“I noticed.” Under the fluorescent bulbs, they were sauterne. “They’re lovely.”

“Thanks.” His smile was shy. “I trade you my eyes for your gorgeous red hair.”

I smiled back. “Thank you. Just be careful what you ask for.”

“Indeed.” He took another sip from his cup. “Bitter tonight. Must be dregs. Anyway, my great-grandfather’s last name was Yekutieli. It became Kutiel.”

“So you have family in Yemen?”

“No. They all move to Israel in 1950s in Magic Carpet when Israel takes Yemenite Jews. My brothers and I actually know some Hebrew when we go to the Holy Land. Most Beta Yisrael have to learn. As sons of aqes,we were started onOritat two, because in our culture it is theqeswho readsOrit.I pick up languages very quick. By bar mitzvah-which was new custom to us, by the way-I had most ofOritandChumashmemorized, although I forget much of what I learned. My brothers too.”

“That’s amazing,” I said. “What about your sister?”

“The girls learnnothing.They obey their husbands, keep house, and have babies. Maybe make a little pottery to sell in the marketplace. But, of course, they give the money to their husbands.”

“Now you’re baiting me,” I told him.

His smile was playful. “It all changed when we settle in Israel. My little sister embraced liberation very well. Still, she must thank my father. Now there are about seventy thousand of us in Israel.”

My eyes widened. “Seventythousand?I had no idea.”

“Have you ever been?”

“No.” I felt my face go warm. As if by failing to visit the Holy Land, I betrayed my ancestral heritage. “One day, I’ll go. My father went about ten years ago. My stepmother lived there for a while with her first husband.”

“Your stepbrother’s father.”

“How’d you… Oh, yeah. The one who’s also named Yaakov. We call him Jake or Yonkie.”

“And he is your only sibling?”

“No, I have a half sister named Hannah and another stepbrother, Sam. The boys are much younger than I am. They go to college back east. Hannah is ten-the baby.”

He nodded. “My entire family lives in Israel now. My brothers are officers inZahal-the Israeli army. My sister is also a nurse and lives in Tel Aviv with her family. My father remarried an Ashkenazi woman whose husband had been killed in Lebanon. Batya had four children with her first husband. So for a while we were ten in a very small apartment. Then she became pregnant by my father and they had twin girls. But by that time my brothers and my three stepbrothers had moved out, so there was more room. A year later, I move out at seventeen to doMeluimfor three years.”

“ ‘Meluim’?”

“Army service. After that, I decided to be a nurse. From the army, I already knew the skill. I just needed the book learning. I did an accelerated course and was out in two and a half years with a B.S. in nursing, and a job.”

“So you kind of paved the way for your sister.”

He thought a moment. “Yes, I think so, although in Israel many Ethiopians learn nursing. She is the nurse with a nice, clean office job. My father was very mad at me for becoming a nurse. As a Kohen, I am not supposed to be near dead bodies. My stepmother said if I don’t respect theKahuna-the priesthood-at least be a doctor.”

“That sounds like a Jewish mother.”

“Yes, Batya is a very Jewish mother. In the end, I follow my heart and my parents make peace with me. I am the youngest son in the family… very spoiled. They don’t stay mad. It is good that I am aware of death. If a baby codes on my shift, I doeverythingto revive that infant. Of course, the best way not to get a code is to be very watchful. I am very, very watchful.”

“Dedication is good,” I said, throwing back his own words. He smiled at the recognition. “You have a master’s in public health.”

He regarded his badge. “That was four years ago. First the hospital sent me to get a master’s in nursing for one year. They get more federal money if their staff has degrees. I come back and do exactly the same things, except now I have more letters after my name. And I got a bump in salary, so that part was good. Then I think I want even more money, so I do the M.P.H. at state university for another year during the day and work at night. The M.P.H. is for hospital policy, so I get an administration job. And the work does pay better, but it is soboring.”

I smiled.

“Oh my goodness, Cindy, it is one meeting after another. I go out of my mind. I last six months; then I say forget it and go back to nursing.”

I inwardly smiled, flashing to my own parents. My mother had expected more from my father than just a cop’s salary. Dutiful man that he was, he went to law school, passed the bar, then set up shop with my maternal grandfather, doing wills and estate trusts. He also lasted about six months. “You had no trouble getting your old job back?”

“Yes, I have problem because now Marnie has been promoted to my old position. I let her be in charge as long as they don’t cut my money. They say okay because with nurses, there is always a shortage, especially if you have degrees and specialties. I am a critical-care nurse. I specialize in pediatrics because I like to help the children. In Ethiopia, they do nothing for the children and the babies. We were the last to be given food. We were the first to die.”

“That’s horrible,” I exclaimed.

“It is cruel, but it has to be that way.” His eyes darkened as they intensified. “If the parents starve, who will take care of the children? Who will work? If the mother goes hungry, how can she nurse? You need working adults to keep the family going.”

“I don’t know, Koby. It goes against everything I was taught. But I’ve never lived in a subsistence economy.”

“Baruch Hashem,”Koby stated.

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.Baruch Hashemwas an expression that Rina used all the time. It meant “thank God” in Hebrew. To hear those words uttered by a black man was simply incongruous.

Koby smiled. “You know what that means?”

“Yes. I’m not a total Jewish ignoramus.” I sipped coffee, then made a face. I had forgotten it was so bad. “Do you like working here?”

“At Mid-City Peds, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, it is a very, very good hospital. And the doctors care so much. Why else would they work in an inner-city hospital? As for me, I love the little babies because they represent life. I love life. It is easy to love life after seeing so much death.”

“I can certainly understand that. It must be nice being around something so pure, especially after seeing the worst in human beings.” I thought a moment. “But I’ve also seen lots of heroics, too. In my job, you see both extremes, and often side by side. Like tonight. Someone abandons an infant in a garbage dump, leaving her for dead. Then, by accident, a man hears a cry, and the next thing we know, she’s alive and well.”

“God had different plans for her. I hope you find her mother. Postnatal women need care.”

“I hope so. It’s such a shame because she had options. If she had dropped the infant off in front of a police station or at a hospital, she wouldn’t have committed any kind of crime. And even now, if she gives herself up within seventy-two hours, she’ll escape prosecution. We have laws that protect desperate women.”

“I’m sure she does not know the law. Or maybe she was too scared.” His pager buzzed. He looked down at the number, then back up at my face. “I must go back to work. I would like to see you again, Cindy. Would that be possible?”

I looked at him, making the quick mental calculations about his age based on what he had just told me. He looked younger than thirty-two, but then again, people say I look younger than twenty-eight. “What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner is always nice.”

“When?”

“You tell me.”