"Fimuchka," his father sighed, "have a heart. Fm an old Jew. All these mysteries are beyond me. I may be an anachronism — who knows? My own dear son is like a golem that has turned against its creator. Don't be angry, my dear; I only used the word 'golem' because you saw fit to mention Rabbi Loew of Prague. I liked it a lot, as a matter of fact, what you said about the universal charts. Amen, so be it. You scored a bull's-eye there. The only problem is, maybe Your Reverence can tell us which shop you go to buy such charts. Can you enlighten me? Will you do your father a real favor? No? Never mind. I shall tell you a deep and wonderful thing that Rabbi Loew of Prague once said as he walked past the cathedral. By the way, do you know the original meaning of 'real favor'?"
"All right, all right," Fima conceded. "So be it, then. You spare me the story of Rabbi Loew and in exchange I'll give in over those painters of yours. Send them on Sunday morning, and that's that." And to forestall his father's reply, he hurriedly employed the words his friend had uttered earlier: "We'll talk about the other things when we see each other. I really must run along now."
He intended to chew a heartburn tablet and go down to the shopping center to have the broken radio fixed or to replace it if necessary. But suddenly there appeared before his eyes, so vividly that he could almost touch it, the image of a frail, myopic East European Jew wrapped in a prayer shawl, wandering in a dark forest, muttering biblical verses to himself, hurting his feet on the sharp stones, while softly and silently the snow fell, a night bird gave a sinister shriek, and wolves howled in the darkness.
Fima was gripped by fear.
The moment he put the receiver down, it occurred to him that he had not asked his father how he was. He had forgotten his intention of taking him to the hospital for tests. He had even forgotten to notice whether the old man still had a whistle in his chest. He fancied he had heard a little squeak, but he was not certain: it might have been nothing but a slight cold. Or his father might just have been humming a high-pitched Hasidic tune. Or perhaps the noise had come from some fault in the telephone line. All systems were running down in this country and no one cared. This too was a byproduct of our obsession with the Territories. The ironic truth was that, as some future historian would discover, it was really Nasser who won the 1967 war. Our victory condemned us to destruction. The messianic genie that Zionism had managed to seal in the bottle popped out the day the ram's horn was sounded at the Wailing Wall. He laughs longest. Moreover, to pursue this line of reasoning resolutely to its bitter end, without flinching from the most unpalatable truth, perhaps the ultimate conclusion was that it was really Hitler, not Nasser, who had the last laugh. When all's said and done, he continues to persecute the Jewish people ruthlessly. Everything that is happening to us now has its origin one way or another with Hitler. Now what was I going to do? Make a phone call. It was something urgent. But who to? What about? What is there left to say? I also am lost in die forest. Just like that old saint.
21. BUT THE GLOWWORM HAD VANISHED
AND BECAUSE HE HAD FORGOTTEN TO LOCK THE DOOR WHEN HE brought the newspaper up earlier in the morning, and because he was absorbed in a futile attempt to reassemble the radio, he suddenly looked up and saw Annette Tadmor standing in front of him, in a red coat and a navy beret worn at an angle, which made her look like a French village girl. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were glowing from the cold outside. She looked childlike, meek, pure, and painfully attractive. He instantly recalled what he had done to her two days earlier and felt unclean.
The smell of her expensive perfume, tinged perhaps with a faint hint of liquor, aroused in him a mixture of regret and desire.
"I've been trying to call you all morning," she said, "but the phone's always busy. Sorry to burst in like this. Til only stay a minute, really. You don't happen to have a drop of vodka, do you? Never mind. Listen. I must have left an earring here. I was in such a muddle. You must think I'm crazy. The nice thing about you, Fima, is that I actually couldn't care less what you think of me. As if we were brother and sister. I can hardly remember a thing of what I burbled on about. And you're so kind, you didn't laugh at me. You haven't found one, have you? Silver, longish, with a little sparkling stone?"
Fima hesitated, made up his mind, tossed aside the newspaper that was occupying the armchair, and seated Annette in its place. At once he stood her up again and worked her arms loose from the sleeves of her red coat. This morning she looked beautiful and clever. He hurried to the kitchen to put the kettle on and check if there was any of his father's Cointreau left. On his return he said:
"I dreamed about you last night. You were so lovely and glad because your husband had come back to you and you forgave him for everything. Now you're even lovelier than you were in the dream. Navy really suits you. You ought to wear it more often. What do you say we draw a veil over what happened the day before yesterday? I'm so ashamed of myself. Your presence put me in a spin, and I seem to have behaved like the famous Tearful Rapist. I hadn't been with a woman for over two months. Not that that's any justification for behaving like a swine. Will you teach me how to make amends?"
Annette said:
"That's enough. Stop it. You're making me cry again. You've helped me so much, Fima; you're such a good listener, you've got so much understanding and empathy. I don't think any man in the whole world has ever listened to me the way you did. And I was so weird, so selfish, so absorbed in my own problems. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."
She added that she had always been a great believer in dreams. It was a fact that that very night, when Fima was dreaming of her, Yen had really called from Milan. He sounded a bit low. He said he had no idea what would happen, that time would tell, and she should try not to hate him.
"Time…" Fima began, but Annette laid her hand over his mouth.
"Let's not talk. We talked enough the other night. Let's just sit quietly for a minute or two, and then I'll be on my way. I've got a million and one things to do in town. But I like being near you."
They were silent. Fima sat on the arm of her chair, his own arm barely touching her shoulder, ashamed of the mess, the long-sleeved undershirt thrown over the sofa, the bottom drawer he had not closed last night, the empty coffee cups on the desk, the newspapers everywhere. He mentally cursed the stirrings of desire, and swore to himself that this time his behavior would be above reproach.