Fima

  Sitra de-itkasia: the concealed side.

  He continued walking slowly. The Terra Sanaa Building stood in total darkness. In Paris Square he stood for a few minutes waiting for the traffic lights to change, then shuffled down King George Street toward the center of town. He paid no attention to the cold that pierced him through his overcoat, nor to the waterlogged old cap on his head, nor to the few passersby, all walking fast, some perhaps eyeing askance this strange, muffled figure plodding wearily and apparently absorbed in a violent argument with himself, accompanied by gesticulations and mouthings.

  It was very bad that he had forgotten to take precautions that morning. What if he got Annette Tadmor pregnant? He'd have to jump aboard a tramp steamer again and run away. To Greece. To Nineveh. To Alaska. Or to the Galapagos Islands. In the dimness of Annette's womb, in a dark labyrinth of moist tunnels, his blind seed was now forcing its way with ridiculous tail-movements, jerking to and fro in the warm liquid, a sort of round, bald Fima-head, possibly wearing a microscopic wet cloth cap, ageless, brainless, sightless, and yearning out of the depths for the hidden source of warmth, nothing but a head and a tail and the urge to thrust and nestle, to ram the crust of the ovum, in every respect resembling its father, who longed to cocoon himself once and for all deep in the feminine slime and there snuggle up cosily and fall asleep. Fima was filled with worry but also a strange jealousy of his own seed. Under a yellow streetlight in front of the Yeshurun Synagogue he stopped and peered at his watch. He could still catch the second showing at the Orion. Jean Gabin certainly wouldn't let him down. But where exactly was he supposed to pick Annette up? Or was it Nina? Or where were they supposed to pick him up? It looked as if this evening he was doomed to let Jean Gabin down. A boy and girl, young and noisy, passed him as he shuffled slowly past Beit Hama'alot, near the old parliament building. The boy said:

  "All right, so let's both give in."

  And the girl:

  "It's too late now. It won't make any difference."

  Fima quickened his pace, hoping to steal some more snatches of their conversation. For some reason he needed to know what sort of concessions they were talking about and what it was that would make no difference now. Had they also forgotten to take precautions this evening? But suddenly the boy wheeled around furiously, leaped to the curb, and waved his arm. At once a taxi stopped, and the boy bent over and started to get in without so much as a glance at his partner. Fima realized immediately that in another moment or two this girl would be left abandoned in the middle of the wet street, and he already had some opening words ready on the tip of his tongue, cautiously encouraging words that would not alarm her, a sad, wise sentence that would make her smile through her tears. But he did not get the chance.

  The girl called out:

  "Come back, Yoav. I give in."

  And the boy, not even troubling to close the door of the taxi behind him, rushed back and threw his arms around her waist, whispering something that made them both laugh. The driver hurled an oath after him, and Fima, without asking himself why, decided on the spot that his duty was to set matters to rights for the driver. So he got into the taxi, closed the door, and said:

  "Sorry about the mix-up. Kiryat Yovel, please."

  The driver, a thickset man with greasy silver hair, small eyes, and a trim Latin mustache, grumbled irritably:

  "What's going on here? First you hail a cab, then you can't make up your mind? Don't you people know what you want?"

  Fima realized that the driver took him to be with the couple. He muttered apologetically:

  "What's the problem. It took us half a minute to decide. We had a difference of opinion. There's nothing for you to get excited about."

  He resolved to initiate another political discussion, only this time he would not put up in silence with bloodthirsty savagery, but employ clear, straightforward arguments and irresistible logic. He was all ready to resume the sermon he had begun to deliver earlier to the prime minister, but when he began to feel his way cautiously, like a dentist probing to find the source of a pain, to see what the driver felt about the question of the Territories and peace, the man interrupted amicably:

  "Just drop it, will you, sir? Me, my views just get people worked up. They start listening to me and they head straight for a breakdown. That's the reason I stopped having discussions long ago. So hang onto your temper. If I was in charge of this country, I'd have it back on its feet in three months. But the Israeli people have given up thinking with their brains. They think only with their bellies. And their balls. So why should I waste my health for nothing? Every time I get in a discussion, it just burns up the nerves. It's hopeless. It's mob rule here. Worse than the Arabs."

