Fima - Amos Oz [124]
Fima silently obeyed. He got up and found his coat, drank the remains of his second coffee, which had gone cold like its predecessor. She told me to go into town and buy an aquarium and some tropical fish for Dimi, he thought, so that's what I'll do. On his way out he managed to close the door behind him so carefully that it did not make the slightest sound. Then, as he walked northward, the same silence continued in the street and in his thoughts. He walked slowly the whole length of Hehalutz Street, to his own surprise trying to whistle the tune of the old song about the man they called Johnny Guitar. There, he said to himself, you could say that everything's lost or you could say that nothing's lost, and the two things are definitely not mutually exclusive. The situation seemed strange yet wonderful: he had not slept with his wife, yet he felt no lack in his body but, rather, the opposite, an exhilaration, an elation, a fulfillment, as though in some mysterious way there really had been deep and accurate intercourse between them. And as if in that intercourse with her he had finally begotten his son, his only son.
But in what sense?
The question seemed meaningless. In a senseless sense. So what.
When he reached Herzl Street, the fine rain reminded him that he had left his cap behind at Yael's, on the edge of the kitchen table. But he was not anxious, because he knew he would return. He still had to explain to her and to Dimi, and why not to Ted too, the secret of the Third State. But not now. Not today. There was no hurry. Even when he thought of Yoezer and the other reasonable, sane people who would live in Jerusalem instead of us a hundred years from now, he felt no anguish, but, on the contrary, a sort of shy inner smile. What's the matter? What's the hurry? Let them wait. Let them wait quietly for their turn. We definitely haven't concluded our business here yet. It's a slow business, a rotten business, there's no denying it, but one way or another we still haven't said our last word.
He boarded the first bus that stopped, without bothering to check its number or its destination. He sat down behind the driver and hummed to himself, shamelessly out of tune, the song about Johnny Guitar. He saw no reason to get off before the terminus, which happened to be Prophet Samuel Street. Despite the cold and the wind, Fima was in very good form.
29. BEFORE THE SABBATH
HE WAS SO HAPPY THAT HE DID NOT FEEL HUNGRY, DESPITE HAVING eaten nothing since the early morning, apart from the biscuits he nibbled in Yael's kitchen. When he got off the bus, the rain had stopped. Among the wisps of dirty cloud, islands of blue were shining. For some reason it seemed that the clouds were standing still and the blue islands were floating westward. And he felt that this blueness was aimed at him and was calling him to follow.
Fima began walking up Ezekiel Street. The first two lines of the song about Johnny Guitar were still resounding in his chest. But how did the song go on? Where in the world did Johnny end up? Where is he playing now?
There was a Sabbath eve smell in the Bukharian Quarter, even though it was still only half past twelve. Fima attempted to identify the components of this thick smell which reminded him of his childhood and of that fine excitement that used to course through him and through Jerusalem as the Sabbath approached. The smell sometimes began to fill the world even on Thursday afternoon, with the washing and the scrubbing and the cooking. The maid used to cook stuffed chicken's necks sewn up with a needle and thread. His mother would make a plum compote that was as sweet and sticky as glue. And sweet stewed carrots, and gefilte fish, and pies, or a strudel, or pastries filled with raisins. And all kinds of jams and marmalades, one of which was called varyennye in Russian. Vividly there came back to Fima, as he walked, the smell and appearance of the wine-colored borscht, a semisolid soup with blobs of fat floating on the surface like gold rings, which he used to fish for with