Wains curled. And vanished.
As he crossed the road, there was a squeal of brakes. The van driver cursed Fima and shouted:
"You there, are you crazy?"
Fima considered, shuddered belatedly, and muttered sheepishly:
"I'm sorry. Really. Very sorry."
The driver screamed:
"Damn half-wit: you've got more luck than sense."
Fima considered this too, and by the time he reached the other curb he agreed with the driver. And with Yael, who had decided not to have his son. And also with the possibility of being run over here in the street this Sabbath eve instead of running away to Rome. Like the Arab child we killed two days ago in Gaza. Being switched off. Turned to stone. Reincarnated, as a lizard perhaps. Leaving Jerusalem to Yoezer. And he decided that this evening he would call his father and tell him firmly that the painting was off. In any case he would be going soon. This time he would not give in or compromise; he would see it through, and get Baruch's fingers out of his pockets and out of his life once and for all.
Near the Medical Center at the corner of Strauss Street and the Street of the Prophets a small crowd had gathered. Fima approached and asked what had happened. A small man with a birdlike nose and a thick Bulgarian accent informed him that a suspicious object had been found, and they were waiting for the police explosives experts to arrive. A girl with glasses said, What do you mean? It's not that at all. A pregnant woman fainted on the steps, and the ambulance is on its way. Fima burrowed toward the center of the crowd, because he was curious to know which of these two versions was closer to the truth. Although he bore in mind that they might both be mistaken. Or both right. What if it was a pregnant woman who had discovered the suspicious object and fainted from the shock?
From the police patrol car which drew up with flashing lights and siren blaring, someone with a megaphone told the crowd to disperse. Fima, with a good citizen's reflex, obeyed at once, but even so he was pushed roughly by a sweaty middle-aged policeman whose peaked cap was tilted back at a comical angle.
Fima was furious.
"All right, all right, no need to push, I've dispersed already."
The policeman roared at him with a rolling Romanian accent:
"You better stop being clever, quick, or you'll get it."
Fima restrained himself and moved off toward the Bikur Holim Hospital. He asked himself whether he would go on dispersing until one day he too collapsed in the street, or expired at home like a cockroach, on the kitchen floor, and was only discovered a week later, when the smell wafted out onto the landing, and the upstairs neighbors, the Pizantis, called the police and his father. His father would no doubt be reminded of some Hasidic tale about instant, painless death, often called "death by a kiss." Or he would make his usual remark about man being a paradox, laughing when he ought to cry and crying when he ought to laugh, living without sense and dying without desire. Frail man, his days are like the grass. Was there still a chance to halt this dispersal? To concentrate at long last on what really mattered? But if so, how to start? And what in God's name was it that really mattered?
When he reached the Ma'ayan Shtub department store on the comer of Jaffa Road, he absent-mindedly turned right and walked toward Davidka Square. And because his feet hurt, he boarded the last bus to Kiryat Yovel. He did not forget to wish the driver a good Sabbath.
It was a quarter to four, close to die beginning of the Sabbath, when he got off at the stop on the street next to his. He remembered to say thank you and good-bye to the driver. The early evening twilight had begun to gild the light clouds over the Bethlehem hills. And suddenly Fima realized sharply, with pain, that another day was gone forever. There was not a living soul to be seen in his street apart from a swarthy child of ten who pointed a wooden submachine gun at him and made him raise his arms in surrender.
Thinking about his own room filled him with disgust: that arid stretch of time from now till tonight, and in fact rill Saturday night, when the group might be getting together at Shula and Tsvi's. Everything he'd meant to do today he hadn't, and now it was too late: shopping, the post office, the telephone, cash from the bank, Annette. And something else that was urgent but he couldn't remember what it was. Added to which, he still had to get ready for the painters. Shift the furniture and cover it. Pack away the books and kitchen things. Take the pictures down, and the map of the country with the compromise borders penciled in. Ask Mr. Pizanti to dismantle the bookcases for him. But first of all, he decided, he must call Tsvi Kropotkin right away. Explain to him tactfully, without offending him this time, without being sarcastic, how his article in the latest issue of Politics was based on a false and simplistic assumption.
Provided the telephone had recovered in the meantime.
In front of the entrance to his building, inside a white car with the windows closed, a large man was sitting bent over, his arms resting on the steering wheel and his head buried in his arms, apparently dozing. What if it was really a heart attack? Murder? A terrorist attack? Suicide? Gathering his courage, Fima tapped lightly on the window. Uri Gefen straightened up at once, lowered the window, and said:
"So there you are. At last."
Startled, Fima tried to respond with something witty, but Uri cut him short. He said softly:
"Let's go upstairs. We have to talk."
Nina has told him everything. That I made love to her. That I didn't. That I humiliated her. But what's he doing here anyway? Isn't he supposed to be in Rome? Or has he got a secret double?
"Look here, Uri," he said, the blood leaving his face and draining into his liver, "I don't know what Nina's told you, but the fact is that for some time now…"
"Hold it. We'll talk when we get upstairs."
"The fact is, I've been meaning for some time…"
"We'll talk inside, Fima."
"But when did you get back?"
"This morning. Half past ten. And your phone's not working."
"How long have you been waiting for me out here?"
"Three-quarters of an hour or so."
"Has something happened?"
"Just a minute. We'll talk when we get upstairs."
When they were in the flat, Fima offered to make some coffee. Although the milk seemed to have gone bad. Uri looked so tired and thoughtful that Fima was ashamed to bring up the question of dismantling the bookcases. He said:
"I'll put the water on first."
Uri said:
"Just a moment. Sit down. Listen carefully. I have some bad news." And with these words he laid his big, warm peasant hand, which was rough like the bark of an olive tree, on the back of Fima's neck. As always, the touch of this hand made Fima shudder pleasurably. He closed his eyes like a stroked cat. And Uri said:
"We've been looking for you since lunchtime. Tsvi's been here twice and left a note on your door. Because your clinic's closed on Fridays, Teddy and Shula have been rushing around for two hours trying to locate your doctors. We didn't know where you'd got to after you left Yael's. And I just dropped my luggage off and came straight here to catch you as soon as you got back."
Fima opened his eyes. He looked up at Uri's towering form with an anxious, pleading, childlike expression. He did not feel surprised, because he had always expected it would be something like this. With his lips only, without any voice, he asked:
"Dimi?"
"Dimi's fine."
"Yael?"
"It's your father."
"He's not well. I know. For several days now…"
Uri said:
"Yes. No. Worse."
In a strange and wonderful way Fima was infected with Uri's wonted self-possession. Softly he asked: