Fima (13 page)

Fima almost interrupted her to say: But we're all like that; that's why we've lost the state. But he restrained himself and said nothing. He merely made a point of carefully putting out the cigarette stub that Annette had left smoldering on the edge of the ashtray. He finished off his sandwich and still felt hungry.

"We put together our savings, our allowances from our parents, and we buy a small flat in Givat Shaul; we buy furniture, a refrigerator, a stove, we choose curtains together. We never disagree. All respectful and friendly. He simply enjoys giving way to me, at least that's what I think at the time. Friendly is the right word: we both try our best to be good the whole time. To be fair. We compete with each other at being considerate. Then our daughter is born, and, two years later, our son. Yeri, naturally, is a reasonable, devoted parent. Consistent. Stable. The correct word is reliable. He's happy washing diapers, he knows how to clean the mosquito nets, learns from books how to cook a meal and look after plants. He takes the children into town whenever the burdens of work allow. In time he even improves in bed. Gradually he realizes I'm not made of glass, if you know what I mean. Occasionally he can tell a funny story over a meal. Still, he also starts to develop one or two habits I find quite irritating. Little inoffensive habits that won't go away. Tapping on things with his finger, for instance. Not like a doctor tapping on a patient's chest. More like tapping on a door. He's sitting reading the paper, and all the time he's unconsciously tapping on the arm of his chair. As if he's trying to get in. He locks himself in the bathroom, splashes around in the bath for half an hour, and all the time he's tapping on the tiles as if he's searching for a secret compartment. Or his habit of saying in Yiddish "
Azoy
instead of replying to what you're saying to him. I tell him I've found a mistake in the electricity bill, and he says, '
Azoy
.' Our little girl tells him her doll is angry with her, and he smiles, '
Azoy
.' I intervene, and say, Why don't you listen to what your children are saying once in a while? and all he can say is,
Azoy
. Or the sarcastic whistle he lets out through the gap in his front teeth: it's probably not a whistle, not sarcastic at all, just letting the air out through his teeth. No matter how often I tell him it's driving me insane, he can't stop it. He doesn't even seem to notice he's done it again. But when all's said and done, these are minor irritants; you can learn to live with them. There are drunken husbands, lazy husbands, adulterous brutes, perverts, lunatics. In any case, I may well have developed some habits myself that he doesn't like but says nothing about. There's no point in making a big fuss about his tapping and whistling, which he can't even control. So the years go by. We close in the balcony to make an extra room; we take a trip to Europe, buy a small car, replace our first furniture. We even get a German shepherd. We get all four of our parents into a private old folks' home. Yeri does his bit; he tries to make me happy, he's pleased with everything we've achieved together. Or so I think. And he goes on whistling and tapping and occasionally muttering
Azoy
.

Fima was thinking: The parliament building surrounded by tanks, paratroopers seizing the broadcasting station, a colonels' putsch—that's not what will happen here. Here we'll just have creeping deterioration. An inch a day. People won't even notice the lights going out. Because they won't go out: they'll fade out. Either we'll finally get our act together and deliberately precipitate a serious national crisis, or else there just won't be a definite moment of crisis. And he said:

"You describe it so vividly, I can see it."

"I'm not boring you? Don't be angry with me for smoking again. It's hard for me to talk about all this. I must look a real sight; I've been crying. Be nice and don't look at me."

"On the contrary," Fima said, and after a moment's hesitation he added:

"Your earrings look nice too. Special. Like a pair of glowworms. Not that I have the slightest idea what glowworms look like."

"It's nice being with you," said Annette. "First time in ages I've felt so good. Even though you hardly say anything, just listen and understand. Yeri encourages me to take a part-time job with the Jerusalem City Council when the children are a bit older. We start saving. We buy a new car. We dream of building ourselves a red-tiled house, with a real garden, outside the city, in Mevaseret. Sometimes in the evenings, when the children are in bed, we sit and look at American homemaking magazines, drawing up all sorts of plans. Sometimes he taps on our sketches with his finger, as though to test how solid they arc. Both our children reveal a talent for music, and we decide to invest in music lessons, private teachers, the conservatory. We take summer holidays by the seaside, the four of us, at Nahariya. In December we leave the children behind and rent a bungalow in Eilat. Ten years ago we sold his parents' flat and bought the bungalow. On Saturday nights we generally have a few couples come in. Don't be shy about stopping me, Efraim, if you're tired of listening. Maybe I'm
going
into too much detail? Then this reliable man is appointed deputy head of his department. He starts seeing private patients at home. So the dream of the house with a garden in Mevaseret starts to become a reality. Both of us become experts on marble and ceramics and roof tiles, if you know what I mean. All these years, aside from superficial quarrels, not a shadow falls between us. Or so I think. Every quarrel ends with apologies on both sides. He says he's sorry, I say I'm sorry, and he mutters
Azoy
. And then we change the sheets or start making supper together."

