"Why not?"
"Do you believe Granpa can hear us right now?"
"There isn't that much to hear."
"But can he?"
"Why not?"
"And can we hear him?"
"In our minds, yes."
"Are you sad?"
"Yes. Both of us. But it's not good-bye. You can go on loving."
"So—we shouldn't be afraid of dying?"
"No, that isn't possible."
"Tell me something, Dimi. Have you had any supper tonight?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Then give me your hand."
"What for?"
"Nothing. Just to feel."
"Feel what?"
"Nothing special."
"Stop it, Fima. Go back to your friends."
At this point their conversation was interrupted, because Dr. Wahrhaftig burst into the room, red-faced, panting, and ranting, as if he had come to put a stop to some scandal rather than offer his condolences. Fima was unable to conceal his smile when he noticed for the first time a resemblance between Wahrhaftig and the Ben Gurion who bellowed at his father in Rashbam Street forty years before. Tamar Greenwich arrived with the doctor, nervous, rather weepy, full of good intentions. Fima turned toward them, patiently accepted the handshake and the hug, but did not catch what they were saying to him. For some reason his lips muttered vacantly:
"Never mind. No harm done. These things happen."
Apparently they too failed to catch what was said. They were quickly given a glass of tea.
At half past eight, seated again in his father's armchair, with his legs comfortably crossed, Fima pushed away the yogurt and the roll with pickled herring that Teddy had placed in front of him. He removed the arm that Uri put around his shoulder. And he declined Shula's offer of a blanket for his lap. He suddenly handed back to Nina the brown envelope he had removed from her attaché case earlier and told her to start reading the will aloud.
"Now?"
"Now."
"Even though usually..."
"Even though usually."
"But Fima..."
"Now, please."
After a hesitation and an exchange of rapid glances with Tsvi and Yael and Uri, Nina decided to comply. She drew two closely typed sheets of paper from the envelope. In the silence that had fallen she started to read, at first with some embarrassment and then in her professional voice, which was calm and detached.
First came detailed, punctilious instructions concerning the conduct of the funeral and the memorial service and the tombstone. Then came the substance. Boris Baruch Nomberg bequeathed two hundred and forty thousand United States dollars to be divided in unequal parts among the sixteen foundations, organizations, associations, and committees that were listed in alphabetical order, each name accompanied by the relevant sum of money. At the head of the list came the Association for the Promotion of Religious Pluralism and at the bottom the Zeal for Torah Orthodox School. After this last item and the signatures of the deceased, the notary, and the witnesses, came the following lines:
"With the exception of the property in Reines Street, Tel Aviv, mentioned in the annex, I hereby bequeath and leave all my belongings to my only son, Efraim Nomberg Nisan, who is adept at distinguishing good from evil, with the hope that henceforth he will not be content merely to distinguish but will devote his strength and excellent talents to doing what is good and refraining so far as possible from evil."
Above the signatures came another line in a bold hand: "Signed, sealed, and delivered, the testator being of sound mind, here in Jerusalem capital of Israel, in the month of Marheshvan 5749 corresponding to 1988 of the civil era, the fortieth year of the uncompleted renewal of the sovereignty of Israel."
From the annex it emerged that the property in Reines Street, Tel Aviv, which Fima had never heard of before, was a modest block of flats. The old man left it "to my beloved grandchild, the delight of my soul, Israel Dimitri, son of Theodore and Yael Tobias, to be held in trust for him until he reaches his eighteenth birthday by my dear daughter-in-law Mrs. Yael Nomberg Nisan Tobias née Levin, who shall enjoy the usufruct thereof, the capital to be reserved for my grandson."
It further transpired from the annex that henceforward Fima would be the sole proprietor of a medium-sized but solid and profitable cosmetics factory. He would also own the flat in which he had been born and brought up and in which both his parents had passed away at an interval of more than forty years. It was a large third-floor flat with five spacious rooms and deep-silled windows, in a quiet, prosperous neighborhood, lavishly furnished in a solid, old-fashioned Central European style. He also received various stocks and bonds, a building plot in Talpiyot, declared and concealed bank accounts in several banks in Israel and Belgium, a safe-deposit box containing cash and valuables, including his mother's jewelry of gold and silver set with precious stones. He also inherited a library of several thousand volumes, including a set of the Talmud and other sacred texts bound in morocco, a collection of Midrashic works, some of which were rare, besides hundreds of novels in Russian, Czech, German, and Hebrew, and two shelves of chemistry books in the same languages, and the poems of Uri Zvi Greenberg, including some very rare editions, biblical studies by Dr. Israel Eldad, the works of Graetz, Dubnow, Klausner, Kaufman, and Urbach, and a cabinet of old erotica in German and Czech which Fima could not read. Furthermore he was henceforth the owner of collections of stamps and old coins, nine winter suits and six summer ones, some twenty-five ties of a conservative, rather old-fashioned style, and an attractive walking stick with a silver band.
Fima did not ask himself what he would do with all these things, but he pondered on what someone like himself understood of the manufacture and sale of cosmetics. And since the Hebrew language does not tolerate such constructions, he corrected himself mentally: the manufacture of cosmetics and their sale.
