Fima - Amos Oz [115]
Nevertheless he persisted. He did not retreat. He would wage a war of attrition against this recalcitrant organ. We'll see who cracks first. The limp, shellfish-like flesh between his fingers suddenly put him in mind of a lizard, some kind of grotesque creature that had emerged from the depths of the evolutionary process and now clung irritatingly to his body. In another century or two people would probably be able to replace this troublesome appendage with a neat mechanical device that would drain the body's superfluous fluids at a touch. The whole absurd association between the processes of urination and copulation in a single organ struck him as a crude expression of vulgar adolescent humor, in poor taste: it would be no more distasteful if humans reproduced by spitting into each other's mouths or by blowing their noses into each other's ears.
Meanwhile the cistern had refilled. Fima pulled the handle again, and succeeded in releasing another intermittent jet, which once again ceased the moment the water stopped pouring. He was furious: to think of all the massive efforts he had invested over the past thirty years in gratifying every whim and appetite of this pampered, selfish, corrupt, insatiable reptile, which turned you into a mere vehicle created for the sole purpose of conveying it comfortably from female to female, and after all that it repaid you with such ingratitude.
As though addressing a naughty child, Fima said:
"All right, You've got exactly one minute to make your mind up. In another fifty-five seconds by my watch I'm zipping up and going, and after that you can burst for all I care."
This threat only seemed to reinforce the reptile's recalcitrance: it seemed to shrivel between his fingers. Fima was determined not to yield this time. Furiously he zipped up his fly and banged down the lid of the toilet. He slammed the bathroom door behind him. Five minutes later he slammed the door of the flat, strode past the mailbox without succumbing to the temptation to take out the newspaper, and marched resolutely toward the shopping center. He had made up his mind to go to the bank to see to four transactions, which he recited to himself as he walked along, so as not to forget. First, draw some cash. He had had enough of going around without a penny in his pocket. Second, pay all his bills: telephone, water, kerosene, sewage, gas, electricity. Third, find out at last the state of his account. By the time he reached the newspaper-and-stationery shop on the corner, he had forgotten the fourth thing. He strained his mind, but it was no good. On the other hand he noticed a new issue of Politics displayed on the inside of the closed door of the shop. He went in and perused it for a quarter of an hour, shocked to read Tsvi Kropotkin's article, which maintained that the chances of peace were nil, at least for the foreseeable future. He must go and see Tsvika this very morning and read the riot act to him about the defeatism of the intelligentsia: not the kind of defeatism that our opponents on the hawkish right so stridently accuse us of, but something else, something deeper and in the long term more serious.
His upsurge of fury yielded some benefit: as soon as he left the shop, he cut across a waste plot, entered an unfinished building, and barely had time to unzip his fly before his bladder emptied itself with a rush. He felt so triumphant that he did not even mind getting his shoes and trouser cuffs muddy. Proceeding northward, he walked past the bank without seeing it, but observed with excitement that the almond tree in his back garden was not the only one that had blossomed without waiting for the Trees' New Year. Although on second thought he was not sure about this, because