DAVID GROSSMAN was born in Jerusalem. He is the author of numerous works of fiction, nonfiction, and children's literature. His work has appeared in The New Yorker and has been translated into more than forty languages. He is the recipient of many prizes, including the French Chevalier de l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, the Buxtehuder Bulle in Germany, Rome's Premio per la Pace e l'Azione Umanitaria, the Premio Ischia--international award for journalism, Israel's Emet Prize, and the Albatross Prize given by the Günter Grass Foundation. JESSICA COHEN was born in England, raised in Israel, and now lives in the United States. She has translated contemporary Israeli fiction, nonfiction and other creative works, including David Grossman's To the End of the Land.

Good evening! good evening! Good evening to the majestic city of Ceasariyaaaaaah!" The stage is empty. The thundering shout echoes from the wings. The audience slowly quiets down and grins expectantly. A short, slight, bespectacled man lurches onto the stage from a side door as if he'd been kicked through it. He takes a few faltering steps, trips, brakes himself on the wood floor with both hands, then sharply juts his rear end straight up. Scattered laughter and applause from the audience. People are still filing into the club, chatting loudly. "Ladies and gentlemen!" announces a tight--lipped man standing at the lighting console. "Put your hands together for Dovaleh G!" The man onstage still crouches like a monkey, his big glasses askew on his nose. He slowly turns to face the room and scans it with a long, unblinking look. "Oh, wait a minute," he grumbles, "this isn't Caesarea, is it?" Sounds of laughter. He slowly straightens up and dusts his hands off. "Looks like my agent fucked me again." A few audience members call out, and he stares at them in horror: "Say what? Come again? You, table seven, yeah, with the new lips--they look great, by the way." The woman giggles and covers her mouth with one hand. The performer stands at the edge of the stage, swaying back and forth slightly. "Get serious now, honey, did you really say Netanya?" His eyes widen, almost filling the lenses of his glasses: "Let me get this straight. Are you going to sit there and declare, so help you God, that I am actually for real in Netanya at this very minute, and I'm not even wearing a flak jacket?" He crosses his hands over his crotch in terror. The crowd roars with joy. A few people whistle. Some more couples amble in, followed by a rowdy group of young men who look like soldiers on furlough. The small club fills up. Acquaintances wave to one another. Three waitresses in short shorts and neon--purple tank tops emerge from the kitchen and scatter among the tables. "Listen, Lips"--he smiles at the woman at table seven--"we're not done yet. Let's talk about it. I mean, you look like a pretty serious young lady, I gotta say, and you certainly have an original fashion sense, if I'm correctly reading the fascinating hairdo that must have been done by--let me guess: the designer who gave us the Temple Mount mosque and the nuclear reactor in Dimona?" Laughter in the audience. "And if I'm not mistaken, I detect the faint whiff of a shitload of money emanating from your direction. Am I right or am I right? Heh? Eau de one percent? No? Not at all? I'm asking because I also note a magnificent dose of Botox, not to mention an out--of--control breast reduction. If you ask me, that surgeon should have his hands cut off." The woman crosses her arms over her body, hides her face, and lets out shrieks of delight through her fingers. As he talks, the man strides quickly from one side of the stage to the other, rubbing his hands together and scanning the crowd. He wears platform cowboy boots, and as he moves the heels make a dry tapping sound. "What I'm trying to understand, honey," he yells without looking at her, "is how an intelligent lady like yourself doesn't realize that this is the kind of thing you have to tell someone carefully, judiciously, considerately. You don't just slam someone with 'You're in Netanya.' Bam! What's the matter with you? You gotta give a guy some preparation, especially when he's so skinny." He lifts up his faded T--shirt and a gasp passes through the room. "Ain't it so?" He turns his bare chest to the people sitting on either side of the stage and flashes a big grin. "See this? Skin and bones. Mostly cartilage. I swear to God, if I was a horse I'd be glue by now, you know what I'm saying?" Embarrassed giggles and repulsed exhalations in response. "All I'm saying, sister," he turns back to the woman, "is next time, when you give someone this kind of news, you need to do it carefully. Anesthetize him first. Numb him up