  Fima said:

  "What if I promise not to get worked up, and not to get you worked up? We can always agree to differ."

  "Okay then," said the driver, "only just remember you asked for it. Well, for me it's like this: For a real peace, so called, with assurances and guarantees and safeguards, for a peace like that I'd personally give them all the Territories except the Western Wall, and I'd even say thank you to them for taking Ramallah and Gaza off my back. Ever since that shit landed on us in 'sixty-seven, the state's been going to the dogs. They've made a right mess of us. Well, how about it? Am I getting on your nerves? Are you going to start farting the Bible at me?"

  Fima had difficulty containing his feelings:

  "And how, may I ask, did you arrive at this conclusion?"

  "In the end," said the driver wearily, "everybody will. Maybe only after we lose another few thousand lives. There's no other way, sir. The Arab is not going to evaporate, and neither are we, and we're about as capable of living together as a cat and a mouse. That's real life, and it's also just. It's written in the Torah: if two customers arc holding onto a tallith and they're both shouting that it's theirs, then you take a pair of scissors and you cut it in half. That's what Moses himself decided, and he was no idiot. Better to cut the tallith than to keep cutting babies. Which street did you say?"

  Fima said:

  "Well done!"

  And the driver:

  "What do you mean, well done? What do you mean by that? What do you take me for, a cat that's learned to fly? If you happened to be of the same opinion, I wouldn't say well done to you just for that. What I will say to you, and listen hard, is there's only one man in this country who's strong enough to cut the tallith in half without getting cut in half himself, and that's Arik Sharon. Nobody else can do it. They'll take it from him."

  "Despite the fact that he has blood on his hands?"

  "Not despite: because. First of all, he's not the one with the bloody hands; it's the whole state. You and me too. Don't go pinning it all on him. Besides which, I don't have a weeping conscience over the bloodshed. Sorrow, yes, but not shame. That's for the Arabs, not us. It's not as if we wanted to shed blood. The Arabs forced us to. From the word go. On our side we never wanted to start the violence. Even Menahem Begin, a proud patriot if ever there was one. The moment Sadat came along to the Knesset to say sorry, he gave him what he wanted, just so long as the bloodshed stopped. If Arafat came along to the Knesset to say sorry, he'd get something too. So? Let Arik go and strike a deal, gangster to gangster. What do you think, that some bleeding heart Yossi Sarid or other is going to do business with that scum Arafat? Yossi Sarid, the Arabs would make mincemeat out of him, and then someone from our side would give him a bellyful of lead, and that would be the end of that. Best let Arik do the cutting. Any time you've got to do business with a ravenous beast, hire a hunter to do the job, not a belly dancer. Is this your block?"

  When Fima saw that he didn't have enough money to pay the fare, he offered to hand over his identity card or to borrow a few shekels from a neighbor, if the driver didn't mind waking a few minutes. But the other said:

  "Forget it. It's not the end of the world. Tomorrow or the day after come and leave eight shekels at Eliyahu Taxis. Just say it's for Tsiyon. You're not from the Bib
le League, by any chance, are you? Or something like that?"

  "No," said Fima. "Why?"

  "I had a feeling I've seen you on TV. Must be someone who looks like you. Spoke nice, too. Just a minute, sir: you left your hat behind. Where did you win that thing? What is it, a leftover from the Holocaust?"

  Fima walked past his mailbox without stopping, even though he could see there was something in it. He made a detour around the rolled-up mattress. When he reached the light of the staircase and pulled out his key, a ten-shekel note folded into a small square fell out too. He ran back, hoping to catch the taxi driver before he finished turning around at the end of the road. The driver grinned in the dark.

  "So what's the hurry? Afraid I'm leaving the country? That I'll be gone tomorrow morning? Let the scum leave; I'm staying to the end of the show. I want to see how it finishes. Good night, sir. Don't eat your heart out."

