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waxy, smiling Dwight Eisenhower, done in Madame Tussaud style, except he was naked and had a corncob for a penis. There was Genghis Khan brandishing an egg roll, and a sausage Rommel with sauerkraut hair.
    â€œWell?” Katz was looking at him closely.
    â€œI’m not sure I understand it.”
    â€œWhat’s to understand? This is going to be the best show we’ve ever had.” Katz downed half his armagnac and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Guess what we’re calling it?”
    â€œAn Army Marches on Its Belly.”
    Katz blinked and sat back. “I don’t get it.” He waved his hand in the air, as though knocking Rehv’s words to the side. “We’re calling it ‘Hungry Warriors.’ Sheila came up with that.” He gazed happily at Genghis Khan. “We’re going to get a lot of publicity. I know it.”
    â€œWho is that?” Rehv asked, pointing.
    â€œGordon. Falling at Khartoum.” Gordon was made of crumpets with wounds of jam.
    Rehv sipped at the armagnac. He waited for Katz to leave. Katz took the bottle and poured himself another glass. “A lot of publicity,” he repeated dreamily. They sat in silence. After a while Katz turned to him and opened his mouth as if to speak; but he changed his mind and said nothing, although his mouth remained open for a few moments.
    â€œWho is the artist?” Rehv said, to say something.
    It was the kind of opening Katz had been waiting for. “You met her tonight, Isaac. She wanted to know about your Arabic studies. You gave her the cold shoulder.”
    Rehv stood up. “I’m really very tired.”
    â€œPlease, Isaac. I’m worried about you.” He corrected himself. “Sheila and I are worried about you. You look very, very depressed. Now, if it’s coming home tired and finding this party going on, I’m sorry, but you’ve got to realize this is a business. A growing business.”
    â€œIt’s nothing like that.” He sat down.
    â€œWhat then? You’re still taking those pills I gave you, I hope.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIf you run out, just say the word. I’ll get another prescription. It’s a matter of picking up the phone.”
    â€œThank you.”
    Katz set his glass on the floor, then slowly, almost ceremoniously extended his pink hand and placed it gently on Rehv’s knee. “Isaac, I don’t want you to take offense, but in the long run those pills are not the answer.”
    â€œWhat is the answer, Quentin?” He wanted Katz to remove his hand, but he seemed in no hurry to do so. It rested on his knee like a little lobster claw, one more piece of edible sculpture.
    â€œIt’s obvious,” Katz answered. “You just have to face it, that’s all. What you have to do is start building a new life. Step one: Find a real job. You’re a trained professor, for Christ’s sake. Anything to do with the Arabs is booming these days. Start sending out resumes. Make a few phone calls. You’re not a waiter.”
    â€œThe restaurant’s all right,” Rehv said. As he spoke, he felt a sudden and strong desire to tell Katz what had happened. Perhaps it was the armagnac. Or guilt. “There was a shooting there tonight.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œA boy shot at some Palestinians.”
    Katz took his hand from Rehv’s knee. “What kind of boy?”
    A dead boy, Rhev thought. “What do you mean?” he asked.
    â€œWhat nationality, that’s what I mean,” Katz said with annoyance. “Do I have to spell it out?”
    â€œIsraeli, I suppose.”
    â€œGoddamn it.” One pink hand made a fist. The other wrapped around it and squeezed hard. “Was anyone hurt?”
    â€œThe boy died.”
    â€œStop calling him a boy. Boys don’t shoot guns at people. Anyone else?”
    â€œManolo.”
    â€œWho’s Manolo?”
    â€œHe was the