'A butterfly," he said. "Silver, with malachite eyes. I conceived it in a dream I had two nights ago-springtime in the Galilee, flocks of silver butterflies covering the sky, alighting on a stand of cypress. Such a powerful image, I began work yesterday at sunrise and finished by the afternoon, just before Laura came by with the children."

"They were here yesterday?"

"Yes, after school. Laura said they were shopping at Hamashbir and decided to drop in. It must have been desti-ny' -the old man smiled-"because I'd just gone out to shop myself and had a brand-new chocolate bar in my pocket, Swiss, with raspberry jelly in the middle. Michael and Benja-min pounced on it like little lions. I offered some to Shoshana, too, but she said candy was for babies, she was too old for it. So I gave her the butterfly. The green of the malachite went perfectly with those wonderful eyes. Such a beautiful little girl."

"I got home after she was asleep," said Daniel, thinking How cut off have I been? "I'm sure she'll show it to me tonight."

His father sensed his shame, came over, stroked his cheek, and kissed it. The tickle of whisker evoked a flood of memories in Daniel, made him feel like a small boy-weak, but safe.

"I've been consumed with work," he said.

His father's hands rested on his shoulder, butterfly-light. Yehesqel Sharavi said nothing.

"I feel," said Daniel, "as if I'm being drawn into something… unclean. Something beyond my control."

"You're the best there is, Daniel. No man could do more."

"I don't know, Abba. I really don't know."

They sat together in silence.

"All one can do is work and pray," said his father, finally. "The rest is up to God."

Spoken by anyone else, it would have sounded pat-a cliche employed to kill discussion. But Daniel understood his father, knew he really meant it. He envied the old man's faith and, wondered if he'd ever reach that level, where reliance upon the Almighty could dissolve all doubt. Could he hope to attain the kind of religious serenity that obliterated nightmares, steadied a heart beating out of control?

Never, he decided. Serenity was out of reach. He'd seen too much.

He nodded in agreement, said "Amen, God be blessed," playing the dutiful son, the unquestioning believer. His father must have known it was an act; he looked at Daniel quizzically and stood, began circulating among the jewelry, tidying, fussing with velvet, and adjusting displays. Daniel thought he looked sad.

"You've been helpful, Abba. As always."

His father shook his head. "I bend wire, Daniel. I don't know about much anything else."

"That's not true, Abba-"

"Son," said his father, firmly. He swiveled and stared, and Daniel felt the little boy take over again. "Go home.

Shabbat is approaching. Time to rest and renew. Everyone rests, even God."

"Yes, Abba," said Daniel, but he thought: Does Evil have respect for God's calendar? Does Evil ever rest?

He got home at eleven-thirty, saw the look on Laura's face, and knew they'd either work things out or have a terrible fight. He stayed with her in the kitchen, plying her with smiles and unswerving attention, ignoring the lack of response, the seemingly frantic preoccupation with simmering pots and meat thermometers. Finally she softened, allowed him to rub her neck, and laughed when he got underfoot, the two of them knocking shins in the small, hot room.

She wiped her hands with a towel, poured iced coffee for both of them, and gave him a hearfelt kiss with cold lips and tongue. But when he tried for a repeat, she backed away and asked him to sit down.

"Listen," she said, settling opposite him, "I understand what you're trying to do. I appreciate it. But we have to talk."

"I thought we were."

"You know what I mean, Daniel."

"I've been overinvolved. It won't happen again."

"It's more than that. For the last few weeks you've been in another world. I feel as if you've locked me-all of us-out of your life."

"I'm sorry."

Laura shook her head. "I'm not trying to wring an apology out of you. What we need to do is talk. Sit right here and tell each other what's on our minds. What we're feeling." She placed her hand on his, white linen over mahogany. "I can only imagine what you've been going through. I want to know."

"It's very ugly, nothing you'd want to hear."

"But I do! That's the point! How can we be intimate if we skate on the surface?"

"Share with me what you've been doing," said Daniel. 'How's the Bethlehem painting going?"

'Dammit, Daniel!" She pulled her hand away. "Why are you being so withholding!"

"Sharing is mutual," he said quietly. "You have things of beauty to share-your art, the home, the children. I have nothing to offer in return."

"Your work-"

"My work is cruelty and blood."

"I fell in love with a policeman. I married a policeman. Did it ever occur to you that I think what you do is beautiful? You're a guardian, a protector of the Jewish state, of all the artists and the mothers and the children. There's nothing ugly about that."

"Some protector." He looked away from her and took a sip of coffee.

"Come on, Daniel. Stop punishing yourself for the horrors of the world."

He wanted to satisfy her, thought of how to begin, the right way to phrase things. But the words spun around in his head like clothes in a dryer, random sounds, nothing seemed to make sense.

He must have sat that way for a long time, because Laura was patient by nature, and finally she got up, looking defeated. The same look he'd just seen on his father's face.

You're a real harbinger of cheer, Pakad Sharavi.

"If you can't deal with it right now, fine. I can accept that, Daniel. But eventually you're going to have to."

"I can," said Daniel, taking hold of her wrist. "I want to."

"Then do it. There's no other way."