  Fima decided to have that man in his cabinet. He would relieve Tsvi of the Information portfolio and give it to the driver. And because the driver had said "the end of the show," he suddenly remembered that Annette was probably waiting for him to call her at home. Unless she was waiting outside the cinema. Or unless it was Nina waiting. But hadn't he promised Nina he'd pick her up at the office? Or was that with Tamar? Fima was disgusted at the thought that he was going to have to get bogged down in lies and excuses yet again. He ought to call and explain. Tactfully untie the knot. Apologize to Nina and hurry out to meet Annette. Or vice versa.

  But what if it turned out he had only made a date with one of them after all, and when he started to lie his way out of it on the phone, he got deeper and deeper in the mud, and only succeeded in making a fool of himself? And what if at this very moment they were both standing in the foyer of the cinema waiting for him, not recognizing each other, little dreaming that it was the same idiot who had let them both down?

  To hell with lies. From now on he would start a new chapter. From now on he would live his life in the open, rationally and honestly. How had the taxi driver put it: no "weeping conscience." There was no reason whatever to hide his lovers from one another. If they're both fond of me, why shouldn't they be fond of each other? They'll almost certainly make friends at once, they can cheer each other up. They have so many things in common, after all. They are both compassionate, goodhearted, generous human beings. They both seem to relish my helplessness. By coincidence, if it really is a coincidence, both their husbands arc living it up in Italy at this moment. Who knows? Perhaps the husbands have met. Perhaps at this very minute Yeri Tadmor and Uri Gefen are sitting in a lively group of Israelis and foreigners in the same café in Rome, swapping juicy stories about love and despair. Or discussing the future of the Middle East, with Uri using arguments he's borrowed from me. Whereas my role in this situational farce that comes straight out of Stefan Zweig or Somerset Maugham is to bring together the two abandoned wives, who are about to come together this evening in friendship, solidarity, even a measure of intimacy, because they both wish me well.

  In his mind's eye he saw himself sitting in the darkness of the cinema, with Jean Gabin becoming embroiled with a gang of ruthless killers while he himself had his left arm around Annette and slid the fingers of his right hand down over Nina's breasts. Giving a plausible imitation of a discount Uri Gefen. After the film he would invite them both to the little restaurant behind Zion Square. Sparkling and relaxed, he would regale them with spicy anecdotes and intellectual fireworks, shedding dazzling new light on old questions. When he excused himself for a moment to go to the lavatory, the two women would converse together in animated whispers. Comparing notes about his living conditions. Dividing up the tasks, establishing a kind of work schedule for the Fimacare service.

  These fantasies caressed him deliciously. Ever since his childhood he had loved to feel that there were grownups, responsible people, who discussed in his absence how to do the best for him, waiting till he was asleep before talking about the arrangements for his birthday, switching to Russian to discuss what present to surprise him with. If he summoned up the courage at the end of the evening at the restaurant to suggest to Annette and Nina that they come to his place and spend the night together, there might be some momentary embarrassment but in the end he would not be refused. He had learned from Uri that such combinations hypnotized the female imagination too. And so at last he could look forward to an exciting Greek night. He would be rejuvenated. A new billy-goat year would begin.

  For a few moments he mulled over the details in his mind, casting the characters and directing die scenes. Then he grabbed the receiver and dialed Nina's office. When the telephone made no sound, he tried Annette. Once again the response was total silence. He called both numbers alternately five or six times, to no avail. All the systems in this country are breaking down. The lines of communication are congested, the hospitals are paralyzed, the electricity supply is unreliable, the universities are going bankrupt, factories are closing down one after another, education and research are sinking to the level of India's, public services are collapsing, and all because of this obsession with the Territories, which is gradually ruining us. How did the taxi driver put it: "Ever since that shit landed on us in 'sixty-seven, the state's been going to the dogs." Fima waved the telephone in the air, banged it on the table, shook it, ratded it, pleaded with it, swore at it, bashed it, and thumped it, but nothing helped. Then it occurred to him that he had only himself to blame. How many times had he ignored the printed notices he had found in his mailbox about the nonpayment of his bill. Now they had got their own back. They had cut him off from the world. Like a cantor on a desert island.

