She uses French butter to make croissants, and pulls a face at the idea of Israeli butter. Less fat, she tells me.
We may be the definition of rootless cosmopolitans, citizens of the world.
It was so simple to do, I never stopped to think if I really wanted to leave London.
Then, shockingly, he said how he wished Hitler had finished the job he’d started on them.
He shows me the top of his tattoo, which is of a large feather. It’s well drawn, actually. It starts at the small of his back and, I don’t really want to imagine, sweeps downwards.
Rufina’s face changes colour like a cuttlefish, pink to red to white. A tear runs down her cheek.
The last time I came to the Old City I turned a corner and an Arabic man standing, on guard, maybe, I don’t know, wagged his finger and said, menacingly, ‘Don’t.’ So I didn’t.