As they finished supper, he asked, “Would you like to go see that new film-well, new here, anyhow-about ginger-smuggling in Marseille? I’m more interested than I would be otherwise, because my cousin-the one who’s in Canada now-got forced into dealing ginger there when he was in the RAF.”

“Vey iz mir!” Deborah Radofsky exclaimed. “How did that happen?”

“His superior was in the business in a big way, and David was a Jew, which meant he had a hard time saying no unless he wanted worse things to happen to him,” Reuven answered. “Of course, the Nazis arrested him, and it’s hard to get a whole lot worse off than that. My father got the Race to pull strings to get him out.”

“Lucky for him your father could,” she said, and then, after a moment, “Marseille’s one of the places that got bombed, isn’t it?”

Reuven nodded. “The film was made before the fighting, obviously. Otherwise, there’d be nothing but ruins. It’s supposed to have some spectacular car chases, too.”

“I’ll come,” Deborah Radofsky said. “Miriam won’t give Sarah too hard a time. She’ll go to sleep, and my sister can look at the television or find something to read.”

“Oh, good.” Whether it was too much trouble for her sister would have been Reuven’s next question.

The theater wasn’t far, either. It was the one Reuven and Jane Archibald had come to on the night they first made love. He glanced over at the widow Radofsky. He didn’t think they’d be sharing a bed tonight. He shrugged. He’d known Jane a long time before they became lovers. He wasn’t going to worry about hurrying things here.

“You’ve got about fifteen minutes to wait before this show lets out,” the ticker-seller told him as he laid down his money.

“That’s not bad,” Deborah Radofsky said. Reuven nodded. They went into the lobby. Reuven got them both some garbanzo beans fried in olive oil and glasses of Coca-Cola. They were just wiping their hands when people started coming out of the film.

Reuven heard Arabic, Hebrew, Yiddish, and something that might have been either Russian or Polish. The film would be subtitled in the first two languages; the dialogue, he knew, was mostly in English. And then, to his surprise, a couple of Lizards came out. They were chattering away in their own tongue.

“What were they saying?” Mrs. Radofsky asked.

“They were wondering how much of the story was true and how much was made up,” Reuven answered. “What I’m wondering is whether they were from Security, or if they were ginger smugglers themselves. One or the other, I’d bet. I wish I’d got a better look at their body paint.”

“If they were in Security, wouldn’t they be smart to wear body paint that said they weren’t?” she remarked.

“Mm, you’re probably right,” Reuven said. “Come on-let’s go in and grab the best seats we can.”

The film wasn’t one for the ages, but it wasn’t bad, either, and the chase scenes were at least as spectacular as advertised. Reuven had no trouble following the English; it was the most widely used human language at the Moishe Russie Medical College. He saw the widow Radofsky’s eyes drifting down to the bottom of the screen to read the Hebrew subtitles.

After the last explosion, after the policeman hero collared the villains, the lights came up. Reuven and Deborah Radofsky rose and headed for the exit. They’d just got out into the lobby again when he took her hand. He wondered what she’d do, what she’d say. She gave him a brief startled look, then squeezed his hand a little, as if to let him know it was all right.

“I hope you had a good time,” he said as they neared her house.

“I did.” If she sounded a little surprised at herself, he could pretend he didn’t notice. And he might have been wrong.

Hoping he was, he asked, “Would you like to do it again before too long?”

“Yes, I’d like that a lot, I think,” the widow Radofsky said. She smiled up at him as they got to her front door.

“Good,” Reuven said. “So would I.” He embraced her, not too tightly, and brushed his lips across hers. Then he stepped back, waiting to see what she’d do about that.

To his relief, she was still smiling. She took keys from her handbag and opened the door. “Good night, Reuven,” she said.

“Good night, Deborah,” he answered, and turned to go. He hoped she’d call him back to come inside with her. She didn’t. She closed the door; he heard the latch click. With a shrug, he headed home. He’d had a good time, too. Maybe it would be even better when they went out again.