Amos Oz - Fima

Dimi's idea was to pick some greenery and flowers and decorate the altar. He even arranged a little wreath for Winston's head, as they do in nursery school when it's somebody's birthday. They tied his arms and legs together firmly, and even so he didn't stop fawning and being glad and wagging his tail all the time, as though he was happy to be the center of attention. Anyone who wasn't careful got a lick. Then they drew lots: Ninja Marmelstein had to chant the prayers, Ronen had to dig the grave, and he, Dimi, got the job of killing him. At first he tried to get out of it — he had the excuse that his sight wasn't too good — but they made fun of him, and got angry, and said a draw is a draw, stop being such a bleeding heart. So he had no choice. Only it wouldn't work. The knife was shaking in his hand and the dog kept moving all the time. Instead of cutting the throat, he cut off half an ear. The dog went mad and started to cry like a baby and bit the air. Dimi had to cut again, quickly, to stop the howling. But this time instead of the throat the knife went into something soft near the belly, because Winston wriggled and squealed and bled a lot. Yaniv said, So what? It's not so terrible; its only a smelly old Arab dog. And Ninja said, And he's got edema; he's going to die anyway. The third time Dimi struck with all his might, but he hit a rock and the knife broke in half. He was left holding just the handle. Ninja and Yaniv grabbed Winston's head and said Come on, hurry up, you dummy. Pick up the blade and cut real fast. But there wasn't enough of the blade left, and it was impossible to saw the throat; it was all slippery with the blood. And each time it cut in the wrong place. In the end everyone was covered with blood. How can it be that a dog has so much blood? Maybe it was because of the edema. Yaniv and Ninja and Ronen started running away, and the dog bit through the rope and got free, but only the front legs; the back ones stayed tied, and with shrieks, not dog shrieks, more like a woman shrieking, he dragged himself away on his belly and disappeared into the bushes, and when Dimi realized the others weren't there, he ran after them in a panic. He found them at last hiding in the garage underneath the block of flats. There was a tap there and they had managed to wash the blood off, but they didn't let him wash and they blamed him. It was all his fault Winston was not alive and not dead, cruelty to dumb animals, his fault Ronen's knife from home got broken, and they blamed him because he would tell on them, they knew him, and they started kicking him and they got some more rope, and Ninja said, Now there's an intifada going on here. Let's hang Dimi. Only Ronen was relatively fair and said to them, First just let me put his glasses somewhere so they don't get broken. That was why he didn't see who tied him and who, after they beat him, stood and peed on him. So they left him tied up down there in the car park and ran away, shouting that he had it coming to him, why did he kill Winston. He didn't tell the neighbor who was supposed to be looking after him. He just said he got dirty from the pond. If his parents found out, it would be the end of him.

"Are you going to tell them, Fima?"

Fima thought about it. All through the confession he had not stopped stroking the albino hair. As in a bad dream he felt that the dog and Dimi and he had become one. In the same psalm where it says, "Their mind is gross like fat," it also says, "My soul droops with sorrow." He declared earnestly:

"No, Dimi, I'm not going to tell."

The boy peered obliquely up at him. His rabbit's eyes through the thick lenses seemed agonized yet full of trust, as though he was trying to demonstrate what he had described earlier in the eyes of the dog. So this is what love is.

Fima shuddered as though outside, from the depths of the darkness, wind, and rain, his ears had caught an elusive echo of a howl.

He stroked the little Challenger's head and dragged him inside the chunky sweater. As though he were pregnant with him. After a moment Dimi freed himself and asked:

"But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you agree not to tell them?"

"Because it wouldn't help Winston, and you've already suffered enough."

"You're okay, Fima."

And then:

"Even though you're a rather funny man. Sometimes they call you a clown behind your back. And you really are a little like a down."

"Now, Dimi, you're going to have a glass of milk. And tell me where I can find that Valium your mother said you're to take."

"I'm a little like a clown too. But I'm not okay. I should have said no. I shouldn't have let myself be carried away by them."

"But they made you do it."

"Still, it was murder."

"You can't tell," Fima ventured. "Maybe he was only wounded."

"He lost a lot of blood. A whole sea of blood."

"Sometimes you can bleed a lot even from a scratch. Once, when I was little, I was balancing on a wall and fell off, and I bled a huge amount from a tiny little gash on my head. Granpa Baruch nearly fainted."

"I hate them."

"They're just children, Dimi. Children sometimes do very cruel things, simply because they don't have enough imagination to know what pain is."

Dimi said:

"Not the children. Them. If they could have chosen, they wouldn't have had me. And I wouldn't have chosen them either. It's not fair: you can choose who you marry but you can't choose who your parents are. And you can't divorce them cither. Fima?"

"Yes."

"Shall we take a flashlight and some bandages and iodine and go and look for him down in the wadi?"

"In this darkness and rain there isn't a hope of finding him."

"True," said Dimi. "You're right. We haven't got a hope. But let's go and search anyhow. So at least we'll know we tried and failed." As he said this, he looked to Fima like a pocket-sized edition of his self-possessed, rational father. Even his intonation was a reflection of Ted's: the quiet voice of a well-balanced, solitary man. Dimi wiped his glasses as he added: "Tslil's family are also to blame. Why did they go abroad and leave their dog behind when he was sick? They could have taken him. They could have made some arrangements for him at least. Why did they throw him out on the trash heap like that? The Cherokees have a law that you mustn't throw anything away. Even a broken pot they keep in the wigwam. Anything you've ever used you mustn't get rid of. It might still need you. They even have a sort of ten commandments, or less than ten, and die first one is, Thou shalt not throw out. I have a chest in the storeroom full of toys from when I was so high. They're always shouting at me to throw them out, who needs them, they just take up space, they're just gathering dust, but I don't agree. Throwing away is like killing,' said Snow Daughter to Whispering Wind Lake, tightening her delicate fingers round the wolfstone."

"What's that?"

"It's a story about a Cherokee girl. Whispering Wind Lake was the chief of the banished tribe."

"Tell me."

"I can't. I can't think about anything else. That dog keeps howling at me, those brown eyes so obedient, so tame, so happy to be the center of attention, and wagging his tail, and giving a warm lick to anyone who bent over him. Even when Ronen was tying his legs together, he gave Ronen a lick. And his ear came off and fell on the ground like a slice of bread. I keep hearing him crying all the time in my head, and maybe he really is still alive, dying in a puddle among the rocks in the wadi, crying and waiting for the vet. In the night God will come and kill me for it. The best thing for me is not to go to sleep at all. Or he'll kill me because I hate them and it's forbidden to hate your parents. Who told them to have me? I didn't ask for any favors. There's nothing to do around here anyway. Whatever you do turns out badly. It's all just trouble and shouting. Whatever I do, just trouble and shouting. You were married to my mother once and then you didn't want her. Or she didn't want you. Trouble and shouting. Dad says it happened because you're a little like a clown. He said it to me in English. They don't have much use for me either. What they need is to always have peace and quiet in the flat and everything to be tidy and in die right place and not to slam the door. Every time a door slams, she yells at me and Dad. Every time some pen isn't where it's supposed to be, he yells at me and Mom. Every time the top of the toothpaste isn't screwed on properly, they both yell at me. No, they don't yell; they just point out. Like this: It would be preferable if, in future… Or he says to her in English, Do something so that child doesn't get under my feet. And she says, It's your child, sir. When you were little, Fima, didn't you ever wish deep down that your parents would die? Didn't you want to be an orphan and free like Huckleberry Finn? Weren't you a little clown?"