At a certain stage in the evening, when Brava showed obvious signs of impatience, the friend would rise from his seat and say:

　　“Bye, I’m going.”

　　Danny would turn to look at him reflectively, and wave his big hand in farewell.

　　A moment before he reached the door he would shout after him good night, a salutation to which the friend never responded. He liked leaving the luxurious apartment with a slam of the door.

　　One Tuesday, exactly on the day when they showed the programme on television about what would happen to Tel Aviv if an atom bomb was dropped on it, the friend came late. Brava sat opposite the colour screen, drank beer, watched the programme and sniggered. It amused him to see the places long familiar to him being blown to smithereens. The explosion, said the usually smiling commentator, who was looking serious in honour of the programme, had been simulated by means of amazing and expensive technology, specially imported for the production of the programme from Japan, where they had shown a similar programme about Tokyo a few months before.

　　Danny felt safe. Perhaps because he knew that it was all special effects, and perhaps because he was so often out of town. Five times a year to New York, four times to professional conferences in the capitals of Europe, and four absolutely unavoidable times to Frankfurt, in order to invest the money which he didn’t want to leave in the banks in Israel.

　　The pathos in the voice of the commentator increase when he recited the figures of the damage to life and property which the bomb was likely to cause. After this, the programme began to repeat itself boringly, and Danny switched off the seat.

　　With one big gulp he finished the beer and threw the empty can out of the window. The can traveled eight floors and landed on the pavement. Sometimes Danny would throw things from the balcony which even if they hit someone on the head wouldn’t have done any great harm, certainly not fatal.