Amos Oz - Fima

From that Fima moved on to the difficulties of growing up in a time of universal cruelty and violence: every evening Dimi watches the TV news; with us, every evening murder is trivialized on the screen. He also talked about himself when he was Dimi's age: he too had been an introverted child, he too had had no mother, and his father had systematically tried to drive him insane. And he said that apparently the only emotional bond that this child had formed was with him of all people, even though Yael knew perfectly well that he had never seen himself as the fatherly type, fatherhood had always scared him to death, nevertheless he sometimes had the feeling that this had been a tragic mistake, that things could have been totally different, if only…

Yael cut him short again. She said frostily:

"Finish your coffee, Efraim. I have to go."

Fima asked where she had to go. He'd be happy to go with her. Anywhere at all. He had nothing to do this morning. They could continue their conversation. He believed it was vital and quite urgent. Or would it be better if he stayed behind and waited for her to come back, and then they could continue? He didn't mind waiting. It was Friday, his day off, the clinic was closed, and on Sunday he had the painters coming in, so the only prospect facing him at home was the depressing task of dismantling and packing. What did she think? Could she spare him Teddy for an hour or two on Saturday morning, to help take down the… Never mind. He knew this was all ridiculous and irrelevant. Could he do some ironing till she came back? Or fold the laundry? One day, some other time, he'd like to tell her about a thought that had been preoccupying him recently, an idea that he called the Third State. No, it wasn't a political idea. It was more an existential idea, if one could still say "existential" without sounding corny. "Remind me sometime. Just say 'the Third State,' and I'll remember at once and explain it to you. Though it may be stupid. It's not important right now. After all, here in Jerusalem almost every other character you see is half prophet and half prime minister. Including Tsvika Kropotkin, including Shamir himself, that Brezhnev of ours. It's less like a city than a lunatic asylum. But I didn't come here to talk about Shamir and Brezhnev. I came here to talk about Dimi. Dimi says you and Teddy call me a clown behind my back. It may surprise you to learn that your son has taken to calling himself a clown too. Doesn't that shake you a little? I don't mind being called a clown. It suits somebody whose own father sees him as a shlemiel and a shlemazel. Although he's ridiculous too. The old man, I mean. Baruch. In some ways he's even more ridiculous than me or Dimi. He's another Jerusalem prophet with his own personal formula for salvation in three easy steps. He has a story about a cantor who gets stuck alone on a desert island for the High Holy Days. It doesn't matter. By the way, recently he's taken to whistling a bit. I mean wheezing. I'm rather worried. I may just be imagining things. What do you think, Yael? Maybe you could have a chat with him sometime, get him to go to the hospital for some tests? He's always had a soft spot for you. You might be the only person who can curb his Revisionist obstinacy. Which is a good illustration of what I meant about every other Jerusalemite wanting to be the Messiah. But so what? All of us must look ridiculous to an impartial observer. Even you, Yael, with your jet engines. Who needs jet engines around here when the only thing we are really short of is compassion and common sense? And all of us, including the impartial observer, are ridiculous when viewed by the mountains. Or the desert. Wouldn't you say that Teddy is ridiculous? That walking box. Or Tsvika? Only this morning I was reading a hysterical article of his, which tries to prove scientifically that the government is cut off from reality. As if reality lives in Tsvika's little pocket. Though there's no denying the government is full of people who are pretty dense, and some of them are quite unbalanced. But how did we get onto the government? That's what always happens to us: for once, we decide to have a serious chat about ourselves, about the child, about things that really matter, and somehow the government comes barging in. Where do you have to go in such a hurry? You don't have to go anywhere. It's a lie. Friday is your day off too. You're lying to me to get rid of me. You want me to leave. You're afraid, Yael. But what are you afraid of? Of facing up to thinking about why Dimi has started calling himself a little clown?"

With her back to him, folding dish towels and putting them away one by one in a drawer, Yael replied quietly:

"Effy, once and for all: You're not Dimi's father. Now drink up and go. I have an appointment at the hairdresser's. The child which you could have had twenty-five years ago I killed because you didn't want it. So don't start now. I sometimes feel as if I've never quite waked up from that anesthetic. And now you come here to torment me. I'm telling you, if Teddy wasn't such a tolerant man, such a walking box as you call him, you'd have been thrown out of this flat a long time ago. There's nothing for you here. Especially after what you did the other night. It's hard enough here even without you. You're a difficult man, Efraim. Difficult and also boring. And I'm still not convinced you're not one of the main causes of Dimi's confusion. Slowly but surely you're driving that child mad."

After a moment she added:

"And it's hard to know if it's some ruse of yours or just idle chatter. You keep talking, talking all the time: maybe you talk so much, you've really convinced yourself that you have feelings. That you're in love. That you're partly Dimi's father. All sorts of half-baked delusions like that. Why am I talking to you about feelings, about love? You don't even know what the words mean. Once, when you read books instead of newspapers, you must have read something about love and unhappiness, and ever since then you've been all around Jerusalem preaching on the subject. I nearly said just now that you love only yourself, but even that isn't true. You don't even love yourself. You don't love anything. Except maybe winning arguments. Never mind. Get your coat on. I'm late because of you."

"Will you let me wait for you here? I'll wait patiently. Till this evening if necessary."

"Hoping that Teddy will get back before me? And find you asleep on our bed again, under my blanket?"

"I promise," Fima whispered, "that this time I'll behave myself."

And as though to prove it, he jumped up and poured his coffee into the sink. He had not touched it, although he had absent-mindedly eaten all the butter biscuits. Noticing that the sink was full of dirty dishes and pans, he rolled up one of his sleeves and turned on the tap. Eagerly he waited for the water to run hot. Even when Yael said, "You're crazy, Efraim, leave it, we'll put it all in the machine after lunch," he took no notice but started washing enthusiastically and laying the soapy dishes out on the marble drainboard. "It relaxes me," he said. "I'll be finished in a few minutes, once the water finally makes up its mind to get hot. I'll be glad to spare you the need to run the dishwasher; and the dishes will come out much cleaner; and meanwhile we can go on talking a little longer. Which is the cold water and which is the hot? Where are we supposed to be, America? Everything's topsy-turvy here. But if you've really got to go, that's fine with me. You just go, Yacl, and come back later. I'll promise to restrict myself to the kitchen. I won't wander around the flat, I won't even use the toilet. Shall I polish the silver for you? Or clean out the fridge? I'll stay right here and wait, no matter how long you're gone. Like a male Solveig. I've got this book about whale hunters in Alaska, and it talks about this custom… Never mind. Don't worry about me, Yael, I don't mind waiting all day. Instead of worrying about me, you ought to worry about Dimi. To use Ted's amusing expression, you could say that Dimi is down. To my mind, the first thing we ought to do is find a totally different social setting for him. Maybe a boarding school for gifted children? Or the other way around, tame one or two of the neighbors' kids…"