Amos Oz - Fima

"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 Bible 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.