Fima (6 page)

In the middle of Wahrhaftig's stories Eitan would sometimes turn quickly through one hundred and eighty degrees, like the turret of a tank, and vanish on cat's paws through the door of his consulting room. It seemed as though all people, men and women alike, caused a faint revulsion in him. And because he had known for several years that Tamar was in love with him, he enjoyed occasionally firing an acerbic remark at her:

"What do you smell of" today?"

Or:

"Straighten your skirt, will you, and stop wasting your knees on us. We have to watch that kind of view at least twenty times a day."

This time he said:

"Would you kindly put that artist's vagina and cervix on my desk. Yes, the famous lady. Yes, the results of her tests. What did you think I meant? Yes, hers, I've no use for yours."

Tamar's eyes, the green left one and the brown right one, filled with tears. And Fima, with an air of someone rescuing a princess from the dragon's jaws, got up and placed the file in question on the doctor's desk. Eitan shot a vacant glance at him and then turned his icy eyes to his own fingers. Under the powerful theater lights his womanly fingers took on an unnatural pink glow: they almost looked transparent. He saw fit to aim another lethal salvo, at Fima:

"Do you happen to know what menstruation means? Then please tell Mrs. Licht, today—yes, on the phone—that I need to have her here exactly two days after she next menstruates. And if that doesn't sound nice on the phone, you can say two days after her next period. I don't care what you say. You can say after her festival, for all I care. The main thing is to fix an appointment for her accordingly. Thank you."

Wahrhaftig, like a man catching sight of a fire and hurrying over to throw the contents of the nearest bucket on it without stopping to check whether the bucket contains water or gasoline, intervened at this point:

"Festivals—that reminds me of a well-known story about Begin and Yasser Arafat."

And he embarked for the nth time on the story of how Begin's shrewdness once got the better of Arafat's villainy.

Eitan replied:

"I'd hang the pair of them."

"Gad's had a hard day," said Tamar.

And Fima added his own contribution:

"These are hard times everywhere. We spend all our time trying to repress what we're doing in the Territories, and the consequence is that the air's full of anger and aggression, and everybody's at everybody else's throat."

At this point Wahrhaftig asked what the difference was between Ramallah and Monte Carlo, and then launched into another anecdote. He started laughing heartily halfway between Monte Carlo and Ramallah. Then, remembering his position, he suddenly puffed himself up, flushed deep red with the network of veins throbbing in his cheeks, and thundered carefully:

"Please! The break is finished. Sorry. Fima! Tamar! Please close this beer garden right away! This whole country of ours is more Asian than Asia! Not even Asia! Africa! But at least in my clinic we are still working as in a civilized country." A superfluous exhortation, since by then Eitan had shrunk back to his room, Tamar had gone to wash her face, and Fima had not left his desk.

At half past five a tall, golden-haired woman in a beautiful black dress came out. She stopped at Firm's desk and asked, almost in a whisper, whether it showed. Whether she looked a fright. Fima, who had not heard the question, replied mistakenly to another one:

"Naturally, Mrs. Tadmor. Of course nobody will find out. You can rest assured. We are totally discreet here." Although he tactfully refrained from looking at her, he sensed her tears and added:

"There are some tissues in the box."

"Are you a doctor too?"

"No, ma'am. I'm only the receptionist."

"Have you been here long?"

"Right from the start. Ever since the clinic opened."

"You must have witnessed all sorts of scenes."

"We do have our awkward moments."

"And you're not a doctor?"

"No, ma'am."

"How many abortions do you do a day?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that question."

"I'm sorry for asking. Life has suddenly dealt me a cruel blow."

"I understand. I'm sorry."

"No, you don't understand. I didn't have ail abortion. Just a little treatment. But it was humiliating."

"I'm very sorry. Let's hope you'll feel better now."

"You've probably got it on record, exactly what they did to me."

"I never look into the medical notes, if that's what you mean."

"You're lucky you weren't born a woman. You can't even begin to guess what you were spared."

"I'm sorry. Can I get you some coffee, or tea?"

"You're always sorry. Why are you so sorry? You haven't even looked at me. You keep looking away."

