Fima

by Amos Oz

  One would think, Fima mused ironically, that in your own flat in Kiryat Yovel the air is perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, you with your Trotskyite kitchen and your can of worms on the balcony and your decrepit lavatory.

  He stood up and opened a window. After a moment he closed it again. Not because of the cold but because he felt sorry to lose this doom-laden smell, which he would probably never be able to recall once he allowed it to disperse. Let it stay a few more days. The future was just beginning. Yet it would have been nice to sit in the kitchen now, over a glass of steaming Russian tea, and argue with the old man late into the night. Without mockery or levity. Like a pair of intimate adversaries. Far from Hasidic tales and all the casuistry, the witticisms, the anecdotes, the clever wordplay. Not provoking the old man, not annoying him with impieties perverse, but with real affection. Like a pair of surveyors representing two countries in a dispute but themselves working together with amicable professionalism on the precise demarcation of the border. As one man to another. Sorting out at last what has been, what is, what is over and done with, and what might still be possible here if we only devote ourselves to it with our remaining strength.

  But what is it that he must sort out with his father? What is the border that needs demarcation? What does he need to prove to the old man? Or to Yael? Or to Dimi? What does he need to say that is not a quotation, or a paradox, or a refutation, or a clever wisecrack?

  The inheritance neither weighed him down nor lifted him up. True, he knew nothing about cosmetics, but the fact was he had no real understanding of anything. There might even be a certain advantage in that, although Fima could not be bothered at this moment to try to define what it was. Moreover, he had no needs. Apart from the most simple, basic needs: food, warmth, and shelter. He had no desires, either, except perhaps a vague desire to appease everybody, to heal disputes, to sow some peace here and there. How could he do that? How does one bring about a change of heart? Soon he would have to meet the employees of the business, find out about their working conditions, see what could be improved.

  The upshot was that he needed to learn. And learning was one thing he did know about. So he would learn. Gradually.

  He would make a start tomorrow. Although in fact tomorrow was already here: it was past midnight.

  For a moment he pondered whether to get into his father’s bed and sleep there, fully dressed. After a moment he decided that it was a pity to waste this unique night. He ought to explore the flat. Discover its secrets. Start to acquire a preliminary orientation in the ways of the new realm.

  Fima prowled around until three o’clock in the morning, opening wardrobes, exploring the recesses of the heavy black tallboy, peering into every drawer, prying under mattresses and among pillows and in the heap of his father’s white shirts waiting to be ironed. Stroking the brocade upholstery. Fingering and weighing the silver candlesticks and goblets. Running his hand over the lacquered surface of the old-fashioned furniture. Comparing tea trays. Discovering under a muslin cover the silent Singer sewing machine and extracting a single hollow note from the gleaming Bechstein piano. Selecting a cut-glass goblet and pouring himself some French cognac, raising his glass towards the six vases of tall gladioli. Undressing with a rustle of cellophane a magnificent box of Swiss chocolates and tasting the exquisite contents. Tickling the crystal chandeliers with a peacock’s feather he found on the desk. Very cautiously extracting delicate little ringing sounds from the fine Rosenthal china. Riffling through the piles of embroidered napkins, faintly scented handkerchiefs, lace and woollen shawls, the array of kid gloves, and the selection of umbrellas, among which he discovered an ancient blue silk parasol, and combing through the records of Italian opera that his father had enjoyed playing to himself at full volume on the old gramophone, joining the singers with his own cantorial tenor, sometimes in the company of one or two of his lady friends, who all threw him rapturous glances while sipping their tea with the little finger crooked. He drew snowy table napkins out of their gilded rings engraved with stars of David and the word ‘Zion’ in Hebrew and Roman characters. He examined the paintings on the walls of the salon, one of which featured a handsome gypsy with a dancing bear that seemed to be smiling. He patted the bronze busts of Herzl and Vladimir Jabotinsky and asked them politely how they were feeling this evening, then poured himself another cognac and helped himself to another chocolate and discovered in an out-of-the-way drawer a collection of silver snuffboxes studded with pearls and semiprecious stones, and among them he caught sight of the tortoiseshell comb that his mother used to put in her blonde hair at the nape of her neck. But the blue knitted baby’s bonnet with the woolly bobble was nowhere to be found. The bathtub stood on brass lion’s paws, and on the ledge behind it he discovered foreign packets of bath salts and oils, beauty creams, medicines, and mysterious ointments. He was surprised to find, hanging up, a pair of antiquated silk stockings with a seam at the back, the sight of which stirred a faint pulse in his loins. Going through to the kitchen he made a mental note of the contents of the refrigerator and the bread bin. Then he returned to the bedroom, where he sniffed at the silk underwear meticulously folded away on the shelves. Fima saw himself for a moment as a relentlessly systematic detective studying the scene of the crime inch by inch in search of the one and only clue, which was minute but crucial. But what clue? What crime? He did not bother to ponder this, because his spirits were rising by the minute. All these years he had ached to find a place where he could feel at home and he had never managed to, either in his own flat, at the gynaecology clinic, at his friends’, in his city, his country, or his time. Maybe because it was a self-defeating wish from the start. Beyond his reach. Beyond everybody’s reach. Tonight too, among all those exciting objects that insisted on concealing from him the thing that really mattered, this wish still seemed beyond his reach, and he said to himself:

