Annette said, thoughtfully, to herself rather than to him:
"I have wronged you."
These words almost brought tears to his eyes. Ever since he was a child, he had felt sweetness and joy whenever a grownup said things like that to him. He had difficulty resisting the urge to go down on his knees before her, exactly like her husband in his dream. Although, to be strictly accurate, it had not been in a dream but in his thoughts this morning. But he saw no difference.
"I have some good news for you," he said. "I've got your earring. I found it on the very armchair you're sitting in. I'm such an idiot: when I opened my eyes this morning, in the first glimmer of dawn, I thought it was a glowworm that had forgotten to switch itself off."
Emboldened, he added:
"You know, I'm an extortioner. I won't let you have it back for nothing."
Annette burst out laughing. She went on laughing while he leaned over her. Pulling him toward her by his hair, she kissed the tip of his nose, as though he were a baby.
"Will that do? Can I have my earring back now?"
Fima said:
"That's more than I deserve. You've got some change coming."
And to his own astonishment he suddenly clasped her knees and dragged her body down to the floor, desperately dizzy with lust, not stopping for her clothes but forcing his way blindly, with a sleepwalker's confidence, thrusting into her almost at once, feeling as though it was not his penis but his whole being that was being enfolded and dissolved in her womb. He ejaculated with a roar. When he finally surfaced again, feeling drained and as weightless as a sunbeam, as if he had left his bodily mass inside her, he was horror-struck at the realization of how he had degraded both himself and her yet again. He knew that this time he had shattered it all forever. Then Annette began slowly, tenderly stroking his head and neck, until he shuddered deliciously and his skin quivered.
"The Tearful Rapist," she said.
And she whispered to him:
"Hush, child."
And again she asked if there was any vodka. For some reason Fima was afraid she might be chilly. Clumsily he attempted to rearrange her clothing. And tried to say something. But once again she hastily placed her hand over his mouth, and said:
"Quiet now, little chatterbox."
As she stood combing her beautiful hair in the mirror, she added:
"I'm off now. I've got a million and one things to do in town. Just let me have my earring back: I've earned it honestly. I'll call you this evening. We'll go see a film. There's a brilliant French comedy with Jean Gabin at the Orion."
Fima went to the kitchen and poured what was left of the Cointreau into a glass for her. He rescued the kettle from boiling dry at the very last minute. But try as he might, he could not discover what he had done with the earring. He swore he would turn the flat upside down and return her magic glowworm safe and sound that evening. As he escorted her to the door, he muttered abjectly that he would never forgive himself.
Annette laughed.
22. "I FEEL GOOD WITH YOU JUST LIKE THIS"
THEY PASSED ON THE STAIRS. NO SOONER HAD ANNETTE LEFT HIM than Nina Gefen appeared, with her austerely cropped gray hair, carrying a heavy shopping basket, which she deposited firmly on his desk among the papers and yogurt jars and dirty coffee cups. Roughly she lit a Nelson, not blowing die match out but shaking it. She shot twin lances of smoke from her nostrils. Fima unconsciously grinned. The turnover of his female visitors suddenly made him think of the procession of lady friends who were always trooping in and out of his father's flat. Maybe the time had come for him to sport a cane with a silver band?
Nina asked:
"What's so funny?"
Her nostrils must have picked up a whiff of perfume through her cigarette smoke. Without waiting for his reply she added:
"The red lady I bumped into on the stairs was also grinning like a cat who got the cream. Have you had a visitor by any chance?"
Fima was on the point of denying it. Since when did he have visitors? There were eight flats in the building. But something stopped him from lying to this fragile, embittered woman who looked like a cornered vixen, this woman whom he sometimes called "my lover" and whose husband he loved. He looked down and said defensively:
"A patient from the clinic. Somehow we became quite friendly."
"Are you opening a branch of the clinic at your home?"
"It's like this," Fima said, while his fingers attempted in vain to rejoin the two parts of the smashed radio. "Her husband's sort of left her. She came to me for some advice."
"Broken hearts mended here," Nina said, meaning to sound witty but sounding close to tears instead. "Saint Fima, patron saint of grass widows. If it goes on like this, you'll soon be seeing visitors by appointment only."
She went into the kitchen and took out of her shopping basket a bag full of sprays and cleaning materials, which she placed for the time being on the edge of the counter. Fima had the impression that her lips, closed on a cigarette, were trembling. She unpacked various provisions she had brought him, opened the door of the refrigerator, and recoiled in horror.
"What a filthy mess," she exclaimed.
Fima explained sheepishly that he had actually done a radical cleaning but had not had time to do the fridge.
And when was Uri coming back?
From the bottom of the shopping basket Nina extracted a small plastic bag.
"Late Friday night. I.e., tomorrow. I suppose you can both hardly wait. Well, you can have your honeymoon on Saturday night. Here, I've brought you the book about Leibowitz. You ran away and left it on the rug. What's going to become of you, Fima? Just look at yourself."
And indeed Fima had omitted to tuck his shirttail in after Annette, and the bottom of his yellowing flannel undershirt was showing below the chunky sweater.
Nina emptied the fridge, ruthlessly throwing out ancient vegetables tuna, moldy remains of fossilized cheese, an open sardine can. She attacked the shelves and dividers with a cloth soaked in detergent. Fima meanwhile buttered several thick slices of the fragrant black Georgian bread she had brought with her, spread them generously with jam, and started munching voraciously. All the while he delivered a brief lecture on the lessons to be learned in Israel from the collapse of the left in England, Scandinavia, and in fact all over northern Europe. Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he said in a different voice:
"Look, Nina. About the night before last. No, it was the night before that. I burst in looking like a half-drowned dog, I talked nonsense, I jumped on top of you, I upset you, and then I ran away without explaining. Now I'm ashamed. I can't imagine what you must think of me. I just wouldn't like you to think that I don't find you attractive or something. It's not that, Nina. On the contrary. I do, more than ever. I'd simply had a bad day. This just isn't my week. I feel that I'm not really living. Just existing. Creeping from day to day. Without sense and without desire. There's a verse in the Psalms: My soul droops with sorrow. That about sums it up: drooping. Sometimes I have no idea what I'm doing hanging around here like last year's snow. Coming and going. Writing and crossing out. Filling in forms at the office. Putting my clothes on and taking them off again. Making phone calls. Bothering everybody and driving you all crazy. Needling my father on purpose. How come there are still people who can stand me? How come you haven't sent me to Hell yet? Will you teach me how to make amends?"
Nina said:
"Be quiet, Fima. Just stop talking."
Meanwhile she arranged the new provisions on the shelves of the now gleaming refrigerator. Her frail shoulders were trembling. From behind she looked to Fima like a small animal trapped in a cage, and he felt tenderness for her. Still with her back toward him, she continued: