Fima - Amos Oz [137]
Thinking about his own room filled him with disgust: that arid stretch of time from now till tonight, and in fact rill Saturday night, when the group might be getting together at Shula and Tsvi's. Everything he'd meant to do today he hadn't, and now it was too late: shopping, the post office, the telephone, cash from the bank, Annette. And something else that was urgent but he couldn't remember what it was. Added to which, he still had to get ready for the painters. Shift the furniture and cover it. Pack away the books and kitchen things. Take the pictures down, and the map of the country with the compromise borders penciled in. Ask Mr. Pizanti to dismantle the bookcases for him. But first of all, he decided, he must call Tsvi Kropotkin right away. Explain to him tactfully, without offending him this time, without being sarcastic, how his article in the latest issue of Politics was based on a false and simplistic assumption.
Provided the telephone had recovered in the meantime.
In front of the entrance to his building, inside a white car with the windows closed, a large man was sitting bent over, his arms resting on the steering wheel and his head buried in his arms, apparently dozing. What if it was really a heart attack? Murder? A terrorist attack? Suicide? Gathering his courage, Fima tapped lightly on the window. Uri Gefen straightened up at once, lowered the window, and said:
"So there you are. At last."
Startled, Fima tried to respond with something witty, but Uri cut him short. He said softly:
"Let's go upstairs. We have to talk."
Nina has told him everything. That I made love to her. That I didn't. That I humiliated her. But what's he doing here anyway? Isn't he supposed to be in Rome? Or has he got a secret double?
"Look here, Uri," he said, the blood leaving his face and draining into his liver, "I don't know what Nina's told you, but the fact is that for some time now..."
"Hold it. We'll talk when we get upstairs."
"The fact is, I've been meaning for some time..."
"We'll talk inside, Fima."
"But when did you get back?"
"This morning. Half past ten. And your phone's not working."
"How long have you been waiting for me out here?"
"Three-quarters of an hour or so."
"Has something happened?"
"Just a minute. We'll talk when we get upstairs."
When they were in the flat, Fima offered to make some coffee. Although the milk seemed to have gone bad. Uri looked so tired and thoughtful that Fima was ashamed to bring up the question of dismantling the bookcases. He said:
"I'll put the water on first."
Uri said:
"Just a moment. Sit down. Listen carefully. I have some bad news." And with these words he laid his big, warm peasant hand, which was rough like the bark of an olive tree, on the back of Fima's neck. As always, the touch of this hand made Fima shudder pleasurably. He closed his eyes like a stroked cat. And Uri said:
"We've been looking for you since lunchtime. Tsvi's been here twice and left a note on your door. Because your clinic's closed on Fridays, Teddy and Shula have been rushing around for two hours trying to locate your doctors. We didn't know where you'd got to after you left Yael's. And I just dropped my luggage off and came straight here to catch you as soon as you got back."
Fima opened his eyes. He looked up at Uri's towering form with an anxious, pleading, childlike expression. He did not feel surprised, because he had always expected it would be something like this. With his lips only, without any voice, he asked:
"Dimi?"
"Dimi's fine."
"Yael?"
"It's your father."
"He's not well. I know. For several days now..."
Uri said:
"Yes. No. Worse."
In a strange and wonderful way Fima was infected