Instead, he and his father reefed the sails, dropped anchor, and set about making dinner. Actually, it was Yadin’s father, Reuben, who prepared the food while his son set the table he pulled up off the cabin bulkhead. “Wine?” Eli said.Reuben shook his head. “My gout is acting up again.”“Old age.”“Age, period.” Reuben stirred the couscous as he dropped in golden raisins, chopped-up dates, and toasted almond slivers.The Director sat against the bulkhead, facing his father. “You’ve become melancholy in your retirement.”“If only you’d let me retire, Eli!”“Ha, ha! Good one, Pop.”Reuben glanced up sharply. “You know, Eli, sometimes I worry you’ve become too American.”Eli reached out, grabbed a handful of almonds. “There’s no such thing.”“You see? That’s precisely what I’m talking about!” the old man said in mock-horror.The Director sighed deeply. “Abi, I fear I have set in motion an apocalyptic confrontation.” “Try harder not to understate the case, Eli.”The Director laughed without a trace of humor.
