“Yes, Esther,” Grelich went on, “By the grace of the times we live in I am still here. These klutzes couldn’t even kill an unhappy Jew, even though Hitler showed them how some years ago. Esther, we are living now in an age of the goyishe apotheosis. The peasantry is now at the controls, and they are showing us what it really means to screw up, you should excuse the language.”

Esther made a small dismissing gesture. She studied Moses’ face and said, in a low voice, “Moise?”

“I’m still here,” Moses said.” Where else would I be?”

“This fellow who lives inside you—is he a landsman?”

“Atheist!” Ritchie said. “Purebred atheist.”

“You see?” Moses said. “Atheism is the first step toward Judaism.”

“Not bloody likely,” Ritchie said.

“What type of atheist are you, anyhow?” Grelitch asked.

“How many types are there?”

“At least two. Intellectual and instinctive.”

“I guess I’m the intellectual type.”

“Aha!” Grelitch said.

“What, aha?”

“Out of your own mouth you have proven a thesis which I have long held. Jews are not instinctive atheists. Jews, even the dumbest among us, are born arguers, which is to say, intellectuals. No Jew comes to suicide without a long, reasoned argument in his mind, an argument that takes into account the question of God’s view on suicide.”

The doorbell rang again. Grelich opened the door. “Solomon!” he cried, seeing the tall black man on the other side. “Solomon Grundy, the Ethiopian Jew,” he explained to Ritchie.

“Can you hear me, Moise?” Solomon said. “Esther gave me this address.”

“Yes, yes I can hear you, Solomon. You have come to the apartment of therman who owns my body. Unfortunately, I’m still in it.”

“How can that be?”

“It’ll be sorted out presently. Meanwhile, what do you have to tell me? Some more of your mystic African Hasidic pseudo-scientific nonsense?”