He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, muttered something, regretted it, finally pulled himself together and said:
"What do I understand of love? Once I used to think that love is the point where cruelty and compassion meet. Now I think that's idle chatter. Seems to me now I never understood anything. I comfort myself by reflecting that apparently other people understand even less than I do. It's all right, Tamar, just cry, don't hold back, it'll make you feel better. I'll make you a glass of tea. Never mind. In a hundred years love and suffering will go the way of the dinosaurs, along with blood feuds, crinolines, and whalebone corsets. Men and women will mate by exchanging tiny electrochemical impulses. There will be no mistakes. Do you want a biscuit with it?"
After making the tea, and after some hesitation, he told her the story about the conference of railway chiefs, and he explained why in his opinion Mr. Cohen was right and Mr. Smith was wrong, until she smiled faintly through her tears. In the drawer of his desk he found a pencil sharpener, a pencil, some paper clips, a ruler and a paperknife, but there were no more oranges, and no biscuits. Tamar said it didn't matter, thanks. She was feeling better already. He was always so goodhearted. Her projecting Adam's apple seemed not so much funny as tragic. Because of this tragic feeling he began to doubt whether those to come, Yoezer and his friends, would really manage to live more rational lives than ours. At most, cruelty and stupidity would adopt subtler and more sophisticated forms. What use are jet-propelled vehicles to someone who is aware that his place docs not know him?
This biblical phrase, "his place does not know him," so moved and fascinated him that he had to whisper it to himself. Suddenly, illuminated, he could see a whole sublime, beguiling Utopia enfolded in that everyday phrase. He made up his mind not to talk to Tamar about it, so as not to add insult to injury.
Tamar said:
"Look: the kerosene heater is almost empty. Why are you talking to yourself?"
Fima said:
"I put the electric one on in Gad's room. I didn't go into Alfred's room at all. I'll do it in a minute."
Then he grasped what he was being asked, and went outside to refill the container. When he came back in, there was an urgent roll of thunder, as though a desperate tank battle had begun. Fima suddenly remembered the text "He toucheth the hills and they smoke," and he could almost visualize it. He trembled. From the flat upstairs came the sound of the cello, slow, solemn, soft, the same two heavy phrases repeated over and over again. Even though it was only half past three, the room was growing so dark that Tamar had to switch the light on to see her crossword puzzle. As she stood there with her back to him, Fima made up his mind to stand behind her and hug her, to bury her weary head in the hollow of his neck and switch off their thoughts, to sprinkle kisses on the nape of her neck and the roots of her lovely hair gathered up into such a neat little bun, which could be undone for once and set free. But he thought better of this, and they spent a little while together trying to guess the identity of a famous Finnish general, ten letters. At that moment Fima resigned himself to the realization that, when all was said and done, he was not made of the stuff of great leaders who have the power to make history, to end wars, to heal the hearts of the masses consumed by suspicion and despair. He derived some comfort from the thought that the present political leaders were not made of this stuff either. Less so, if anything.
15. BEDTIME STORIES
DIMI TOBIAS, AN ALBINO CHILD WITH THICK GLASSES AND SMALL red eyes, was ten years old but looked younger. He said little and spoke politely, in well-balanced sentences, sometimes surprising grownups with his striking phraseology and his cultivated ingenuousness, in which Fima imagined he could detect a trace of irony. His father sometimes called him a Levantine Einstein, but Yael complained that she was bringing up a devious, manipulative child.
He was sitting in the living room, huddled silently in a corner of his father's wide armchair, looking like an elongated parcel that had been abandoned on a park bench. In vain did Fima attempt to get him to say what the trouble was. All through the evening Dimi sat motionless, apart from his rabbit's eyes that blinked nonstop behind the thick lenses. Was he thirsty? Did he want a glass of milk? Juice? Fima had made up his mind that the child was dehydrating and needed fluids. Some ice water, perhaps? Some whisky?
Dimi said:
"Stop it."
Fima, who was certain he was not doing the right thing but was damned if he could think what he ought to be doing or saying, opened a window to let in some cool air. Then it struck him that the child might be nursing the flu, so he hurriedly closed it. He poured himself a glass of mineral water in the kitchen and came back to the living room to drink it, perhaps in the hope that Dimi would follow his example and drink something too.
"Sure you're not thirsty?"
Dimi raised his pale face slightly and looked at Fima with consternation, as one looks at a grownup who is getting into difficulties but who cannot be helped. Fima attempted another line:
"Well, let's play cards then. Or how about a game of Monopoly? Or would you like to watch the news with me? Just show me how to switch on this TV of yours."
"You press the button. The top one," Dimi said. And he added:
"You don't offer spirits to a child."
Fima said:
"Course you don't. I was just trying to make you laugh. Tell me what you feel like doing. Shall I do an impersonation of Shamir and Peres?"
"Nothing. I've told you three times already."
In vain Fima suggested an adventure story, a computer game, jokes, a pillow fight, a game of dominoes. Something was weighing on the child, and though Fima quizzed him about school, about the afternoon at the neighbor's, tiredness, tummy aches, the U.S. space program, all he could get out of him was "Stop it." Could it be the beginning of tonsillitis? Pneumonia? Meningitis? Fima squeezed himself into the armchair, forcing the skinny Challenger to huddle even farther into his corner. He put an arm around the limp shoulders, and insisted:
"Tell me what's happened."
"Nothing," said Dimi.
"Where does it hurt?"
"Doesn't."
"Shall we be a little wild together? Or would you like to go to sleep? Your mother said to give you half a Valium. Do you want a story?"
"You already asked."
Fima was uneasy. Something nasty, something serious and possibly even dangerous was happening in front of his eyes and he could not think what to do. What would Teddy do now if he were here? He ran his fingers through the albino hair and muttered:
"But you're obviously not well. Where do they keep that Valium? Tell me."
Dimi recoiled from the caress and slipped away like a cat whose rest is disturbed. He tottered to the other armchair, and buried himself under a heap of cushions so that only his head and shoes were visible. His eyes blinked behind his thick lenses.
Fima, whose anxiety had turned into panic mixed with mounting anger, said:
"I'm going to call a doctor. But first we'll take your temperature. Where do they keep the thermometer?"
"Quit clowning," said Dimi. "Why don't you watch the news?"
As though he had been hit in the face, Fima sprang to his feet in a muddled frenzy and tried to switch on the television, but he pushed the wrong button. Instantly, realizing that he was being made a fool of, he regretted coddling the child and shouted at him:
"I'll give you sixty seconds to tell me what's wrong, and if you don't, I'm going to leave you here by yourself."
"Go then," said Dimi.
"Very well then," Fima snapped, attempting to imitate Ted's strictness and even his accent. "I'm going. Okay. But before I go, you've got exactly four minutes on the clock to get ready and into bed. And no fuss. Teeth, glass of milk, pajamas, Valium, the lot. And no more ridiculous scenes."