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the razor drawer, picked out a very large razor with a transparent ice-blue handle, and began to sharpen it.
    Within the white cloth Najime drew his knife, and as the barber approached with a look of boredom and sleep, Najime jumped from the chair, teeth exposed, the two sides of his mustache raised, and with a tremendously loud cry (the kind that used to go from one mountaintop to another), he stabbed the barber deep in his heart, pushing the knife right up to the hilt.
    The other barbers and customers froze while their coworker and barber of many years staggered in a half-circle, and then fell face down on the floor. Najime dropped back into the chair, feeling like a man who has just beaten the Devil. While the police were summoned, a soldier who had witnessed the incident through the window entered the shop and pompously trained his rifle on Najime, who had an angelic look.
    The police came. They handcuffed Najime to the chair, and began to write in their books the statements of all concerned. The barbers stated that this man had come to their shop and killed Amzaleg, who was a third owner. They then described the killing in great detail, gesticulating, and glancing now and then at the body for fear of offending it with the color of their portraiture. Najime was silently shaking his head no. To everyone in the shop (by that time about 350 people, various animals, hawkers and vendors of every description, prostitutes plying their trade, entertainers, musicians, etc., etc.), he looked like a madman from an entirely different civilization.
    A policeman turned to him and said, “What do you mean, shaking your head no like that?”
    Najime replied, “That man is not their friend Amzaleg. Amzaleg is probably in bed with stomach trouble.” The two remaining barbers looked at one another, confirming the presence of a madman. “He,” continued Najime, “is an old enemy of mine from Persia who swore to kill me with a razor, and that was what he was about to do.”
    â€œNonsense!” screamed the two remaining barbers like twins. “That is Amzaleg, our friend and partner.”
    â€œTurn him over,” said Najime, hardly able to wait until it was done. And when it was done, the long, flat, half-bearded chin was not that of Amzaleg the Moroccan barber, but of the big brother on the mountain.
    â€œIncredible,” said the two barbers in unison.
    Later, after he had been released by the police, Najime went home under what seemed to be lighter and cooler skies. Ha Tikva was awakening from a week of hard work and about to await the sunset and fine food of the holiday. It felt as though there were going to be a rainstorm, although there was not going to be one. Yacov was inside, having heard out the window of all the strange events in the barber shop. When his father came in and took off his coat, the son was reverentially silent. But seeing that the older man was in a good frame of mind, to say the least, he cautiously asked, “How did you know he was the barber?”
    â€œWell,” said Najime, “as a precautionary measure I shaved this morning as cleanly as I could, and that seemed to make no difference to this ‘barber.’ But that was just a precaution, for any barber might have been tired, and overlooked it.”
    â€œThen how did you know he would be there?”
    â€œI didn’t know for sure, but I took a chance. You see, he vowed to kill me with a razor, and I have never been to a barber in my life. Therefore, if I went to a barber, it would have to be him. That is Devil’s conduct, and I have encountered it before. My suspicion was confirmed when I noticed that he had no wedding ring. Every barber in Israel wears a wedding ring. And then, I could feel his presence the way sheep in mountains can feel the approach of a hunter. I have spent a lifetime waiting. I have won.”
    And both father and son heard the bakers screaming, “It rises! It