Fima - Amos Oz [110]
Instead of going back to bed, he continued standing on the kitchen balcony in his long-sleeved undershirt, amid the vestiges of cages, jars, and boxes where he and Dimi had once kept their bottle of worms. Now these exuded the rank smell of decay, of wet sawdust mixed with blackened droppings and remains of rotting food: carrots and cucumber peel and cabbage leaves and lettuce. At the beginning of the winter Dimi had decided to free the tortoises, insects, and snails they had collected in the wadi.
And where was the snow of last night?
It was as if it had never been.
It had gone without a trace.
The barren hills to the south of Jerusalem stood purged, flooded in blue radiance, so that it was almost possible to make out silvery flashes on the underside of the leaves of distant olive trees along the ridge of Beit Jalla. It was a cold, sharp light, crystal clear, sent to us perhaps as an advance against the distant days when suffering would end, when Jerusalem would be freed from its torments, and the people who took our place would live their lives calmly, considerately, rationally, and with good taste: then the light of the sky would be like this forever.
It was bitter cold, but Fima, in his yellowing winter undershirt, did not feel it. He stood leaning on the railing, filling his lungs with the winelike air, marveling at the fact of suffering in the midst of such beauty. A minor miracle had occurred below him in the back yard. An eccentric, impatient almond tree had decided suddenly to flower, as though it had got its calendar mixed up. It was covered with tiny glowworms that had forgotten to switch themselves off at the arrival of dawn. Myriad raindrops sparkled on the pink blossoms. The glittering almond tree reminded Fima of a slim, pretty woman who has cried all night and not wiped away her tears. This image caused him childlike joy, and love, and a longing for Yael, for all women indiscriminately, with the bold resolution to open a new chapter in his life, starting this morning: to be from now on a rational, straightforward man, a good man, freed from falsehood and all pretense. So he put on a clean shirt and Yael's sweater. With a boldness that surprised him he climbed the stairs and firmly pressed the upstairs neighbors' bell. After a few moments Mrs. Pizanti opened the door in a dressing gown half unbuttoned over her nightdress. Her wide, childlike face struck Fima as distorted, or even beaten. But perhaps that was more or less what anyone waked from sleep looked like. Behind her, in the pale neon light of the entrance hall, her husband's eyes were glittering. He was a hirsute, athletic-looking individual, much taller than his wife. She asked anxiously if something had happened. Fima said:
"Sorry. Nothing. I thought maybe something fell down in your flat? Or broke? I just thought, I imagined, I heard ... something like that? I must have been mistaken. Perhaps it was just an explosion a long way off. Perhaps the Messianic Faithful dynamited the Temple Mount and turned it into a Vale of Tears."
"Sorry?" said Mrs. Pizanti, staring at Fima with bewilderment and some apprehension.
Her husband, an x-ray technician, replied from behind her back in a tone that struck Fima as not entirely honest:
"Everything's a hundred percent in here, Dr. Nisan. When you ring the bell, I think maybe you have some problem. No? You are short something? Out of coffee again? Blown a fuse? I come and change it for you?"
"Thank you," Fima said, "that's very kind of you. I've