Fima - Amos Oz [145]
Returning, he joined Dimi on the carpet, got down on his knees, and asked:
"Do you know the legend of Atlantis?"
Dimi said:
"Sure I do. There was a program about it once on educational TV. It's not exactly a legend."
"What is it then? Fact?"
"Of course not."
"So, if it's not a legend and it's not fact?"
"It's a myth. A myth is not the same thing as a legend. It's more like a nucleus."
"Where was this Atlantis, roughly?"
Dimi turned the illuminated globe a little and gently placed a pale hand on the ocean that glowed from the depths in the radiance of the electric light between Africa and South America, and the boy's fingers were also illuminated with a ghostly glow.
"Roughly here. But it makes no difference. It's more in the mind."
"Tell me something, Dimi. Do you think there's anything after we die?"
"Why not?"
"Do you believe Granpa can hear us right now?"
"There isn't that much to hear."
"But can he?"
"Why not?"
"And can we hear him?"
"In our minds, yes."
"Are you sad?"
"Yes. Both of us. But it's not good-bye. You can go on loving."
"So—we shouldn't be afraid of dying?"
"No, that isn't possible."
"Tell me something, Dimi. Have you had any supper tonight?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Then give me your hand."
"What for?"
"Nothing. Just to feel."
"Feel what?"
"Nothing special."
"Stop it, Fima. Go back to your friends."
At this point their conversation was interrupted, because Dr. Wahrhaftig burst into the room, red-faced, panting, and ranting, as if he had come to put a stop to some scandal rather than offer his condolences. Fima was unable to conceal his smile when he noticed for the first time a resemblance between Wahrhaftig and the Ben Gurion who bellowed at his father in Rashbam Street forty years before. Tamar Greenwich arrived with the doctor, nervous, rather weepy, full of good intentions. Fima turned toward them, patiently accepted the handshake and the hug, but did not catch what they were saying to him. For some reason his lips muttered vacantly:
"Never mind. No harm done. These things happen."
Apparently they too failed to catch what was said. They were quickly given a glass of tea.
At half past eight, seated again in his father's armchair, with his legs comfortably crossed, Fima pushed away the yogurt and the roll with pickled herring that Teddy had placed in front of him. He removed the arm that Uri put around his shoulder. And he declined Shula's offer of a blanket for his lap. He suddenly handed back to Nina the brown envelope he had removed from her attaché case earlier and told her to start reading the will aloud.
"Now?"
"Now."
"Even though usually..."
"Even though usually."
"But Fima..."
"Now, please."
After a hesitation and an exchange of rapid glances with Tsvi and Yael and Uri, Nina decided to comply. She drew two closely typed sheets of paper from the envelope. In the silence that had fallen she started to read, at first with some embarrassment and then in her professional voice, which was calm and detached.
First came detailed, punctilious instructions concerning the conduct of the funeral and the memorial service and the tombstone. Then came the substance. Boris Baruch Nomberg bequeathed two hundred and forty thousand United States dollars to be divided in unequal parts among the sixteen foundations, organizations, associations, and committees that were listed in alphabetical order, each name accompanied by the relevant sum of money. At the head of the list came the Association for the Promotion of Religious Pluralism and at the bottom the Zeal for Torah Orthodox School. After this last item and the signatures of the deceased, the notary, and the witnesses, came the following lines:
"With the exception of the property in Reines Street, Tel