  ‘Right. Exile.’

  And he added:

  ‘So what?’

  Shakespeare’s King Richard vainly offered his kingdom for a horse. Whereas Efraim Nisan, close to three in the morning, was ready to exchange the whole of his legacy for one day, one hour of total inner freedom and of feeling at home. Although he had a suspicion that there was a tension and perhaps even a contradiction between the two, which could not be resolved even by Yoezer and his happy friends who would be living here in our place in a hundred years’ time.

  At five in the morning he fell asleep fully dressed, and he slept till eleven. Even then he did not wake of his own accord: his friends had returned to sit with him and cushion his grief. The women had brought pots of stew, and they and the men tried their best to surround the orphaned Fima with love and kindness, warmth and affection. Again and again they tried to draw him into political discussions which Fima did not wish to join, but he condescended to contribute an occasional smile or a nod of the head. On the other hand, he called Dimi and was delighted to learn that Dimi was interested in the collections of stamps and coins, provided he could be partners with Fima. Fima said nothing about the hundreds of tin soldiers from his childhood, which he had found in a drawer. They would be a surprise for his Challenger.

  On Saturday evening, at the end of the Sabbath, Fima suddenly put on his father’s winter overcoat and, leaving his friends to keep up the mourning, went out to get some air, promising to be back in a quarter of an hour.

  Next morning at eight he intended to visit the offices of the cosmetics factory in the Romema Industrial Zone. The funeral was set for three p.m., and in this way he could put himself in the picture beforehand. But this evening he could surely be allowed to take one last aimless stroll.

  The sky was dark and clear, and the stars went out of their way to attract his attention. As if the Third State was obvious and self-evident. Intoxicated by the Jerusalem night air, Fima forgot his promise. Instead of returning to his friends after his stroll, he chose to ignore the protocol of mourning and take a short break. Why not go, at long last, alone, to see the ea
rly showing of that comedy film with Jean Gabin, about which he had heard only good reports? He queued patiently for twenty minutes, bought a ticket, and, entering the cinema shortly after the beginning of the film, sat down in one of the back rows, which were almost empty. But after a few moments’ confusion he realised that the Jean Gabin film had ended its run and a new film was showing from this evening. So he decided to leave the cinema and check what was new in the pretty, old lanes of Nahalat Shiva, which he had loved since he was a child and which he had walked with Chili a few nights previously. Because he was tired, and perhaps also because his heart was light and clear, he stayed sitting in the cinema, huddled in his father’s overcoat, staring at the screen and asking himself why on earth the characters in the film kept inflicting all sorts of agonies and indignities on one another. What was it that kept them from taking pity on each other occasionally? It would not be difficult for him to explain to the heroes, if they would only listen for a moment, that if they wanted to feel at home, they ought to leave each other alone, and themselves too. And try to be good. At least as far as possible. At least as long as eyes can see and ears can hear, even in the face of mounting tiredness.

  Be good, but in what sense?

  The question seemed like sophistry. Because everything was really so simple. Effortlessly he followed the story. Until his eyes closed and he fell asleep in his seat.

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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  Epub ISBN 9781446477397

  Published by Vintage 2002

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  Copyright © Amos Oz and Keter Publishing House Limited 1991

  Translation copyright © Nicholas de Lange 1993

  Amos Oz has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  Nicholas de Lange has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the translator of this work

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain by Chatto & Windus 1993

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  ISBN 9780099933601