You can tell me. I can take it. It is cancer isn’t it?’
Mrs Levy spat to one side to ward off the evil eye. ‘Ptooh! How can you say such a thing? I’m talking about Sylvia.’
Levy went deathly pale. ‘Sylvia’s not sick? My God, don’t tell me Sylvia’s sick! How long does she have?’
Mrs Levy spat three times just to be sure. ‘Aaron! Stop it! Why do you always look for the worst in everything? I’m talking about a celebration! Sylvia is getting married!’
Levy carefully put down his fork, pushed away his plate, swallowed, then steadily regarded his wife. ‘Why is it that I am always the last one to know?’ he asked. ‘Why do I always have to hear the truth from strangers? Tell me stranger, is she pregnant?’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘Here I am, hardly recovered from agony and now I must have more pain. I can tell you, it’s a wonderful thing for a sick father to find out that his daughter sleeps around. So I’m going to be a grandfather? I’m so proud! I’ve always wanted a little bastard to play with.’
Mrs Levy was running out of saliva. ‘Aaron,’ she begged, ‘just listen to me. Sylvia’s not pregnant and you aren’t going to be a grandfather to a bastard. Sylvia doesn’t even know she is going to be married. I know and now you know. I am talking about Dr Koekentapp!’
Levy pulled his plate closer. ‘I see,’ he said, lifting the portion of liver that read ‘SOON’ onto his fork. ‘I want you to tell me one simple thing, Dolly. Does Dr Koekentapp know?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Mrs Levy, ‘but what’s the difference? It’s only a technicality.’
Levy nodded. ‘Naomi thinks he is a goy,’ he mentioned.
‘Naomi! Who is Naomi to ruin our Sylvia’s life?’ yelled Mrs Levy. ‘I’m sick and tired of hearing what Naomi thinks! She and her nut-fresser of a husband! Oh yes, don’t think I didn’t see how he tucked into your nut and fruit arrangement at the hospital!’
Mrs Levy stopped abruptly as she heard Sylvia approaching.
‘Shh!’ she whispered. ‘Talk about something else!’
‘This liver is really good,’ Levy announced as Sylvia entered.
‘Hi Mom,’ Sylvia said cheerfully. ‘I’ve been thinking. I think you should make a brisket and tsimmes for tomorrow. I’ll give you a hand. It’s about time I learnt to cook.’
Mrs Levy beamed at her husband.
‘And I think it’s only right that Dr Koekentapp should make the brocha before we eat,’ Sylvia continued. ‘I think you should suggest it to him, Mom. Dad can make the brocha for the wine.’
Mrs Levy glowed with pleasure.
‘I’ll be back just now,’ Sylvia went on, ‘I’m going to buy some prunes for the tsimmes.’
Mrs Levy grabbed her husband’s hand as Sylvia departed. ‘So, what do you think now?’ Mrs Levy asked. Her eyes were filled with tears.
Levy grunted. ‘Let’s see how he performs tomorrow,’ he said.
Dr Koekentapp had cancelled his Thursday-evening dinner and other more intimate arrangements with a very irate Candy, who had told him that she hoped it fell off. He spent the time pacing up and down his lounge and practising what Peruvnick had taught him. At midnight, he decided that he was as ready as he would ever be. At three, the telephone woke him. When nobody answered his blurred ‘Hello’, he spent the next two hours staring at the ceiling in the dark and worrying about brochas.