Five thousand men, Fima thought, five thousand of us simply refusing to do our reserve service in the Territories—that's all it would take. The whole occupation would collapse. But it's just those five thousand who have turned into experts on roof tiles. Those bastards are right when they say that all they need to do is play for time. At the end of her story she'll go to bed with me. She's working herself up to it.

"For a few winters," Annette continued, a sly, bitter line appearing at the corner of her mouth, as though she could read his mind, "he spends one night a week in Beer Sheva, because he's been asked to teach some course or other at the medical school there. Thoughts of other women in his life never crossed my mind. I just didn't think it was in him. Especially since even his home consumption had dwindled over the years, if you know what I mean. What would he do with a mistress? Just as it would never have occurred to me to imagine that he was, let's say, a Syrian spy. It was simply impossible. I knew everything about him. At least, that's what I thought. And I accepted him as he was, including that sarcastic whistle that I was convinced by now wasn't really a whistle and definitely wasn't sarcastic. On the other hand—I'm embarrassed to tell you this, but I really feel like telling everything—eight years ago, in the summer, I went to stay with a cousin of mine in Amsterdam for three weeks and I had a whirlwind romance with a stupid blond security officer from the embassy, twenty years younger than me. A real animal in bed, if you know what I mean, but the guy soon showed himself to be a narcissistic half-wit. It might make you laugh to know that someone thinks women get a kick out of having their stomachs smeared with honey. Just imagine! In a word, he was just a disturbed child. Not worth my good husband's little finger."

Fima ordered her another vodka without her asking, and, yielding to his hunger pangs, another plate of bread and cheese for himself. The last. In his mind he resolved to be patient and gentle. Not to pounce on her. To drop politics. To talk only about poetry and loneliness in a general sort of way. Above all, to be patient.

"I got back from Amsterdam riddled with guilt. It was hard for me to resist the urge to confess to him. But he suspected nothing. On the contrary. Over the years we have got into the habit of lying in bed sometimes, once the children arc asleep, reading magazines together. We learn how to do all sorts of things from them that we didn't know before. True, compromise and deliberation paint our lives a dull shade of brown. We don't have a lot of subjects for conversation. After all, I'm not that interested in orthopedics. But the silences never get us down. We can sit for a whole evening reading, listening to music, watching television. Sometimes we even have a drink before bedtime. Sometimes I wake up when I've been asleep only an hour, because he has trouble dozing off and is tapping absent-mindedly on the shelf at the head of our bed. I ask him to stop. He apologizes and stops and I go back to sleep and he falls asleep too. Or so I think. We remind each other to stick to our diet, because we both have a tendency to put on weight. Am I a bit fat, Efraim? Arc you sure? Meanwhile we purchase all sorts of electrical appliances for the home. We engage a helper three mornings a week. We visit his parents and mine. He goes to a medical congress in Canada without me, but invites me to join him for an orthopedic conference in Frankfurt. While we're there, we even go out one evening to see what a striptease joint is like. I was quite disgusted, but today I think I made a mistake in saying so to him. I should have kept my mouth shut. The fact is, Efraim, I'm afraid to imagine what you'll think of me if I ask you to order me another vodka. Just one more and that's it. It's so hard. And you're such a good listener. An angel. Well then, six years ago we finally moved into the house in Mevaseret. We had it built ourselves, and it turned out almost exactly like our dream, with a separate wing for the children, and a gabled attic bedroom like an Alpine chalet."

An angel with an erection like a rhinoceros, Fima thought and chuckled to himself, and once more he felt how along with the compassion there welled up inside him desire, and with the desire shame, anger, and self-mockery. And while he was thinking of rhinos, he remembered the motionlessness of the prehistoric lizard that had nodded to him that morning. And he thought about Ionesco's
Rhinoceros
; and, though careful of superficial comparisons, he had to smile, because the lawyer Prag had looked more like a buffalo than a rhinoceros.

"Tell me, Annette, aren't you hungry at all? Here am I gulping down bread and cheese nonstop, and you haven't even touched your cake. Shall we take a look at the menu?"

But Annette, showing no sign of having heard, lit a fresh cigarette, and Fima passed her the ashtray, which the waiter had emptied, and the vodka he had brought her. "Coffee, perhaps?"

"No, really," said Annette. "You make me feel good. We only met yesterday, and it's as if I've found a brother."

Fima inwardly almost used her husband's favorite expression,
Azoy
. But he refrained and, reaching across almost unconsciously, stroked her cheek.

"Go on, Annette," he said. "You were talking about the Alps."

