Fima

by Amos Oz

  Finally Fima gave up in despair and screamed that he didn’t need any decorators anyway and that Baruch should bloody well stop poking his nose into his life all the time, subsidising, plastering, matchmaking. ‘You may have forgotten, Dad, but I happen to be fifty-four years old.’

  When he had finished, the old man replied placidly:

  ‘Very nice, my dear. Very nice. It seems I was wrong. I sinned, I erred, I transgressed. In that case I shall still try to find you a nice Jewish decorator. Without any taint of colonial exploitation. Assuming that such a paragon still exists in our state.’

  ‘That’s just the point,’ Fima crowed triumphantly, in the whole of this miserable country of ours you can’t find a single Jewish builder or male nurse or gardener. That’s what your Territories have done to the Zionist dream! The Arabs are building the Land for us while we sit back gorging ourselves on the leviathan and the wild ox. And then we go out and murder them, and their children too, just because they have the gall not to be happy and grateful for the privilege of unblocking drains for the chosen people till the Messiah comes.’

  ‘The Messiah,’ Baruch reflected sadly. ‘Perhaps he is already among us. Some say he is. And maybe it’s just because of fine fellows like you that he hasn’t made himself known yet. There’s a story about Reb Uri of Strelisk, the Holy Seraph, the grandfather of Uri Tsvi Greenberg the poet, who was once wandering lost in the forest …’

  ‘Let him wander!’ Fima cut in. ‘Let him stay lost forever! And the grandson too. And the Messiah as well, for that matter, to say nothing of his ass.’

  The old man coughed and cleared his throat, like an old teacher about to hold forth, but instead of lecturing Fima he asked sadly: ‘So that’s your humanism? That’s the voice of the peace camp? The lover of mankind hopes that his fellow man will be lost in the forest? The defender of Islam prays that saintly Jews will perish?’

  Fima was momentarily abashed. He regretted wishing misfortune on the rabbi lost in the forest. But he quickly rallied and counter-attacked with a surprise flanking movement:

  ‘Listen to this, Baruch. Listen carefully. Apropos of Islam. I want to read you word for word what it says here in the encyclopaedia about India.’

  ‘India yourself!’ chortled the old man. ‘But what’s India got to do with it? The demon that’s got into you and your friends, Fimuchka, isn’t from India; it’s all too European. It’s a crying shame that precious young people like you have suddenly decided to sell the entire Jewish heritage for a mess of pottage of sham European pacifism. You want to be Jesus of Nazareth. You want to teach the Christians a lesson in turning the other cheek. You love our enemies and you hate Uri Tsvi and even his grandfather the Holy Seraph. But we’ve had it up to here with the famous European humanism. Our backs still carry the scars of your dear Western civilisation. We’ve been on the receiving end of it, all the way from Kishinev to Auschwitz. Let me tell you a poignant tale about a cantor who was once marooned – it shouldn’t happen to us! – on a desert island, and at the High Holy Days of all times. There stands a solitary Jew in the midst of the world in the midst of the times and wonders …’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Fima erupted, ‘you with your wondering cantors. Chmielnicki and Hitler equal Western civilisation the way India equals an Arab state. What a ridiculous idea! If it weren’t for Western civilisation, for your information, my dear sir, there would not be left of us one that pisseth against the wall. Who do you think sacrificed tens of millions of lives to defeat Hitler? Wasn’t it Western civilisation? Including Russia? Including America? Who was it who saved us, your holy rabbi from Strelisk? Was it the Messiah who gave us a state? Is it Uri Tsvi who makes us a present of tanks and jet planes and pours three billion dollars on us every year, as pocket money, so that we can carry on behaving like hooligans? Make a note of this, Dad: Every time in history that the Jews have gone out of their minds and started navigating their way through this world with messianic charts instead of real, universal ones, millions of them have paid with their lives. Apparently we still haven’t managed to get it into the famous Jewish head that the Messiah is really our exterminating angel. That’s it in a nutshell, Baruch: the Messiah is our angel of death. So it’s perfectly OK to disagree about where we want to go; that is a legitimate subject for argument. But on one unshakeable condition: Wherever we decide to go, we must use real, universal charts, not messianic ones.’

