Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

"Hey, Azariah. Tell me something. What's that book you've been reading all evening?"

"The letters. In English. It's a philosophy book."

"The letters. To whom?"

"All kinds of people. Letters that Spinoza wrote."

"Okay. Get back to it. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You're not disturbing me, Yoni. Not at all. I thought you'd dozed off."

"Who, me? Some chance. That's something I only do at work, when you're performing your miracles with the tractors. Just now I was thinking about that knight. I've got a simple solution."

"What knight?"

"Yours. The one you lost in our game yesterday after you were a rook up. She should be back soon."

"Is she at a meeting? Or is tonight choir rehearsal?"

"She's serving coffee and cake to the study group. To Stutchnik, Srulik, Yashek, and the rest of them. What does it say in that book?"

"It's about philosophy. About different ideas and points of view. As stated by Spinoza. Yoni?"

"What?"

"'A little fink.' That's what they used to call me in the army. Do you think I'm a little fink? Or a cheat? Or a jerk?"

"Come off it, Azariah! Tell me something. Don't you ever feel like just picking up and taking off for some faraway place, some strange big city like Rio de Janeiro or Shanghai where you can be all alone, a total stranger who doesn't owe anybody anything? Where you can spend whole days just walking the streets, not talking to anyone, without any plans or even a watch on your wrist?"

"In Russia they say, The man who has no other friend will be the Devil's in the end.' That's a proverb. I've had enough of being by myself, Yoni, with no one to talk to. First in the Diaspora and then here. And all the time somebody was out to kill me. Not just Hitler. Here too at first, in the immigrant camp. And the enemies I had in the army. You can never be sure. Maybe even you wish to get rid of me, though you are my big brother and though I'd go through hell and high water for you."

"What kind of hell? Just listen to that rain outside! Wouldn't you like to take off for Manila, or Bangkok, say, right now?"

"Me? No way. I want to stay safely put. Without anyone after my scalp. Even if that means making concessions to Nasser. We can afford some. What I want is to spend my life with good friends. With Jews. With my own brothers. And to play music that will make people feel good and to write down my thoughts so that they can be of some use or comfort to someone. To shape up. So that I'll finally be accepted and not just put up with as some little fink. Or as some unavoidable nuisance, because as long as I'm that, I'm still no good. If life on the kibbutz doesn't change me for the better, the best thing I could do would be go live as a hermit in the mountains, where I'd grub for mushrooms and roots and drink stream water or melted snow. And though I'm afraid to ask, she always says, 'Zaro, stay, you're no bother to me or Yoni at all.'"

"That's true. As far as I'm concerned, anyway. As a matter of fact, I get a kick out of seeing my dear parents having conniptions over you. And the whole kibbutz too. Anat, for instance, grabbed hold of me the other day and wanted to know in her sugary voice if I wasn't just a little bit jealous. 'Thank you, it's my pleasure,' I said to her. She's a little brain-damaged herself, you know. As far as I'm concerned, you can stay here until moss grows on you. You're not in my way one bit."

"Thank you. Yoni? Do you think I could ask you a personal question, as they say? Just one. You don't even have to answer it. I guess I'd better keep my mouth shut, though. The more I open it, the more hot water I get into."

"Why don't you cut out the blah-blah and just ask?"

"Yoni. Tell me. Are you… my friend? A little bit?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I haven't thought about it. Actually, you know what? Yes. Why not? Only it won't do you any good, because I'm not really living here any more. Besides, there are times when I feel like choking the two of you. I mean strangling you both slowly but surely with my own hands. Or skewering you on a bayonet, just as my brother skewered those Jordanians, which won him a medal. But okay. Let's say we're friends. Even more than that. I, for instance, intend to leave you all my clothes, except for what will go into a small suitcase. No suitcase. A knapsack. And my chess set and chess journals. And my parents at no extra charge. And my screwdrivers and my hammer and my pliers. And my rake and my pitchfork, so that when summer comes you can make her the flower beds in the garden that she likes. They're all yours. Don't mention it. Even Tia. Maybe my shaving kit too, because I feel like growing a beard. What else would you like? Just say the word. My toothbrush maybe?"

"Thanks."

"And remember that saying of yours I've heard at least a thousand times, 'He who forgets, murder abets.'

"Yoni, listen to me. I… seriously, I want you to know that I'll never disappoint you. Not ever."

"Cool it, philosopher. Stop sounding like Memorial Day and put some water on for tea. No, wait a minute. Who wants tea? Go to the third shelf over there, behind those books, and bring me that bottle of whisky Rimona won at the Hanukkah raffle. We'll have a drink before she gets back. Do you love her?"

"Look, Yoni, it's like this: I… I mean, we—"

"Forget it! I wasn't looking for an answer. On the whole, maybe it's time you shut up a little, Azariah. All day long all you do is talk. At six in the morning in the tractor shed you're already making speeches about justice with a capital J — what it is., where. it. Why don't you just drop it. You know what? I'll tell you once and for all where justice is. It quit the cabinet and the Knesset long ago. Now it's about to stop being secretary of the kibbutz. And it's already eating its heart out. Listen, what goes on between the two of you is none of my goddamn business. Because I'm clearing out of here tomorrow. You heard me. Taking off. That's it. What does it say in that English book?"

"I already told you, Yoni. It's a book of Spinoza's letters. With his ideas. All sorts of theories and hypotheses. The kind of stuff you can't stand. About God, for instance, and the nature of His being, and the errors made by human beings because of their affections. By that he means feelings and passions. Things like that."

"Just like Bolognesi. He also starts up with his God-bless'a-God-who-wipes'a-da-tears-a-da-poor. And my father, too, keeps lecturing me about the purpose of life and all that. And Udi Shneour says that all that counts is who's holding the gun. You want to know something? 1 listen to it all like a good little boy and don't understand a thing. Not one fucking thing. Just listen to that turtle scratching in his box. Not a thing. I don't even understand a simple fuel block any more. It takes an undernourished-looking runt like you to come and explain it to me, because I'm getting dumber day by day. Freaking out, as they call it now. So pour us some of that whisky and let's drink a toast — to the fink and the freak! Cheers! How about reading me from that book so I'll know what it's all about."

"But it's in English, Yoni."

"Then translate it."

"I'm in the middle of a passage. It's in a letter that's part of a debate between Spinoza and a scholar, and it's very difficult to understand what he's getting at unless you know what he means by axioms and lemmas and—"

"Knock off the bullshit and just read."

"All right. Just—"

"I said read!"

"Right. All right. Here. 'To the Right Honorable Hugo Buxhall. How hard it is for two people who adhere to different principles to agree and find common ground in a matter so bound up with other things.'"

"You can skip the introduction. Get to the point."

"I will, Yoni. It takes time to translate. Listen. 'Your view that the world was created by accident—'"