Fima - Amos Oz [106]
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.
For a few moments he mulled over the details in his mind, casting the characters and directing die scenes. Then he grabbed the receiver and dialed Nina's office. When the telephone made no sound, he tried Annette. Once again the response was total silence. He called both numbers alternately five or six times, to no avail. All the systems in this country are breaking down. The lines of communication are congested, the hospitals are paralyzed, the electricity supply is unreliable, the universities are going bankrupt, factories are closing down one after another, education and research are sinking to the level of India's, public services are collapsing, and all because of this obsession with the Territories, which is gradually ruining us. How did the taxi driver put it: "Ever since that shit landed on us in 'sixty-seven, the state's been going to the dogs." Fima waved the telephone in the air, banged it on the table, shook it, ratded it, pleaded with it, swore at it, bashed it, and thumped it, but nothing helped. Then it occurred to him that he had only himself to blame. How many times had he ignored the printed notices he had found in his mailbox about the nonpayment of his bill. Now they had got their own back. They had cut him off from the world. Like a cantor on a desert island.
Cunningly he tried to dial again, very slowly and gently, like a burglar, like a lover. He could not remember if the emergency number for such eventualities was one four, one eight, or simply one hundred. He was ready and willing to settle his debt this very minute, to apologize in person or in writing, to give a lecture to the telephone workers on Christian mysticism, to pay a fine or a bribe, anything so long as they came at once to bring his telephone back to life. First thing in the morning he would go straight to the bank. Or was it the post office? He would pay his bill and be rescued from the desert island. But tomorrow, Fima remembered, was Friday, and all public offices were closed. Perhaps he should call his father and ask him to use his connections. Next week his father was turning his painters and plasterers loose on him. Maybe he should run away to Cyprus? Or the Galapagos Islands? Or at least to that guest house in Magdiel?
He changed his mind. He saw the situation in a fresh light. Immediately he felt better. Fate must have intervened to save him from Jean Gabin and the orgy. The words "desert island" filled him with joy. It would be wonderful to spend a quiet evening at home. Outside, the storm could ratde the windows to its heart's content: he would light the kerosene heater, sit down in the armchair, and try to get a little closer to the other Fima, the real one, instead of wearing himself out with diplomatic efforts to mollify two offended women and then exhausting himself all night to satisfy their appetites. He was particularly delighted that he was relieved, as though