And suddenly he said to himself:
"It doesn't tolerate? So let it not tolerate!"
At ten o'clock, after he had conducted Dimi to a bedroom and told him a short adventure story about the Argonauts and the Golden Fleece, he sent all his friends home. He dismissed all their entreaties and protests. No, thank you very much, there was no need for anyone to stay the night. No, thank you very much, he did not want to be driven to his flat in Kiryat Yovel either. Nor did he have any desire to stay with any of them. He would spend the night here. He wanted to be alone. Yes. Absolutely. Thank you. No. Absolutely. No need. Kind of you to offer anyway. You're all wonderful people.
When he was left alone, he was tempted to open a window to let in some fresh air. On second thought he decided not to, but instead to close his eyes for a while and try to discover the precise composition of the strange smell of this flat. A smell of doom. Although there was no apparent connection between the smell and the sad event that had taken place here earlier in the day. The flat had always been kept spotlessly clean and tidy. At least outwardly. Both before and after his mother's death. Twice a week a home helper came to polish everything, the candlesticks, the brass lamps, the silver goblets that were used for religious rituals. His father had taken a cold shower every morning, summer and winter. And the flat had been redecorated regularly every five years.
So what was the source of the smell?
Since he had stopped living here after his military service, his nostrils had recoiled from it every time he came back to visit the old man. It was a faint whiff of something malodorous, half hidden always behind other scents. Was it a trash can that needed emptying? Dirty laundry lingering too long in the basket in the bathroom? Some defect in the plumbing? Mothballs in the wardrobes? Faint cooking odors of thick, oversweet Eastern European food? Fruit that had sat too long in the fruit bowl? Water in vases that had not been changed although the flowers were changed regularly twice a week? Behind the elegance and tidiness there was always a sourness hovering, minimal and latent admittedly, but persistent, like mold. Was it an uneradicable relic of the opaque, glassy polite
ness that had spread and frozen here between his father and his mother, and not ceased even with her death? Was there any chance that now it would evaporate?
One would think, Fima mused ironically, that in your own flat in Kiryat Yovel the air is perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, you with your Trotskyite kitchen and your bottle of worms on the balcony and your decrepit lavatory.
He stood up and opened a window. After a moment he closed it again. Not because of the cold but because he felt sorry to lose this doom-laden smell, which he would probably never be able to recall once he allowed it to disperse. Let it stay a few more days. The future was just beginning. Yet it would have been nice to sit in the kitchen now, over a glass of steaming Russian tea, and argue with the old man late into the night. Without mockery or levity. Like a pair of intimate adversaries. Far from Hasidic tales and all the casuistry, the witticisms, the anecdotes, the clever wordplay. Not provoking the old man, not annoying him with impieties. No, with real affection. Like a pair of surveyors representing two countries in a dispute but themselves working together with amicable professionalism on the precise demarcation of the border. As one man to another. Sorting out at last what has been from what is from what is over and done with, and what might still be possible here if we only devote ourselves to it with all our strength.
But what is it that he must sort out with his father? What is the border that needs demarcation? What does he need to prove to the old man? Or to Yael? Or to Dimi? What docs he need to say that is not a quotation, or a paradox, or a refutation, or a clever wisecrack?
The inheritance neither weighed him down nor lifted him up. True, he knew nothing about cosmetics, but the fact was he had no real understanding of anything. There might even be a certain advantage in that, although Fima could not be bothered at this moment to try to think what it as. Moreover, he had no needs. Apart from the most simple, basic needs: food, warmth, and shelter. He had no desires, either, except perhaps a vague desire to appease everybody, to heal disputes, to sow some peace here and there. How could he do that? How docs one bring about a change of heart? Soon he would have to meet the employees of the business, find out about their working conditions, sec what could be improved.
The upshot was that he needed to learn. And learning was one thing he did know about. So he would learn. Gradually.
He would make a start tomorrow. Although in fact tomorrow was already here: it was past midnight.
He pondered whether to get into his father's bed and sleep there, fully dressed. After a moment he decided that it was a pity to waste this unique night. He ought to explore the flat. Discover its secrets. Start to acquire a preliminary orientation in the ways of the new realm.