"I was a fool. Blind. I thought the new house was the embodiment of happiness. How excited we were to be living out of town! With the view, the peace and quiet. At the end of the day we would go out in the garden to measure how much the saplings had grown. Then in the last light we would sit on the veranda to watch the hills go dark. Almost without talking and yet as friends. Or so I thought. Like a pair of comrades-in-arms who no longer need to exchange words, if you can understand that. Now I think even that was a mistake. That by tapping on the railing of the veranda he was trying to express something in a kind of Morse code, and waiting for my reply. Sometimes he would look at me over the top of his glasses, with his chin dropped on his chest, with a slightly surprised expression, as though I was new to him, as though I had changed completely, and he would let out a low whistle. If I hadn't known him so many years, I might have imagined he had taken up wolf-whistling. Today I think I didn't begin to understand that look of his. Then our daughter is called up to the army, and a year ago our son is called up too; he was accepted for the army orchestra. The house seems empty. We generally go to bed at ten-thirty. We leave a light on so the garden won't be pitch-black at night. The two cars stand outside, silent under the carport. Except twice a week, when he docs a night shift at the hospital and I sit in front of the TV until sign-off. Recently I've taken up painting. Just for myself. Without any pretensions. Even though Yeri suggested showing my pictures to an expert in case they're worth anything. I said, whether they're worth anything or not, that's not what interests me. Yeri said,
Azoy
. And then it hit me. One day, it was a Saturday morning six weeks ago—if only I'd bitten my tongue and said nothing—I said to him: Yeri, if growing old is like this, then why should
we worry about it? What's wrong with it? He suddenly stands up, facing Yossel Bregner's "Butterfly Eaters" on the wall—do you know it?—he gave me the print once as a birthday present. Anyway, he stands there all tense and strained, lets out a low whistle between his teeth, as if he's just noticed a line in the picture that wasn't there before, or that he's never spotted, and he says: Speak for yourself. I'm not even thinking about growing old just yet. And there's something in his voice, in the angle of his back, which seems to have stiffened and hunched, like a hyena's, and the redness of the back of his neck—I'd never noticed before how red it is—which makes me shrink into my armchair with fear. Has something happened, Yen? It's like this, he says, I'm very sorry, but I've got to get out. I can't take any more. I've just got to. You must understand. Twenty-six years now I've been dancing to your tune like a tame bear; now I feel like dancing to my own tune for a change. I've already rented a small flat. It's all fixed up. Apart from my clothes and books, and the dog, I won't take anything with me. You must understand: I have no choice. I've had it up to here with lying. Then he turns and goes into his study, and he comes back carrying two suitcases—he must have packed them in the night—and he heads for the front door. But what have I done, Yen? You must understand, he says, it's not you, it's her. She can't stand the lies anymore. She can't stand seeing me being used as your doormat. And I can't live without her. I would suggest, he says from the doorway, that you try not to be difficult, Annette. Don't make any scenes. It'll be easier for the children that way. Just imagine I've been killed. You must understand, I'm suffocating. With that, he taps lightly on the doorjamb, whistles to the dog, starts the Peugeot, and disappears. The whole thing has taken maybe a quarter of an hour. Next day when he called, I hung up. Two days after that he called again; I wanted to hang up again but I didn't have the strength. Instead I pleaded with him, Come back and I promise to be better. Just tell me what I did wrong, and I won't do it again. And he kept repeating, in his doctor's voice, as though I were a hysterical woman patient, You must understand, it's all over. I'm not crying because I'm angry, Efraim. I'm crying because I fed insulted, humiliated. Two weeks ago he sends me this little lawyer, incredibly polite; apparently he's of Persian origin. He sits bolt upright in Yeri's chair, and I'm almost surprised he doesn't tap on the arm or whistle at me through his teeth, and he starts to explain: Look here, madam, you will get at least twice as much from him as any rabbinic or civil court would dream of giving you. If I were you, I'd jump at our offer, because the plain truth, madam, is that in my whole professional life I've never before encountered someone who is prepared to offer the entirety of the joint possessions right away, as an opening position. Excluding the Peugeot and the bungalow in Eilat, of course. But all the rest is yours, despite all that he's had to put up with from you. If he went to court, he could claim mental cruelty and get the lot. I hardly heard what he was saying; I begged that ape just to tell me where my husband was, just to let me sec him, at least to let me have his phone number. But he started explaining to me why at the present juncture it would be preferable not to, for the benefit of all the parties concerned, and that in any case my husband and his friend were leaving for Italy the same evening and they'd be away for two months. Just one more vodka, Efraim. I won't drink any more. Promise. I'm even out of cigarettes. I'm crying about you now, not him, because I'm remembering how wonderful you were to me at the clinic yesterday. Now just tell me to calm down, please, explain to me that things like this must happen in Israel at the rate of one every nine minutes or something like that. Don't take any notice of my crying. I actually feel better. Ever since I got home from the clinic yesterday, I haven't stopped asking myself the same question: Will he phone or won't he? I had a feeling you would, but I was afraid to hope. Aren't you divorced too? Didn't you tell me you'd been married twice? Why did you give them the push? D'you want to tell me?"