  Cunningly he tried to dial again, very slowly and gently, like a burglar, like a lover. He could not remember if the emergency number for such eventualities was one four, one eight, or simply one hundred. He was ready and willing to settle his debt this very minute, to apologize in person or in writing, to give a lecture to the telephone workers on Christian mysticism, to pay a fine or a bribe, anything so long as they came at once to bring his telephone back to life. First thing in the morning he would go straight to the bank. Or was it the post office? He would pay his bill and be rescued from the desert island. But tomorrow, Fima remembered, was Friday, and all public offices were closed. Perhaps he should call his father and ask him to use his connections. Next week his father was turning his painters and plasterers loose on him. Maybe he should run away to Cyprus? Or the Galapagos Islands? Or at least to that guest house in Magdiel?

  He changed his mind. He saw the situation in a fresh light. Immediately he felt better. Fate must have intervened to save him from Jean Gabin and the orgy. The words "desert island" filled him with joy. It would be wonderful to spend a quiet evening at home. Outside, the storm could ratde the windows to its heart's content: he would light the kerosene heater, sit down in the armchair, and try to get a little closer to the other Fima, the real one, instead of wearing himself out with diplomatic efforts to mollify two offended women and then exhausting himself all night to satisfy their appetites. He was particularly delighted that he was relieved, as though by the wave of a magic wand, of the obligation to put his coat and cap on again and go out into the empty, freezing, rain-lashed city. Had he really decided to act like Uri Gefen? To step into his father's shoes? To start leaping around like a billy-goat again, a shabby, mangy old bear like him? First let's see you piss once without stuttering.

  Instead of playing the fool, better to sit down now at the desk, switch on the lamp, and compose a devastating reply to Gunter Grass's speech. Or a letter to Yitzhak Rabin. Or write that article on the heart of Christendom. And for once he'd be able to watch the nine o'clock news without interruption. Or fall asleep in front of the television in the middle of a brainless melodrama. Or, better still, curl up in bed with the book he had borrowed from Ted, study the life of the whalers in Alaska, imagine the simplicity of primitive nomads, enjoy the strange sexual habits of the Eskimos. The custom of handing over a ripe widow to the adol
escent boys as part of their initiation rites suddenly caused a delicious pulsing in his loins. And tomorrow morning he would explain everything to his lovers, who would surely forgive him: after all, it was more or less a case of force majeure. Besides the sense of relief and the message in his loins, he also felt hungry. He had eaten nothing all evening. So he went to the kitchen, and without even sitting gulped down five thick slices of bread and jam, devoured two tomatoes whole without bothering to slice them, ate a jar of yogurt, swallowed two glasses of tea with honey, and rounded the whole off with a heartburn tablet. To encourage his hesitant bladder he flushed the toilet in the middle, lost the race, and had to wait for the cistern to refill. But he got bored waiting, and went around the flat turning the lights off, then stood at the window to examine what was new in the empty fields stretching away to Bethlehem: perhaps there was already some sign of a distant radiance. He took pleasure in the rattling of the windowpanes under the onslaught of the sharp black wind.

  Here and there on the dark slopes a pale gleam shimmered: Arab stone cottages scattered among orchards and boulders. The shadows of the hills deluded him, as though they were exchanging elusive caresses that were not of this world. Once upon a time kings and prophets, saviors, world reformers, madmen who heard voices, zealots, ascetics, and dreamers walked around Jerusalem. And one day in the future, in a hundred years or more, new men, totally different from us, would be living here. Earnest, self-contained people. No doubt they would find all our troubles weird, unintelligible, perplexing. Meanwhile, and for the time being, between the past and the future, we have been sent to inhabit Jerusalem. The city has been entrusted to our stewardship. And we fill it with oppression, foolishness, and injustice. We inflict humiliation, frustration, torture on each other, not out of arrogance but merely from laziness and fear. We pursue good and cause evil. We seek to comfort and instead we wound. We aim to increase knowledge, and instead we increase pain.