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not address me as 'man.'"
    "Sorry," Razz said. "I thought you wanted to know about my spiritual life. I think I'm playing well too."
    "A lot of drugs change hands in those clubs in Tel Aviv," Obermann said.
    "You're not shitting, sir. However, as I told you, I don't indulge."
    "Very well," Obermann said.
    "I'm not about to do that naltrexone treatment again," Razz Melker declared. "Christ, everything Burroughs said about sleep cures is true. They genuinely suck."
    "Your father would like you to go home to Michigan."
    "I know."
    "He's worried about you," Dr. Obermann said. With his glasses resting on his forehead he wrote Melker a prescription for a mild tranquilizer that was part of the follow-up to the naltrexone. Then he dashed off the quick note for the IDF that would assure Melker's continued exemption from military service. "Also, he doesn't think you're making much of a contribution to the Jewish state."
    "Maybe he's mistaken. Anyway, his contributions cover both of us."
    Dr. Obermann looked at him coldly.
    "Tell him I love him," Melker said.
    "How's Sonia?" the doctor asked. "Off drugs also?"
    "Come on, Doc, she's no junkie. She's a Sufi, a real one. Now and then she dabbles."
    "She shouldn't dabble," the doctor said.
    "You like her, don't you?"
    "I like her very much," said Obermann.
    "I know you do. I told her so." He paused to observe the doctor. "You should hear her sing."
    "Yes," Dr. Obermann said, "no doubt I should. Are you lovers?"
    Razz laughed and shook his head. "No. Want me to fix you up?"
    "Impossible."
    "How's the book going?" Melker persisted. "The religious mania book."
    Obermann wriggled into a disclamatory shrug.
    "Am I in it?" Melker asked. "How about the
alter kocker
outside? Is he in it? He ought to be."
    "Call me if you have any thought disorders," Obermann said.
    Melker laughed and leaned forward confidentially.
    "But Doc," he said. "Thought itself is disorder. It disturbs the primal rhythm of the universe. With static. Psychic entropy. The sages—"
    "Out!" Dr. Obermann commanded. Melker stood up and took his papers. When he reached the door, the doctor asked him, "How did you know? About that man?"
    Melker turned, unsmiling. "He's a musician too. Isn't he? I bet he's a good one. Looks like a bass player. No. Cello?"
    "You saw something," Obermann said. "He must have calluses on his fingers. Or something."
    "But he doesn't," Melker said. "It's true, isn't it? A musical Christian convert?"
    "Why," Obermann asked him, "should he be in my book?"
    "I see the roots of his soul," Melker said.
    "Nonsense."
    "If you say so."
    Obermann stared at him. "And what, precisely, do you see?"
    "I've explained," Melker said, "what I see and how. I think you understand."
    The doctor drew himself up in a Herr-Professorly stance. "What I may understand," he declared, "and what I am able to believe are—"
    Melker interrupted him. "Tell me his name."
    "I can't," Dr. Obermann said. "I can't do that."
    "Too bad," Raziel said. "What's the diagnosis? Schizo? Manic depression, probably. Keep an eye on him."
    "I will. But why?"
    "Why? He comes from the King, that's why. He rides the Chariot. You know, if you didn't avoid me," Razz Melker said, "if you weren't afraid of me, I might tell you a little about these things."
    "I'm not afraid of you," the doctor said. "Your father doesn't pay me to be your pal."
    Raziel stopped in the lobby outside to watch the table tennis players, standing by the door that led to the plaza outside the high-rise.
Homo ludens,
he was thinking. God's image in every eye. Their youthful energy and passion for play was nourishing, animating the dead of night. Animating the dead also.
    His presence made quite a few of the players uneasy; he seemed so mocking and godless. They would have been surprised to learn that once he had been one of them, black-suited, sidelocked, wearing
tzitzit
under his shirt, the fringes a constant reminder of the six hundred and thirteen
mitzvot.
    When he got tired of