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this time, holding himself up against the wall, sweat dripping down his face.
    â€œBenjamin,” she said, “would you mind? You know, again?” She motioned toward the rabbi, then toward the couch.
    â€œSure, sure,” I said, waving her in. What else could I say? She was already leading him inside.
    Rabbi Zuckerman lay down on the couch, same position as the day before. Mrs. Goldfarb handed him a wet washcloth she’d been holding. “Put this on your forehead,” she instructed. He did.
    â€œIt’s this heat,” she said to me. “Unbelievable, right? It’s only June but it feels like the middle of August.”
    I nodded.
    â€œYour office is so much cooler than the store,” she said.
    â€œWe don’t get direct sunlight back here,” I told her.
    â€œAnd your air-conditioning works better than ours,” she added, looking up at the vents in my ceiling. “I should talk to our landlord.”
    I nodded again.
    â€œI’ll be back to check on you in a little while,” she said to Rabbi Zuckerman. Then, just like the day before, she walked outside to light a cigarette—smokers apparently have no problem inhaling hot air on a hot day—and I followed her.
    â€œAre you positive he’s okay?” I asked again.
    â€œIt’s just the heat, I’m sure,” she answered. “I’ll go call about the air conditioner right now. And then I’ll come back in an hour or so for Rabbi Zuckerman.”
    I looked at her blankly.
    â€œOkay, forty-five minutes,” she said. “I don’t mean to impose, but lying down really did help him yesterday. All he needs is some time to cool off.”
    â€œI’ll see you in a little while,” I said, tacitly accepting this arrangement.
    â€œThanks, Benjamin, you’re doing a mitzvah,” she said. And then she was gone.
    I made the same accommodations as last time in the office, shutting off the overhead light, closing the blinds, silencing the ringer on the phone. But I didn’t switch my design projects. I was working on the mock-up ads for Paradise, complete with nearly naked men I’d found online. It wasn’t anything more shocking than someone might see on Show-time or Cinemax any night of the week, but it might have been enough to scandalize a rabbi. I didn’t know, and I didn’t much care. Doing a mitzvah was one thing, I decided, but I wasn’t going to stop doing my job just because some old man needed a place to get out of the sun.
    Rabbi Zuckerman was making more noise this time. His breathing was more labored and he’d moan occasionally. Each time he made a sound, I’d look up to see if something was the matter, but he seemed the same: Hot. Tired. Old. Water from the washcloth dripped down his temples into his hair, already matted with sweat. He didn’t move.
    After a couple of quick glances, though, I found myself simply staring at him, ignoring my computer screen and its carefully cropped porn.
    Who is he? I thought. Does he have a family—children, grandchildren? Is he sick? Why does he keep coming to work? Why doesn’t he ever talk? Does he speak English? Yes, of course, he must understand it—Mrs. Goldfarb speaks to him in English. But does he speak English? Or Yiddish? Or Hebrew? Or Russian? Or German? Or Polish? Does he speak anything at all? Has this bookstore owner devoted himself so totally to the printed word that he has forgotten how to talk? Or does he simply have nothing to say to me, a little pisher of a lapsed Jew who’s only worth this rabbi’s consideration because of my comfortable furniture?
    Then I noticed one thing that was different from the previous day. Rabbi Zuckerman had kicked off his shoes next to the couch.
    I wondered: Was he trying to be considerate? Or was he making himself at home?
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    â€œGreat to meet you last night at Paradise,” Mister Izod’s e-mail began. “I