Amos Oz - Fima

Fima ordered her another vodka without her asking, and, yielding to his hunger pangs, another plate of bread and cheese for himself. The last. In his mind he resolved to be patient and gentle. Not to pounce on her. To drop politics. To talk only about poetry and loneliness in a general sort of way. Above all, to be patient.

"I got back from Amsterdam riddled with guilt. It was hard for me to resist the urge to confess to him. But he suspected nothing. On the contrary. Over the years we have got into the habit of lying in bed sometimes, once the children arc asleep, reading magazines together. We learn how to do all sorts of things from them that we didn't know before. True, compromise and deliberation paint our lives a dull shade of brown. We don't have a lot of subjects for conversation. After all, I'm not that interested in orthopedics. But the silences never get us down. We can sit for a whole evening reading, listening to music, watching television. Sometimes we even have a drink before bedtime. Sometimes I wake up when I've been asleep only an hour, because he has trouble dozing off and is tapping absent-mindedly on the shelf at the head of our bed. I ask him to stop. He apologizes and stops and I go back to sleep and he falls asleep too. Or so I think. We remind each other to stick to our diet, because we both have a tendency to put on weight. Am I a bit fat, Efraim? Arc you sure? Meanwhile we purchase all sorts of electrical appliances for the home. We engage a helper three mornings a week. We visit his parents and mine. He goes to a medical congress in Canada without me, but invites me to join him for an orthopedic conference in Frankfurt. While we're there, we even go out one evening to see what a striptease joint is like. I was quite disgusted, but today I think I made a mistake in saying so to him. I should have kept my mouth shut. The fact is, Efraim, I'm afraid to imagine what you'll think of me if I ask you to order me another vodka. Just one more and that's it. It's so hard. And you're such a good listener. An angel. Well then, six years ago we finally moved into the house in Mevaseret. We had it built ourselves, and it turned out almost exactly like our dream, with a separate wing for the children, and a gabled attic bedroom like an Alpine chalet."

An angel with an erection like a rhinoceros, Fima thought and chuckled to himself, and once more he felt how along with the compassion there welled up inside him desire, and with the desire shame, anger, and self-mockery. And while he was thinking of rhinos, he remembered the motionlessness of the prehistoric lizard that had nodded to him that morning. And he thought about Ionesco's Rhinoceros ; and, though careful of superficial comparisons, he had to smile, because the lawyer Prag had looked more like a buffalo than a rhinoceros.

"Tell me, Annette, aren't you hungry at all? Here am I gulping down bread and cheese nonstop, and you haven't even touched your cake. Shall we take a look at the menu?"

But Annette, showing no sign of having heard, lit a fresh cigarette, and Fima passed her the ashtray, which the waiter had emptied, and the vodka he had brought her. "Coffee, perhaps?"

"No, really," said Annette. "You make me feel good. We only met yesterday, and it's as if I've found a brother."

Fima inwardly almost used her husband's favorite expression, Azoy . But he refrained and, reaching across almost unconsciously, stroked her cheek.

"Go on, Annette," he said. "You were talking about the Alps."

