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Har Gerizim, where the Samaritans still worship.”
    As they walked down a main street a tall Arab boy in a shirt and slacks, with a broad tray of fragrant fresh flat breads on
     his head, passed by them and went into a gloomy alley of tumbledown stone houses. “My God, those smell marvelous,” Dzecki
     said. “I’m starved. I’m going to buy one. For you, too?”
    “No thanks, but listen, Dzecki —”
    He started after the boy into the alley, which was full of Arab men and boys sitting around on stone steps. Behind him he
     heard harsh shouting, and over his shoulder he saw a lean gun-toting soldier running toward Daphna, berating her in rapid-fire
     Hebrew. She was answering back angrily. “Dzecki, get out of there,” she called, and went on arguing with the soldier. Dzecki
     hastily backed out of the alley, and the soldier walked off muttering.
    “That place is off limits for tourists,” Daphna explained. “Not that anything would happen, but still — oh, come on, let’s
     run down to Jericho. There’s lots of good places to eat. Please, please let me drive. Look, I’ve brought my license. See?”
    The appeal in the big eyes was not to be resisted, not by Dzecki. “Well, sure.”
    When she got behind the wheel of the Porsche, her face lit up like a child’s. “Yes, yes, I understand, I see, I see,” she
     kept saying as he explained the controls. “No problem, no problem. I’m ready to go, let’s move.”
    “All yours,” he said. “On to Jericho.”
    She started off smoothly. As the car passed the soldier who had made the fuss, he shook a reproving finger at them. “The road’s
     better from here on,” she said, “and the scenery’s truly lovely.” She drove carefully through the town, and spoke again when
     they were on asphalt highway, bowling along at a hundred twenty. “My God, what a glorious sensation. You’ll have to let Noah
     drive this car one day.”
    “Glad to. Are you and he getting married?”
    “Elohim, no. I’ve got more than a year of
sadir
to do, and God knows whether I want to marry a naval officer, anyway. I’ve
had
the military, up to here.” She put a flat hand to her throat, and threw back her head in a wild laugh. “I just like him.”
     Traffic was light, but there were trucks and horse-drawn wagons to pass. Daphna did so with nervy skill, concentrating on
     her driving. The play of her shapely thighs under the tight army skirt, as she worked brake and accelerator, caught Dzecki’s
     attention and held it.
    “I look forward to meeting Noah.”
    “Oh, you will.” She gave him a quick glance. “You resemble each other, you know? Same round face. Same hairline and thick
     hair, same brown eyes. The Berkowitz face, I guess. General Barak also has it. He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever met, though
     he’s going gray.”
    “Like to meet him, too,” mumbled Dzecki a bit thickly, watching Daphna’s legs thrusting and rolling this way and that. Daphna
     was oblivious to this hot scrutiny of her limbs, or seemed to be, and he enjoyed the frustrating pleasure all the way to Jericho.
    Unlike Nablus, where he had felt obscurely uncomfortable, Jericho charmed him. As the Porsche descended the winding mountain
     road toward the little city of palms, he felt a touch of awe.
Jericho … Shechem … Hebron … Jordan … the Dead Sea …
Far from religion though he was, Dzecki had breathed in with the American air veneration for these Holy Land sights. The
     pileup of busses, the tourists led about in clusters by guides, did not bother him here. The Jericho Arabs seemed friendlier,
     or at least not sullen and withdrawn as in Nablus. In fact the hucksters in the market stalls, chaffering with camera-laden
     Americans, were all smiles and gracious gestures.
    “Tell you what,” said Daphna, “we’ll feed you first, then have a look around. You like humus and tehina?”
    “Love it.”
    “You’ll really love Abdul’s. Best in Jericho.”
    She deftly turned and