"No, ma'am. I'm just a clerk. Would you rather have a glass of water? There's some mineral water in the fridge."
"What's it like, working in a place like this for such a long time? What sort of a job is it for a man? Don't you develop an aversion to women? A physical aversion even?"
"I don't think so. Anyway, I can only speak for myself."
"So what about you? You don't have an aversion to women?"
"No, Mrs. Tadmor. If anything, the opposite."
"Oh! What's the opposite of an aversion?"
"Sympathy, perhaps? Curiosity? It's hard to explain."
"Why aren't you looking at me?"
"I don't like to cause embarrassment. There, the water's boiling. What's it to be, then? Coffee?"
"Embarrassment to yourself or to me?"
"Hard to say exactly. Maybe both. I'm not sure."
"Do you happen to have a name?"
"My name is Fima. Efraim."
"I'm Annette. Are you married?"
"I have been married, ma'am. Twice. Nearly three times."
"And I'm just getting divorced. To be more accurate, I am being divorced. Are you too shy to look at me? Afraid of being disappointed? Or maybe you just want to make sure you never have to hesitate whether to say hello to me if we meet in the street?"
"Sugar and milk, Mrs. Tadmor? Annette?"
"It would actually suit you, to be a gynecologist. Better than it suits that ridiculous old man who can't stick a rubber-gloved finger into me without trying to distract my attention with some joke about the Emperor Franz Joseph's deciding to punish God. May I use the phone?"
"Of course. I'll be back there, in the records room. When you've finished, just call me so we can make you another appointment. Do you need one?"
"Fima Efraim. Please. Look at me. Don't be afraid. I'm not going to cast a spell on you. Once, when I was beautiful, men used to fall for me like flies; now, even the assistant in the clinic won't look at me."
Fima looked up. And at once recoiled, because the combination of anguish and sarcasm he saw on her face made him throb with desire. He lowered his eyes to his papers and said carefully:
"But you are still a very beautiful woman. At least, to me you are. You don't want to make a phone call?"
"Not anymore. I changed my mind. I'm changing my mind about lots of things at the moment. So I'm not ugly?"
"On the contrary."
"You're not too good-looking yourself. Pity you've made the coffee. I didn't ask for anything. Never mind. You can drink it. And thank you."
She stopped at the door and added:
"You have my phone number. It's in your files."
Fima pondered this. The words "a new chapter" seemed rather cheap, yet he knew that in other times he might well have fallen for this Annette. But why only in other times? Finally, in Yael's old words, he said to himself, Your problem, pal.
And, after filing the papers away, he locked the records room and washed the cups, ready to close up.
5. FIMA GETS SOAKED IN THE DARK IN THE POURING RAIN
AFTER LOCKING UP THE CLINIC, HE TOOK A BUS INTO THE CENTER of town and found a cheap eating place in a side street not far from Zion Square, where he had a mushroom pizza washed down with Coca-Cola and chewed a heartburn tablet. Because he did not have enough cash with him, he asked if he could pay by check, but was told he could not. He offered to leave his identity card and come back the next morning to pay. However, he could not find the document in question in any of his pockets: he had bought a new electric kettle on Sunday, or before the weekend, to replace the one he had burned out, and, not having enough cash, had left his identity card in the shop as security. Or was it at Steimatsk/s Bookshop? Finally, when he was beyond hope, a crumpled fifty-shekel note dropped out of his back pocket: his father must have put it there a couple of weeks ago.
During this search a telephone token came to light in one of his pockets, and Fima located a public call box outside the Sansur Building in Zion Square and phoned Nina Gefen; he vaguely remembered that her husband, Uri, was leaving or had already left for Rome. Maybe he could inveigle her into going to the Orion with him to see the French comedy with Jean Gabin that Tamar had told him about during the coffee break. He couldn't remember the name of the film.
But the voice that came on the line was the wooden voice of Ted Tobias, who asked dryly, with a heavy American accent, "What's up this time, Fima?" Fima mumbled, "Nothing. It's the rain," because he couldn't make out what Ted was doing at Nina Gefen's. Then he realized he had absent-mindedly dialed Yael's number instead of Nina's. Why had he lied and said it was raining? It hadn't rained a drop since the afternoon. Eventually he recovered his presence of mind and asked Ted how Dimi was and how they were getting on with enclosing their balcony. Ted reminded him that they had finished that job by the beginning of the winter. Yacl had taken Dimi to a children's play and wouldn't be back much before ten. Did he want to leave a message? Fima peered at his watch, guessed that it was not yet eight, and suddenly, without meaning to, asked Ted if he could invade him, in quotation marks, of course; there was something he wanted to discuss with him. He hurriedly said that he had already eaten, and that whatever happened he wouldn't stay more than half an hour.
"Okay," said Ted. "Fine. Come right on up. Just bear in mind that we're a bit busy this evening."
Fima took this as a hint that he shouldn't come, and that whatever happened he shouldn't stay till past midnight as he usually did. He was not offended; he even gallantly offered to come some other time. But Ted firmly and politely stood his ground.
"Half an hour will be fine."
Fima was particularly glad it was not raining, since he had no umbrella, and he did not want to visit the woman he loved looking like a drowned dog. He also noticed that it was getting colder, and decided that it might snow. This made him even happier. Through the window of the bus, somewhere near Mahane Yehuda Market, by the light of a street lamp, he saw a black slogan scrawled on a walclass="underline" ARABS OUT! Translating into German and substituting Jews for Arabs, he felt an upsurge of rage. On the spot, he appointed himself president and decided on a dramatic step. He would make an official visit to the Arab village of Deir Yassin on the anniversary of the massacre there and deliver a simple, trenchant statement amid the ruins of the village: Without going into the details of which side is more to blame, we Israeli Jews understand the depth of the suffering that the Palestinian Arabs have undergone during these past forty years, and to put an end to it we are willing to do anything that is reasonable, short of committing suicide. Such a speech would immediately echo through every Arab hovel; it would fire the imagination and might help to start the ball rolling. For a moment Fima hesitated between "start the ball rolling" and "achieve a breakthrough." Which would make a better heading for the short article he intended to write next morning for the weekend paper? Then he rejected them both and dropped the idea of the article.
In the elevator, on the way up to the sixth-floor flat in Beit Hakerem, he made up his mind to be calm and cordial this time, to try to talk to Ted as equal to equal, even on political topics, though normally he was very quickly irritated by the other's way of talking, his slow, balanced speech, his American accent and sort of desiccated logicality, his way of buttoning and unbuttoning his expensive knit jacket, like an official spokesman from the State Department.
Fima stood at the door for a couple of minutes without pressing the bell. He rubbed his soles on the doormat so he wouldn't bring any mud into the flat. While he was in the middle of this ball-less game of soccer, the door opened, and Ted helped him out of his overcoat, which had been turned into a snare by the rip in the lining.