We didn’t go to Mea-She’arim on Saturday because they throw stones at cars there on the Sabbath. We wanted to see the locals, certainly, but only to look in a respectful way. We had not expected to make contact. But crossing the road you didn’t notice that you had dropped your book. I picked it up, ran after you. Not knowing how to address you, I touched your sleeve. You turned to me, took the proffered book without a word, and looked at me. Your eyes, beneath your strange hat, between your side-curls, showed no expression. You turned away. Was your garment unclean now? Did the volume need to be purified? I was only returning your book. We had not expected to make contact.