"I was a fool. Blind. I thought the new house was the embodiment of happiness. How excited we were to be living out of town! With the view, the peace and quiet. At the end of the day we would go out in the garden to measure how much the saplings had grown. Then in the last light we would sit on the veranda to watch the hills go dark. Almost without talking and yet as friends. Or so I thought. Like a pair of comrades-in-arms who no longer need to exchange words, if you can understand that. Now I think even that was a mistake. That by tapping on the railing of the veranda he was trying to express something in a kind of Morse code, and waiting for my reply. Sometimes he would look at me over the top of his glasses, with his chin dropped on his chest, with a slightly surprised expression, as though I was new to him, as though I had changed completely, and he would let out a low whistle. If I hadn't known him so many years, I might have imagined he had taken up wolf-whistling. Today I think I didn't begin to understand that look of his. Then our daughter is called up to the army, and a year ago our son is called up too; he was accepted for the army orchestra. The house seems empty. We generally go to bed at ten-thirty. We leave a light on so the garden won't be pitch-black at night. The two cars stand outside, silent under the carport. Except twice a week, when he docs a night shift at the hospital and I sit in front of the TV until sign-off. Recently I've taken up painting. Just for myself. Without any pretensions. Even though Yeri suggested showing my pictures to an expert in case they're worth anything. I said, whether they're worth anything or not, that's not what interests me. Yeri said, Azoy . And then it hit me. One day, it was a Saturday morning six weeks ago — if only I'd bitten my tongue and said nothing — I said to him: Yeri, if growing old is like this, then why should we worry about it? What's wrong with it? He suddenly stands up, facing Yossel Bregner's "Butterfly Eaters" on the wall — do you know it? — he gave me the print once as a birthday present. Anyway, he stands there all tense and strained, lets out a low whistle between his teeth, as if he's just noticed a line in the picture that wasn't there before, or that he's never spotted, and he says: Speak for yourself. I'm not even thinking about growing old just yet. And there's something in his voice, in the angle of his back, which seems to have stiffened and hunched, like a hyena's, and the redness of the back of his neck — I'd never noticed before how red it is — which makes me shrink into my armchair with fear. Has something happened, Yen? It's like this, he says, I'm very sorry, but I've got to get out. I can't take any more. I've just got to. You must understand. Twenty-six years now I've been dancing to your tune like a tame bear; now I feel like dancing to my own tune for a change. I've already rented a small flat. It's all fixed up. Apart from my clothes and books, and the dog, I won't take anything with me. You must understand: I have no choice. I've had it up to here with lying. Then he turns and goes into his study, and he comes back carrying two suitcases — he must have packed them in the night — and he heads for the front door. But what have I done, Yen? You must understand, he says, it's not you, it's her. She can't stand the lies anymore. She can't stand seeing me being used as your doormat. And I can't live without her. I would suggest, he says from the doorway, that you try not to be difficult, Annette. Don't make any scenes. It'll be easier for the children that way. Just imagine I've been killed. You must understand, I'm suffocating. With that, he taps lightly on the doorjamb, whistles to the dog, starts the Peugeot, and disappears. The whole thing has taken maybe a quarter of an hour. Next day when he called, I hung up. Two days after that he called again; I wanted to hang up again but I didn't have the strength. Instead I pleaded with him, Come back and I promise to be better. Just tell me what I did wrong, and I won't do it again. And he kept repeating, in his doctor's voice, as though I were a hysterical woman patient, You must understand, it's all over. I'm not crying because I'm angry, Efraim. I'm crying because I fed insulted, humiliated. Two weeks ago he sends me this little lawyer, incredibly polite; apparently he's of Persian origin. He sits bolt upright in Yeri's chair, and I'm almost surprised he doesn't tap on the arm or whistle at me through his teeth, and he starts to explain: Look here, madam, you will get at least twice as much from him as any rabbinic or civil court would dream of giving you. If I were you, I'd jump at our offer, because the plain truth, madam, is that in my whole professional life I've never before encountered someone who is prepared to offer the entirety of the joint possessions right away, as an opening position. Excluding the Peugeot and the bungalow in Eilat, of course. But all the rest is yours, despite all that he's had to put up with from you. If he went to court, he could claim mental cruelty and get the lot. I hardly heard what he was saying; I begged that ape just to tell me where my husband was, just to let me sec him, at least to let me have his phone number. But he started explaining to me why at the present juncture it would be preferable not to, for the benefit of all the parties concerned, and that in any case my husband and his friend were leaving for Italy the same evening and they'd be away for two months. Just one more vodka, Efraim. I won't drink any more. Promise. I'm even out of cigarettes. I'm crying about you now, not him, because I'm remembering how wonderful you were to me at the clinic yesterday. Now just tell me to calm down, please, explain to me that things like this must happen in Israel at the rate of one every nine minutes or something like that. Don't take any notice of my crying. I actually feel better. Ever since I got home from the clinic yesterday, I haven't stopped asking myself the same question: Will he phone or won't he? I had a feeling you would, but I was afraid to hope. Aren't you divorced too? Didn't you tell me you'd been married twice? Why did you give them the push? D'you want to tell me?"