Thursday, indoors, morning. After a night of sleeplessness, my cell phone rings and the confidential number of the newspaper editorial staff bore news of "durian." They catch me at the crossroads of my life, which leads to four different directions in the house and the soul: kitchen, bed, computer, washing machine.

"Listen, we have that durian from Southeast Asia that's making waves all over the world. They say that it's natural Viagra, that it has all kinds of wonderful qualities ..."

"What qualities?" I ask politely, despairing at the need to digest new information while still trying to make sense of my life, because that's how it is when your serotonin is low.

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"They say it raises the serotonin, makes you horny, increases alertness, vitality ..."

"Oh," I say, becoming a bit more interested after identifying the light at the end of the durian. "Does it come in tablets?" I remove the layer of skepticism that envelopes me like cling wrap when it comes to a magic elixir of any kind, and wait in anticipation for the messenger. It comes in liquid form.

Thursday, indoors, noon. It's an hour after I've swallowed 15 cc. of durian. I download the Durian-Palace Web site and reach a display of symbols of Buddha; on the head of each is half a durian, which is large, egg-shaped and bristly. The house has reached a reasonable condition, especially if you consider the brilliant answer of the author of "Harry Potter" to the question of when she found the time to write her books: She cut off the BBC correspondent by saying, "I never cleaned the house, it was simply dirty." The work is progressing nicely. I'm tired, but capable of continuing to function if necessary, and it is.

The Neways International company has turned the original fruit into a balanced nutritional additive, of which it is proud, but surfing on the Internet reveals that the durian has a catch to it. In other words, there is an embarrassing problem with it: It has a terrible smell. It stinks so badly that in certain places, which are not senior citizens' homes, in Malaysia, Singapore or Indonesia, they forbid bringing it on to the subway or to places where people eat. On the other hand, in those same countries there are people who attend durian workshops and for three weeks eat only durian, for health reasons.

Thursday, outdoors, 3 P.M. I'm marching home from the kindergarten with the stroller. On the way I inform the chef, my husband, of the fact that the substance durian is in the house, and recommend that he also take 15 cc.

"What's that?" he asks insistently on the phone.

"It's some terribly smelly and terribly healthful fruit they've processed and researched, neutralized and mixed, and added papaya and all kinds of Chinese plants to it. It's the green bottle, between the bread and the medicines."

"Ah, I see now. I thought it was the environmently-friendly dishwashing liquid you bought."

"Yes, that's it."

"And what does it do?"

"It apparently does good things," I heard myself plugging the product. "It makes you horny, revitalizes your complexion - what do I know?"

"What - you feel that from taking it one time?" he asked, while I was crossing Rothschild with my right shoulder attached to my ear, about to be run over, and understanding that I had made my way home in half the usual time. Maybe this stuff really does increase something.

"I have no idea, try it."

Thursday, indoors, afternoon. Looking at www.durianpalace.com. The fruit itself costs about $60 for four kilos' worth of a very strong stench that they say brings with it a lust for life, vitality, a solution to sleeplessness and a contribution to anti-aging processes.

Thursday, indoors, 7 P.M. All the inhabitants of the house are at home. I, who on ordinary days am drowning by this point in all sorts of drudgery, am trying to check whether I have more vitality than usual. I'm full of it.

Friday, indoors, 5 A.M. I slept well, but there is no trace of uncontrollable passion, and I go out to check the temperature on the eastern balcony where the turtles live. Julia, the daughter turtle, has laid an egg. I'm excited. I gather it up gently, bring lettuce to the new reptile mother and while I am still drinking coffee she lays another egg - right into the palm of my hand. If there is anyone here who is not in need of an increase in passion it's our turtles, who since early April haven't stopped doing this, very loudly and with a clash of shells to boot. And here we have the results before us.

Sunday, indoors, noon. We have already gone through three doses of durian, as efficient as clerks, as alert as tigers, and this is the time to examine the additive's additional qualities. And, moreover, we have no pangs of conscience: It's not us, it's the durian, and it's not that we're in a rush, it's just work. We enter the lab.

Sunday, outdoors, evening. I go out for some exercise, though usually I faint going up three flights of stairs, and now I'm going down toward the beach. It seems as easy as pie to walk a little on a stomach full of durian. I'm beginning to enjoy the elixir. A perfect combination of Valium and Ritalin, with the taste of tropical drinks of the kind you get in the morning in Sinai, at "lean-to temperature." If you remove it from the refrigerator in Tel Aviv it's cool and reasonable.

Sunday, balcony, night. It's hard for me to agree to add something else to the cycle of addictive substances I have to buy, smoke or drink. Here we're even talking about a scientific dosage, measured according to the line in the cup, although there is satisfaction in this precision - a feeling that if it's so precise it must work. I wonder if Oscar Wilde was familiar with durian when he wrote "The Picture of Dorian Grey," and whether he was actually one of the first of the perpetually young, anti-aging prophets who came before his time.

Monday, indoors, morning. In my office, I call a doctor whose name I found in the company's circular: "Dr. Konstantinovsky, a real doctor, who also practices Chinese medicine." I dial after practicing his name; the line is busy. Then he calls back and simplifies it to "Michael." He is very polite and pleasant. Originally he is a neurologist, but for the past 27 years he has been practicing Chinese medicine. He says that he himself has been a satisfied user of durian for three years. And it works on others, too.

"How long do you have to take it in order to see results?"

"I felt them after only two days."

I turn pale. God, what's happening with my libido? An electric current goes through my body.

"Maybe it counteracts coffee?"

"It's not a matter of counteracting. Coffee depletes energy and durian adds energy."

"How does it go with grass, with alcohol?"

"Mild drugs are all energy stealers and cause fatigue. If you use them, then at least drink durian for balance."

"Okay. And alcohol?"

"It's not recommended to use durian with alcohol, because they both increase what Chinese medicine calls the 'inner fire.'"

"So you're saying that after two days you already feel an increase in the inner fire?"

"Yes, a lust for life, for sex, for business and for general success."

Monday, indoors, noon. Sitting in the living room, I leaf through TheMarker to see whether a passion for success in business, which I've never had, has been awakened in me. I feel that I'm going up in flames. Is it the durian or the endless power of inner conviction?

Finally there is a knock on the door, the key is stuck inside, the children are still stored away in their educational institutions. I open the door to the chef, the phone rings, it's the paper, asking: "Nu, we're beginning to suspect that maybe you people have no libido at all."

"It's all right. It's all coming together right now," I say in a half-whisper, smiling at him at the entrance to the bedroom, as though we met only yesterday.