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truth, they’d call up the men in the white suits.’
    â€˜You don’t have to tell me,’ I replied. ‘Why do you think I want you up here? I need someone to tell me I’m not having a nervous breakdown.’
    There was a slight pause at the other end of the line. ‘Do you wish you were?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ I said. ‘At the moment, I’m too confused to tell you
what
I feel. I need more time to think about it.’
    â€˜Okay, listen,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ll get there as soon as I can. Meanwhile don’t let him out of your sight.’
    â€˜Oh, gee, thanks, Doc,’ I said. ‘Just how am I supposed to do that? You saw what happened at the hospital. If he decides to take off again, there’s no way I can stop him.’
    â€˜I know that,’ she replied. ‘Just keep him talking. Ask him where he’s been all week.’
    I thanked her for the suggestion and rang off. I went back into the living-room half expecting to find it empty. Half hoping would be nearer the truth. But he was still there, standing by the window taking in the view, glass in hand. He turned towards me and eyed me silently.
    â€˜Hi, how are you doing?’ I said. You know – just to get things going.
    â€˜Fine.’ He raised his empty glass. ‘Is it okay if I, er …?’
    â€˜Sure. Help yourself.’
    â€˜How about you?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yeah, great.’ I couldn’t help smiling. ‘This may sound stupid but I can’t get over the way you talk. Just like an American. The accent is not home-grown but you speak better than most of the
kibbutzim
we get in town.’
    That made him smile too. ‘How did you expect me to speak? Like someone out of the Saint James’s version of the Bible?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘In Aramaic, I guess.’
    â€˜If I did, you wouldn’t understand a word I said.’ He filled both glasses to the rim and handed one over. ‘Talking to people is easy. It’s getting through to them that’s the problem. The introduction of language was a retrograde step. Designed by some friends of mine to keep people apart. To prevent them from understanding one another.’
    I made a mental note to ask him who his friends were. We sat down with the coffee table between us. He put his feet up on it. Miriam’s bandages were still in place. Over them, he was wearing a pair of leather sandals with studded soles. They looked as if they had pounded down a few stony roads in their time.
    He saw me looking at them. ‘Roman Army sandals,’ he said. ‘The best there is. A centurion gave them to me after I cured his servant. The pair I had before this took me to Britain and back before they finally gave out.’
    â€˜Amazing,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you went to Britain.’
    He nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I went all over. I was on the road for twelve years.’
    â€˜It’s not in the Book.’
    â€˜No,’ he said. ‘It got edited out.’
    â€˜In fact, if I remember correctly,’ I continued, ‘after the account of your birth there’s nothing until that bit in Jerusalem when you are twelve, then we don’t pick up on you until you’re around thirty.’
    â€˜Thirty-four,’ he said.
    I realised I was going to have to get hold of a copy of the New Testament and bone up on the text so as I could ask the right kind of questions. We sipped wine in silence for a while then eventually, with studied casualness, I put my feet up on the table too. And I remember thinking that I would have given anything for Rabbi Lucksteen, who bar-mitzvahed me, to have been able to walk in so asI could introduce him. Then I saw The Man looking at me and wondered if he could read minds.
    â€˜That phone call was to Miriam.’ I explained. ‘She was the doctor who bandaged your hands and feet and