Fima said:
"What if I promise not to get worked up, and not to get you worked up? We can always agree to differ."
"Okay then," said the driver, "only just remember you asked for it. Well, for me it's like this: For a real peace, so called, with assurances and guarantees and safeguards, for a peace like that I'd personally give them all the Territories except the Western Wall, and I'd even say thank you to them for taking Ramallah and Gaza off my back. Ever since that shit landed on us in 'sixty-seven, the state's been going to the dogs. They've made a right mess of us. Well, how about it? Am I getting on your nerves? Are you going to start farting the Bible at me?"
Fima had difficulty containing his feelings:
"And how, may I ask, did you arrive at this conclusion?"
"In the end," said the driver wearily, "everybody will. Maybe only after we lose another few thousand lives. There's no other way, sir. The Arab is not going to evaporate, and neither are we, and we're about as capable of living together as a cat and a mouse. That's real life, and it's also just. It's written in the Torah: if two customers arc holding onto a tallith and they're both shouting that it's theirs, then you take a pair of scissors and you cut it in half. That's what Moses himself decided, and he was no idiot. Better to cut the tallith than to keep cutting babies. Which street did you say?"
Fima said:
"Well done!"
And the driver:
"What do you mean, well done? What do you mean by that? What do you take me for, a cat that's learned to fly? If you happened to be of the same opinion, I wouldn't say well done to you just for that. What I will say to you, and listen hard, is there's only one man in this country who's strong enough to cut the tallith in half without getting cut in half himself, and that's Arik Sharon. Nobody else can do it. They'll take it from him."
"Despite the fact that he has blood on his hands?"
"Not despite: because. First of all, he's not the one with the bloody hands; it's the whole state. You and me too. Don't go pinning it all on him. Besides which, I don't have a weeping conscience over the bloodshed. Sorrow, yes, but not shame. That's for the Arabs, not us. It's not as if we wanted to shed blood. The Arabs forced us to. From the word go. On our side we never wanted to start the violence. Even Menahem Begin, a proud patriot if ever there was one. The moment Sadat came along to the Knesset to say sorry, he gave him what he wanted, just so long as the bloodshed stopped. If Arafat came along to the Knesset to say sorry, he'd get something too. So? Let Arik go and strike a deal, gangster to gangster. What do you think, that some bleeding heart Yossi Sarid or other is going to do business with that scum Arafat? Yossi Sarid, the Arabs would make mincemeat out of him, and then someone from our side would give him a bellyful of lead, and that would be the end of that. Best let Arik do the cutting. Any time you've got to do business with a ravenous beast, hire a hunter to do the job, not a belly dancer. Is this your block?"
When Fima saw that he didn't have enough money to pay the fare, he offered to hand over his identity card or to borrow a few shekels from a neighbor, if the driver didn't mind waking a few minutes. But the other said:
"Forget it. It's not the end of the world. Tomorrow or the day after come and leave eight shekels at Eliyahu Taxis. Just say it's for Tsiyon. You're not from the Bible League, by any chance, are you? Or something like that?"
"No," said Fima. "Why?"
"I had a feeling I've seen you on TV. Must be someone who looks like you. Spoke nice, too. Just a minute, sir: you left your hat behind. Where did you win that thing? What is it, a leftover from the Holocaust?"
Fima walked past his mailbox without stopping, even though he could see there was something in it. He made a detour around the rolled-up mattress. When he reached the light of the staircase and pulled out his key, a ten-shekel note folded into a small square fell out too. He ran back, hoping to catch the taxi driver before he finished turning around at the end of the road. The driver grinned in the dark.
"So what's the hurry? Afraid I'm leaving the country? That I'll be gone tomorrow morning? Let the scum leave; I'm staying to the end of the show. I want to see how it finishes. Good night, sir. Don't eat your heart out."
Fima decided to have that man in his cabinet. He would relieve Tsvi of the Information portfolio and give it to the driver. And because the driver had said "the end of the show," he suddenly remembered that Annette was probably waiting for him to call her at home. Unless she was waiting outside the cinema. Or unless it was Nina waiting. But hadn't he promised Nina he'd pick her up at the office? Or was that with Tamar? Fima was disgusted at the thought that he was going to have to get bogged down in lies and excuses yet again. He ought to call and explain. Tactfully untie the knot. Apologize to Nina and hurry out to meet Annette. Or vice versa.
But what if it turned out he had only made a date with one of them after all, and when he started to lie his way out of it on the phone, he got deeper and deeper in the mud, and only succeeded in making a fool of himself? And what if at this very moment they were both standing in the foyer of the cinema waiting for him, not recognizing each other, little dreaming that it was the same idiot who had let them both down?
To hell with lies. From now on he would start a new chapter. From now on he would live his life in the open, rationally and honestly. How had the taxi driver put it: no "weeping conscience." There was no reason whatever to hide his lovers from one another. If they're both fond of me, why shouldn't they be fond of each other? They'll almost certainly make friends at once, they can cheer each other up. They have so many things in common, after all. They are both compassionate, goodhearted, generous human beings. They both seem to relish my helplessness. By coincidence, if it really is a coincidence, both their husbands arc living it up in Italy at this moment. Who knows? Perhaps the husbands have met. Perhaps at this very minute Yeri Tadmor and Uri Gefen are sitting in a lively group of Israelis and foreigners in the same café in Rome, swapping juicy stories about love and despair. Or discussing the future of the Middle East, with Uri using arguments he's borrowed from me. Whereas my role in this situational farce that comes straight out of Stefan Zweig or Somerset Maugham is to bring together the two abandoned wives, who are about to come together this evening in friendship, solidarity, even a measure of intimacy, because they both wish me well.
In his mind's eye he saw himself sitting in the darkness of the cinema, with Jean Gabin becoming embroiled with a gang of ruthless killers while he himself had his left arm around Annette and slid the fingers of his right hand down over Nina's breasts. Giving a plausible imitation of a discount Uri Gefen. After the film he would invite them both to the little restaurant behind Zion Square. Sparkling and relaxed, he would regale them with spicy anecdotes and intellectual fireworks, shedding dazzling new light on old questions. When he excused himself for a moment to go to the lavatory, the two women would converse together in animated whispers. Comparing notes about his living conditions. Dividing up the tasks, establishing a kind of work schedule for the Fimacare service.
These fantasies caressed him deliciously. Ever since his childhood he had loved to feel that there were grownups, responsible people, who discussed in his absence how to do the best for him, waiting till he was asleep before talking about the arrangements for his birthday, switching to Russian to discuss what present to surprise him with. If he summoned up the courage at the end of the evening at the restaurant to suggest to Annette and Nina that they come to his place and spend the night together, there might be some momentary embarrassment but in the end he would not be refused. He had learned from Uri that such combinations hypnotized the female imagination too. And so at last he could look forward to an exciting Greek night. He would be rejuvenated. A new billy-goat year would begin.