  The old man suddenly gave a little whistle, as though in amazement at Fima’s wisdom or his own foolishness. He coughed, he groaned, he may have intended to interject a few words, but Fima was already carried away: ‘Why the hell are we all brainwashed into believing that the concept of human equality is something alien to Judaism, a flawed goyish commodity, tainted Christian pacifism, whereas the muddle-headed mishmash brewed up by some messianic rabbi, the grandfather of Gush Emunim, who has cobbled together a patchwork of scraps from Hegel, Judah Halevi, and Rabbi Loew of Prague, is suddenly considered to be the pure elixir of Judaism, straight from Mount Sinai? What is this? Sheer lunacy! “Thou shalt do no murder” is alien to Judaism, according to you, it’s untouchable? Christian pacifism. Whereas Rabbi Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, that proto-Nazi, is all of a sudden the genuine Jewish heritage! Let me tell you, Dad, Yosef Haim Brenner had more Jewishness in his little finger than all your frock-coated fossils and your psychopaths with their knitted skullcaps. One lot pisses on the state and says it’s illegitimate because the Messiah hasn’t come yet; the other lot pisses on the state and says it’s just a temporary scaffolding that we can dismantle now that the Messiah’s standing at the gate. Both groups piss on “Thou shalt do no murder” because they’ve got more important fish to fry: banning autopsies, or discovering the tomb of our ancestress Jezebel.’

  ‘Fimuchka,’ his father sighed, ‘have a heart. I’m an old Jew. All these mysteries are beyond me. I may be an anachronism – who knows? My own dear son is like a golem that has turned against its creator. Don’t be angry, my dear; I only used the word “golem” because you saw fit to mention Rabbi Loew of Prague. I liked it a lot, as a matter of fact, what you said about the universal charts. Amen, so be it. You scored a bull’s-eye there. The only problem is, maybe Your Reverence can tell us which shop you go to to buy such charts. Can you enlighten me? Will you do your father a real favour? No? Never mind. I shall tell you a deep and wonderful thing that Rabbi Loew of Prague once said as he walked past the cathedral. By the way, do you know the original meaning of “real favour”?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Fima conceded. ‘So be it, then. Fair exchange You spare me the story of Rabbi Loew and I’ll give in over those painters of yours. Send them round on Sunday morning, and that’s that.’ And to forestall his father’s reply, he hurriedly employed the words his friend had uttered earlier: ‘We’ll talk about the other things when we see each other. I really must run along.’

  He intended to chew a heartburn tablet and go down to the shopping centre to have the broken radio mended or to replace it if necessary. But suddenly there appeared before his eyes, so vividly that he could almost touch it, the image of a frail, myopic East European Jew wrapped in a prayer shawl, wandering in a dark forest, muttering biblical verses to himself, hurting his feet on the sharp stones, while softly and silently the snow fell, a night bird gave a sinister shriek, and wolves howled in the darkness.

  Fima was gripped by fear.

  The moment he put the receiver down, it occurred to him that he had not asked his father how he was. He had forgotten his intention of taking him to hospital for tests. He had even forgotten to notice whether the old man still had a whistle in his chest. He fancied he had heard a little squeak, but on second thoughts he was not certain: it might have been nothing but a slight cold. Or his father might just have been humming a high-pitched Hasidic tune. Or perhaps the noise had come from some fault in the telephone line. All systems were running down in this country and no one cared. This too was a byproduct of our obsession with the Territorie
s. The ironic truth was that, as some future historian would discover, it was really Nasser who won the 1967 war. Our victory condemned us to destruction. The messianic genie that Zionism had managed to seal in the bottle popped out the day the ram’s horn was sounded at the Wailing Wall. He laughs longest. Moreover, to pursue this line of reasoning resolutely to its bitter end, without flinching from the most unpalatable truth, perhaps the ultimate conclusion was that was really Hitler, not Nasser, who had the last laugh. When all’s said and done he continues to persecute the Jewish people ruthlessly. Everything that is happening to us now has its origin one way or another with Hitler. Now what was I going to do? Make a phone call. It was something urgent. But who to? What about? What is there left to say? I’m lost in the forest, too. Just like that old saint.