"Sorry. I didn't notice. Instant or Turkish?"

"Strange, isn't it? I could have sworn you were a doctor too. It's not the white coat. Are you a student? Doing your practical stint?"

"No, ma'am. I'm just a clerk. Would you rather have a glass of water? There's some mineral water in the fridge."

"What's it like, working in a place like this for such a long time? What sort of a job is it for a man? Don't you develop an aversion to women? A physical aversion even?"

"I don't think so. Anyway, I can only speak for myself."

"So what about you? You don't have an aversion to women?"

"No, Mrs. Tadmor. If anything, the opposite."

"Oh! What's the opposite of an aversion?"

"Sympathy, perhaps? Curiosity? It's hard to explain."

"Why aren't you looking at me?"

"I don't like to cause embarrassment. There, the water's boiling. What's it to be, then? Coffee?"

"Embarrassment to yourself or to me?"

"Hard to say exactly. Maybe both. I'm not sure."

"Do you happen to have a name?"

"My name is Fima. Efraim."

"I'm Annette. Are you married?"

"I have been married, ma'am. Twice. Nearly three times."

"And I'm just getting divorced. To be more accurate, I am being divorced. Are you too shy to look at me? Afraid of being disappointed? Or maybe you just want to make sure you never have to hesitate whether to say hello to me if we meet in the street?"

"Sugar and milk, Mrs. Tadmor? Annette?"

"It would actually suit you, to be a gynecologist. Better than it suits that ridiculous old man who can't stick a rubber-gloved finger into me without trying to distract my attention with some joke about the Emperor Franz Joseph's deciding to punish God. May I use the phone?"

"Of course. I'll be back there, in the records room. When you've finished, just call me so we can make you another appointment. Do you need one?"

"Fima Efraim. Please. Look at me. Don't be afraid. I'm not going to cast a spell on you. Once, when I was beautiful, men used to fall for me like flies; now, even the assistant in the clinic won't look at me."

Fima looked up. And at once recoiled, because the combination of anguish and sarcasm he saw on her face made him throb with desire. He lowered his eyes to his papers and said carefully:

"But you are still a very beautiful woman. At least, to me you are. You don't want to make a phone call?"

"Not anymore. I changed my mind. I'm changing my mind about lots of things at the moment.
So
I'm not ugly?"

"On the contrary."

"You're not too good-looking yourself. Pity you've made the coffee. I didn't ask for anything. Never mind. You can drink it. And thank you."

She stopped at the door and added:

"You have my phone number. It's in your files."

Fima pondered this. The words "a new chapter" seemed rather cheap, yet he knew that in other times he might well have fallen for this Annette. But why only in other times? Finally, in Yael's old words, he said to himself, Your problem, pal.

And, after filing the papers away, he locked the records room and washed the cups, ready to close up.

A
FTER LOCKING UP THE CLINIC, HE TOOK A BUS INTO THE CENTER
of town and found a cheap eating place in a side street not far from Zion Square, where he had a mushroom pizza washed down with Coca-Cola and chewed a heartburn tablet. Because he did not have enough cash with him, he asked if he could pay by check, but was told he could not. He offered to leave his identity card and come back the next morning to pay. However, he could not find the document in question in any of his pockets: he had bought a new electric kettle on Sunday, or before the weekend, to replace the one he had burned out, and, not having enough cash, had left his identity card in the shop as security. Or was it at Steimatsk/s Bookshop? Finally, when he was beyond hope, a crumpled fifty-shekel note dropped out of his back pocket: his father must have put it there a couple of weeks ago.

During this search a telephone token came to light in one of his pockets, and Fima located a public call box outside the Sansur Building in Zion Square and phoned Nina Gefen; he vaguely remembered that her husband, Uri, was leaving or had already left for Rome. Maybe he could inveigle her into going to the Orion with him to see the French comedy with Jean Gabin that Tamar had told him about during the coffee break. He couldn't remember the name of the film.

