Fima - Amos Oz [118]
Yael cut him short again. She said frostily:
"Finish your coffee, Efraim. I have to go."
Fima asked where she had to go. He'd be happy to go with her. Anywhere at all. He had nothing to do this morning. They could continue their conversation. He believed it was vital and quite urgent. Or would it be better if he stayed behind and waited for her to come back, and then they could continue? He didn't mind waiting. It was Friday, his day off, the clinic was closed, and on Sunday he had the painters coming in, so the only prospect facing him at home was the depressing task of dismantling and packing. What did she think? Could she spare him Teddy for an hour or two on Saturday morning, to help take down the ... Never mind. He knew this was all ridiculous and irrelevant. Could he do some ironing till she came back? Or fold the laundry? One day, some other time, he'd like to tell her about a thought that had been preoccupying him recently, an idea that he called the Third State. No, it wasn't a political idea. It was more an existential idea, if one could still say "existential" without sounding corny. "Remind me sometime. Just say 'the Third State,' and I'll remember at once and explain it to you. Though it may be stupid. It's not important right now. After all, here in Jerusalem almost every other character you see is half prophet and half prime minister. Including Tsvika Kropotkin, including Shamir himself, that Brezhnev of ours. It's less like a city than a lunatic asylum. But I didn't come here to talk about Shamir and Brezhnev. I came here to talk about Dimi. Dimi says you and Teddy call me a clown behind my back. It may surprise you to learn that your son has taken to calling himself a clown too. Doesn't that shake you a little? I don't mind being called a clown. It suits somebody whose own father sees him as a shlemiel and a shlemazel. Although he's ridiculous too. The old man, I mean. Baruch. In some ways he's even more ridiculous than me or Dimi. He's another Jerusalem prophet with his own personal formula for salvation in three easy steps. He has a story about a cantor who gets stuck alone on a desert island for the High Holy Days. It doesn't matter. By the way, recently he's taken to whistling a bit. I mean wheezing. I'm rather worried. I may just be imagining things. What do you think, Yael? Maybe you could have a chat with him sometime, get him to go to the hospital for some tests? He's always had a soft spot for you. You might be the only person who can curb his Revisionist obstinacy. Which is a good illustration of what I meant about every other Jerusalemite wanting to be the Messiah. But so what? All of us must look ridiculous to an impartial observer. Even you, Yael, with your jet engines. Who needs jet engines around here when the only thing we are really short of is compassion and common sense? And all of us, including the impartial observer, are ridiculous when viewed by the mountains. Or the desert. Wouldn't you say that Teddy is ridiculous? That walking box. Or Tsvika? Only this morning I was reading a hysterical article of his, which tries to prove scientifically that the government is cut off from reality. As if reality lives in Tsvika's little pocket. Though there's no denying the government is full of people who are pretty dense, and some of them are quite unbalanced. But how did we get onto the government? That's what always happens to us: for once, we decide to have a serious chat about ourselves, about the child, about things that really matter, and somehow