Fima prowled until three o'clock in the morning, opening wardrobes, exploring the recesses of the heavy black highboy, peering into every drawer, prying under mattresses and among pillows and in the heap of his father's white shirts waiting to be ironed. Stroking the brocade upholstery. Fingering and weighing the silver candlesticks and goblets. Running his hand over the polished surface of the old-fashioned furniture. Comparing tea trays. Finding under a muslin cover a silent Singer sewing machine and extracting a single hollow note from the gleaming Bechstein piano. Selecting a cut-glass goblet and pouring himself some French Cognac, raising his glass toward the six vases of tali gladioli. Undressing with a rustle of cellophane a magnificent box of Swiss chocolates and tasting the exquisite contents. Tickling the crystal chandeliers with a peacock's feather he found on the desk. Very cautiously extracting delicate little ringing sounds from the fine Rosenthal china. Riffling through the piles of embroidered napkins, faintly scented handkerchiefs, lace and woollen shawls, the array of kid gloves, and the selection of umbrellas, among which he discovered an ancient blue silk parasol, and combing through the records of Italian opera that his father had enjoyed playing for himself at full volume on the old gramophone, joining the singers with his cantorial tenor, sometimes in the company of one or two of his lady friends, who all threw him rapturous glances while sipping their tea with the little finger hooked. He drew snowy table napkins out of their gilded rings engraved with stars of David and the word "Zion" in Hebrew and Roman characters. He examined the paintings on the walls of the salon, one of which featured a handsome Gypsy with a dancing bear that seemed to be smiling. He patted the bronze busts of Herzl and Vladimir Jabotinsky and asked them politely how they were feeling this evening, then poured himself another Cognac and helped himself to another chocolate and discovered in an out-of-the-way drawer a collection of silver snuffboxes studded with pearls and semiprecious stones, and among them he caught sight of the tortoiseshell comb that his mother used to put in her blond hair at the nape of her neck. But the blue knit baby's bonnet with the woolly bobble was nowhere to be found. The bathtub stood on brass lion's paws, and on the ledge behind it he found foreign packages of bath salts and oils, beauty creams, medicines, and mysterious ointments. He was surprised to find, hanging up, a pair of antiquated silk stockings with a seam at the back, the sight of which stirred a faint pulse in his loins. In the kitchen he made a mental note of the contents of the refrigerator and the breadbox. Then he returned to the bedroom, where he sniffed at the silk underwear meticulously folded away on the shelves. Fima saw himself for a moment as a relentlessly systematic detective studying the scene of the crime inch by inch in search of the one and only clue, which was minute but crucial. But what clue? What crime? He did not bother to ponder this, because his spirits were rising by the minute. All these years he had ached to find a place where he could feel at home and he had never managed to, either in his own flat, at the gynecology clinic, at his friends', in his city, his country, or his time. Maybe because it was a self-defeating wish from the start. Beyond his reach. Beyond everybody's reach. Tonight too, among all these exciting objects that insisted on concealing from him the thing that really mattered, this wish still seemed beyond his reach, and he said to himself:
"Right. Exile."
And he added:
"So what?"
Shakespeare's King Richard vainly offered his kingdom for a horse. Whereas Efraim Nisan, close to three in the morning, was ready to exchange the whole of his legacy for one day, one hour of total inner freedom and of feeling at home. Although he had a suspicion that there was a tension and perhaps even a contradiction between the two, which could not be resolved even by Yoezer and his happy friends who would be living here in a hundred years.
At five in the morning he fell asleep fully dressed, and he slept till eleven. Even then he did not wake of his own accord: his friends had returned to sit with him and cushion his grief. The women had brought pots of stew, and they and the men tried their best to surround the orphaned Fima with love and kindness, warmth and affection. Again and again they tried to draw him into political discussions which Fima did not wish to join, but he condescended to contribute an occasional smile or a nod of the head. On the other hand, he called Dimi and was delighted to learn that Dimi was interested in the collections of stamps and coins, provided he could be partners with Fima. Fima said nothing about the hundreds of tin soldiers from his childhood, which he had found in a drawer. They would be a surprise for his Challenger.
On Saturday evening, at the end of the Sabbath, Fima suddenly put on his father's winter overcoat and, leaving his friends to keep up the mourning, went out to get some air, promising to be back in a quarter of an hour.
Next morning at eight he intended to visit the offices of the cosmetics factory in the Romema Industrial Zone. The funeral was set for three P.M., and in this way he could put himself in the picture beforehand. Put this evening he could surely be allowed to take one last aimless stroll.
The sky was dark and clear, and the stars went out of their way to attract his attention. As if the Third State was self-evident. Intoxicated by the Jerusalem night air, Fima forgot his promise. Instead of returning to his friends after his stroll, he chose to ignore the protocol of mourning and take a short break. Why not go, at l
ong last, alone, to see the early showing of that comedy film with Jean Gabin, about which he had heard only good reports ? He queued patiently for twenty minutes, bought a ticket, and, entering the cinema shortly after the beginning of the film, sat down in one of the back rows, which were almost empty. But after a few moments' confusion he realized that the Jean Gabin film had ended its run and a new film was showing, starting this evening. So he decided to leave the cinema and check what was new in the pretty, old lanes of Nahalat Shiva, which he had loved since he was a child and which he had walked with Chili a few nights previously. Because he was tired, and perhaps also because his heart was light and clear, he continued sitting in the cinema, huddled in his father's overcoat, staring at the screen and asking himself why on earth the characters in the film kept inflicting all sorts of agonies and indignities on each other. What was it that kept them from taking pity on each other occasionally? It would not be difficult for him to explain to the heroes, if they would only listen for a moment, that if they wanted to feel at home, they ought to leave each other alone, and themselves too. And try to be good. At least as far as possible. At least as long as eyes can see and ears can hear, even in the face of mounting tiredness.
Be good, but in what sense?
The question seemed like sophistry. Because everything was really so simple. Effortlessly he followed the story. Until his eyes closed and he fell asleep in his seat.
Amos Oz, Fima
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