  21

  But the glow-worm had vanished

  AND because he had forgotten to lock the door when he brought the newspaper up earlier in the morning, and because he was absorbed in a futile attempt to reassemble the radio, he suddenly looked up and saw Annette Tadmor standing in front of him, in a red coat and a navy beret worn at an angle, which made her look like a French village girl. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were glowing from the cold outside. She looked childlike, meek, pure, and painfully pretty. He instantly recalled what he had done to her two days earlier and felt unclean.

  The smell of her expensive perfume, tinged perhaps with a faint hint of liquor, aroused in him a mixture of regret and desire.

  ‘I’ve been trying to ring you all morning,’ she said, ‘but the phone’s always engaged. Sorry to burst in like this. I’ll only stay a minute, really. You don’t happen to have a drop of vodka, do you? Never mind. Listen. I must have left an earring here. I was in such a muddle. You must think I’m crazy. The nice thing about you, Fima, is that I actually couldn’t care less what you think of me. As if we were brother and sister. I can hardly remember a thing of what I burbled on about. And you’re so kind, you didn’t laugh at me. You haven’t found one, have you? Silver, longish, with a little sparkling stone?’

  Fima hesitated, made up his mind, tossed aside the newspaper that was occupying the armchair, and seated Annette in its place. At once he stood her up again and worked her arms loose from the sleeves of her red coat. This morning she looked beautiful, thoughtful and very attractive. He hurried to the kitchen to put the kettle on and check if there was any of his father’s Cointreau left. On his return he said:

  ‘I dreamed about you last night. You were so lovely and glad because your husband had come back to you and you forgave him for everything. Now you’re even lovelier than you were in the dream. Navy really suits you. You ought to wear it more often. What do you say we draw a veil over what happened the day before yesterday? I’m so ashamed of myself. Your presence put me in a spin, and I seem to have behaved like the famous Tearful Rapist. I hadn’t been with a woman for over two months. Not that that’s any justification for behaving like a swine. Will you teach me how to make amends?’

  Annette said:

  ‘That’s enough. Stop it. You’re making me cry again. You’ve helped me so much, Fima; you’re such a good listener, you’ve got so much understanding and empathy. I don’t think any man in the whole world has ever listened to me the way you did. And I was so weird, so selfish, so absorbed in my own problems. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.’

  She added that she had always been a great believer in dreams. It was a fact that that very night, when Fima was dreaming of her, Yeri had really phoned from Milan. He sounded a bit low. He said he had no idea what would happen, that time would tell, and she should try not to hate him.

  ‘Time …’ Fima began, but Annette laid her hand over his mouth.

  ‘Let’s not talk. We talked enough the other night. Let’s just sit quietly for a minute or two, and then I’ll be on my way. I’ve got a million and one things to do in town. But I like being near you.’

  They were silent. Fima sat on the arm of her chair, with his own arm barely touching her shoulder, ashamed of the mess, the long-sleeved winter vest thrown over the sofa, the bottom drawer he had not closed last night, the empty coffee cups on the desk, the newspapers everywhere. He mentally cursed the stirrings of desire, and swore to himself that this time his behaviour would be above reproach.

  Annette said, thoughtfully, to herself rather than to him:

  ‘I have wronged you.’

  These words almost brought tears to his eyes. Ever since he was a child, he had felt sweetness and joy whenever a grown-up said things like that to him. He had difficulty resisting the urge to go down on his knees before her, exactly like her husband in his dream. Although, to be strictly accurate, it had not been in a dream but in his thoughts this morning. But he saw no difference.

  ‘I’ve got some good news for you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got your earring. I found it on the very armchair you’re sitting in. I’m such an idiot: when I opened my eyes this morning, in the first glimmer of dawn, I thought it was a glow-worm that had forgotten to switch itself off.’

  Emboldened, he added:

  ‘You know, I’m an extortioner. I won’t let you have it back for nothing.’

