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piece of cream-colored paper inside.
         12am swimming pool Status Quo.
        Ben Isaac reread the note three times. He looked around at the tables on every side. Few people had gotten up yet. A family of fi ve in the back, a couple three tables away. No one suspicious, though seeing faces is not seeing hearts, let alone intentions.
        He caught sight of Sigma carrying a tray to the table of the family of five, full of croissants, bread, cheese, and ham.
        "Sigma, please," Ben Isaac called. The Filipino came over. "Who gave you this envelope?" Ben Isaac asked, trying to hide his anxiousness.
        "What envelope, Dr. Isaac? No one gave me any envelope."
        "This . . ." But he stopped. This was too much for Sigma to compre hend. "Forget it. I was confused. Thanks."
        "Do you need anything else, Dr. Isaac?"
        Ben Isaac took a few moments before answering no. Everything was fi ne.
        In spite of the cool air-conditioning, Ben Isaac was sweating. He raised his napkin to his face to wipe away the film that was forming. This bothered him. He stuck his hand into the pocket of the shorts Myriam made him wear and took out the cell phone. He dialed from memory and pressed the green button to make the call. Soon he heard the beep that indicated the other phone was ringing, or vibrating, of whatever phones did these days.
        "Pick up, pick up, pick up," he said almost pleadingly, though his intention was only to think without speaking.
        Nothing. There was no answer. Seconds later he listened to the answering machine. You called Ben Isaac Jr. . . .
        He put down the phone on the table and looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock in Tel Aviv. Ben was working. Perhaps in some meet ing about important business whose secrecy was the key to success. A tightening in his heart told him no. He got up. He needed to get his thoughts together. T ake it easy, Ben Isaac. He has nothing to do with all this. They're not going to lay a fi nger on little Ben. But he couldn't help remembering the message on the cream paper. S tatus Quo. It made him shiver.
        The past, always the past, pursuing the steps of the just man. The mistakes, obsessions, excesses of youth gave him no rest or forgetting. Like Myriam, little Ben, and Magda, the past was always with him, and this time it would all catch up to him at midnight in the swimming pool.

8

    T he professor stared at the students seriously with his arms crossed over his chest. The women considered him fascinating, the men respected him. He looked about forty and was in excellent physical shape. He never smiled or changed his tone of voice. Always confi dent. He made them think, challenged them, since this was his job as a pro fessor of philosophy at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome. He cleared up doubts with new questions and another point of view. He didn't give easy answers. Reflection and reasoning were the best weapons for surviving in the real world. They wouldn't free them from death, but they would prolong their life.
        "The church always finds the solution in Holy Scripture. It's all there. No one needs to wander lost, because the Bible is also a book of philosophy," he explained.
         What a waste, the female contingent thought. Such an attractive person dedicated to the life of the church, a disciple of Our Lord Jesus Christ, a man of God.
        Malicious tongues, anonymous sources, not that credible, said he was close to Pope Ratzinger. It was just a rumor, for no one could say if it was true or not.
        "Erotic also, and pornographic," a male voice was heard to say, coming from the door, at once revealing a much older man, with white, hair, beard, and mustache. His age showed, along with a gleam of play fulness. The smile of a rebellious child who has done some mischief.
        "Jacopo, you never change," the professor said accusingly without altering his tone of voice.
        "Were