But the voice that came on the line was the wooden voice of Ted Tobias, who asked dryly, with a heavy American accent, "What's up this time, Fima?" Fima mumbled, "Nothing. It's the rain," because he couldn't make out what Ted was doing at Nina Gefen's. Then he realized he had absent-mindedly dialed Yael's number instead of Nina's. Why had he lied and said it was raining? It hadn't rained a drop since the afternoon. Eventually he recovered his presence of mind and asked Ted how Dimi was and how they were getting on with enclosing their balcony. Ted reminded him that they had finished that job by the beginning of the winter. Yacl had taken Dimi to a children's play and wouldn't be back much before ten. Did he want to leave a message? Fima peered at his watch, guessed that it was not yet eight, and suddenly, without meaning to, asked Ted if he could invade him, in quotation marks, of course; there was something he wanted to discuss with him. He hurriedly said that he had already eaten, and that whatever happened he wouldn't stay more than half an hour.

"Okay," said Ted. "Fine. Come right on up. Just bear in mind that we're a bit busy this evening."

Fima took this as a hint that he shouldn't come, and that whatever happened he shouldn't stay till past midnight as he usually did. He was not offended; he even gallantly offered to come some other time. But Ted firmly and politely stood his ground.

"Half an hour will be fine."

Fima was particularly glad it was not raining, since he had no umbrella, and he did not want to visit the woman he loved looking like a drowned dog. He also noticed that it was getting colder, and decided that it might snow. This made him even happier. Through the window of the bus, somewhere near Mahane Yehuda Market, by the light of a street lamp, he saw a black slogan scrawled on a wall:
ARABS OUT
! Translating into German and substituting Jews for Arabs, he felt an upsurge of rage. On the spot, he appointed himself president and decided on a dramatic step. He would make an official visit to the Arab village of Deir Yassin on the anniversary of the massacre there and deliver a simple, trenchant statement amid the ruins of the village: Without going into the details of which side is more to blame, we Israeli Jews understand the depth of the suffering that the Palestinian Arabs have undergone during these past
forty
years, and to put an end to it we are willing to do anything that is reasonable, short of committing suicide. Such a speech would immediately echo through every Arab hovel; it would fire the imagination and might help to start the ball rolling. For a moment Fima hesitated between "start the ball rolling" and "achieve a breakthrough." Which would make a better heading for the short article he intended to write next morning for the weekend paper? Then he rejected them both and dropped the idea of the article.

In the elevator, on the way up to the sixth-floor flat in Beit Hakerem, he made up his mind to be calm and cordial this time, to try to talk to Ted as equal to equal, even on political topics, though normally he was very quickly irritated by the other's way of talking, his slow, balanced speech, his American accent and sort of desiccated logicality, his way of buttoning and unbuttoning his expensive knit jacket, like an official spokesman from the State Department.

Fima stood at the door for a couple of minutes without pressing the bell. He rubbed his soles on the doormat so he wouldn't bring any mud into the flat. While he was in the middle of this ball-less game of soccer, the door opened, and Ted helped him out of his overcoat, which had been turned into a snare by the rip in the lining.

"What foul weather," Fima said.

Ted asked if it was raining outside.

Even though it had stopped before he left the clinic, Fima replied pathetically: "Raining? A deluge, more like."

Without waiting to be asked, he advanced straight into Ted's study, leaving a trail of damp footprints across the hall. He proceeded steadily between piles of books, diagrams, sketches, and printouts on the floor until his progress was blocked by the massive desk on which stood Ted's word processor. He peered without permission at a mysterious green-and-black graph that was flickering on the screen. Joking about his hopelessness with computers, he began to urge Ted politely, as if he himself were the host and the other the guest: "Sit down, Teddy, sit down; make yourself at home." And without hesitating he grabbed the office chair in front of the computer screen.

Ted asked what he would like to drink. Fima answered:

"Anything. A glass of water. Don't waste any time. Or some brandy. Or else something hot. It really doesn't matter. I've only dropped in for a moment anyway."

With his broad, slow accent, with the dryness of a telephone operator, without a question mark at the end of any of his sentences, Ted stated:

"Okay. I'll get you a brandy. And you're sure, positive, you've had some supper."