  Annette burst out laughing. She went on laughing while he leaned over her. Pulling him towards her by his hair, she kissed the tip of his nose, as though he were a baby.

  ‘Will that do? Can I have my earring back now?’

  Fima said:

  ‘That’s more than I deserve. You’ve got some change coming.’

  And to his own astonishment he suddenly clasped her knees and dragged her body down to the floor, desperately dizzy with lust, not stopping for her clothes but forcing his way blindly yet with a sleepwalker’s confidence, thrusting into her almost at once, feeling as though it was not his phallus but his whole being that was being enfolded and dissolved inside her womb. He ejaculated instantly with a roar. When he finally surfaced again, feeling drained and as weightless as a sunbeam, as if he had left his bodily mass inside her, he was horror-struck at the realisation of how he had degraded both himself and her yet again. He knew that this time he had shattered it all forever. Then Annette began slowly, tenderly stroking his head and the back of his neck, until he shuddered deliciously and his skin quivered.

  ‘The Tearful Rapist,’ she said.

  And she whispered to him:

  ‘Hush, child.’

  And again she asked if there was any vodka. For some reason Fima was afraid she might be chilly. Clumsily he attempted to rearrange her clothing. And tried to say. But once again she hastily placed her hand over his mouth, and said:

  ‘Quiet now, little chatterbox.’

  As she stood combing her beautiful hair in the mirror, she added:

  ‘I’m off now. I’ve got a million and one things to do in town. Just let me have my earring back: I’ve earned it honestly. I’ll call you this evening. We’ll go and see a film. There’s a brilliant French comedy with Jean Gabin at the Orion.’

  Fima went to the kitchen and poured what was left of the Cointreau into a glass for her. He rescued the kettle from boiling dry at the very last minute. But try as he might, he could not discover what he had done with the earring. He swore he would turn the flat upside down and return her magic glow-worm safe and sound that evening. As he escorted her to the door, he muttered abjectly that he would never forgive himself.

  Annette laughed.

  22

  ‘I feel good with you just like this’

  THEY passed on the stairs. No sooner had Annette left him than Nina Gefen appeared, with her austerely cropped greying hair, carrying a heavy shopping basket, which she deposited firmly on his desk among the papers and yogurt pots and dirty coffee cups. Roughly she lit a Nelson, not blowing the match out but shaking it. She shot twin lances of smoke from her nostrils. Fima unconsciously grinned. The turnover of his female visitors suddenly made him think of the procession of lady friends who were always trooping in and out of his father’s flat. Maybe the time had come
for him to sport a cane with a silver band?

  Nina asked:

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  Her nostrils must have picked up a whiff of scent through her cigarette smoke. Without waiting for his reply she added:

  ‘The red lady I bumped into on the stairs was also grinning like a cat that’s got the cream. Have you had a visitor by any chance?’

  Fima was on the point of denying it. Since when did he have visitors? There were eight flats in the building. But something stopped him from lying to this fragile, embittered woman who looked like a cornered vixen, this woman whom he sometimes called ‘my lover’ and whose husband he loved. He looked down and said defensively:

  ‘A patient from the clinic. Somehow we’ve become quite friendly.’

  ‘Are you opening a branch of the clinic at your home?’

  ‘It’s like this,’ Fima said, while his fingers attempted in vain to rejoin the two parts of the smashed radio. ‘Her husband’s sort of left her. She came to me for some advice.’

  ‘Broken hearts mended here,’ Nina said, meaning to sound witty but sounding close to tears instead. ‘Saint Fima, patron saint of grass widows. If it goes on like this, you’ll soon be seeing visitors by appointment only.’

  She went into the kitchen and took out of her shopping basket a bag full of sprays and cleaning materials, which she placed for the time being on the edge of the worktop. Fima had the impression that her lips, that were closed on her half-smoked cigarette, were trembling. She unpacked various provisions she had brought him, opened the door of the refrigerator, and recoiled in horror.

  ‘What a filthy mess,’ she exclaimed.

  Fima explained sheepishly that he had actually done a radical cleaning but had not had time to do the fridge.