Fima - Amos Oz [17]
When he had free time between answering the telephone and keeping his records up to date, Fima would read a novel in English or a biography of a statesman. Generally, though, he did not read books, but devoured the two evening papers he had bought on the way, taking care not to miss even the short news items, the commentary, the gossip: embezzlement in the co-op in Safed, a case of bigamy in Ashkelon, a story of unrequited love in Kfar Saba. Everything concerned him. After scouring the papers, he would sit back and remember. Or convene cabinet meetings, dressing his ministers up as revolutionary guerrillas, lecturing them, prophesying rage and consolation, saving the children of Israel whether they wanted it or not, and bringing peace to the land.
Between treatments, when the doctors and the nurses emerged for their coffee break, Fima would sometimes suddenly lose his ability to listen. He would wonder what he was doing here, what he had in common with these strangers. And where he ought to be if not here. But he could find no answer to that question. Even though he felt, painfully, that somewhere someone was waiting for him, surprised he was so late. Then, after scrabbling for a long time in his pockets, he would find a heartburn tablet, swallow it, and continue scanning the newspapers in case he had missed what really mattered.
Gad Eitan was Alfred Wahrhaftig's ex-son-in-law: he had been married to Wahrhaftig's only daughter, who ran away to Mexico with a visiting poet she had fallen for while working at the Jerusalem Book Fair. Wahrhaftig, the founder of the clinic and the senior partner, held Gad Eitan in strange awe: he would lavish on him little gestures of submission and deference which he camouflaged with explosions of polite rage. Dr. Eitan, who although his particular specialty was infertility also served whenever necessary as the anesthetist, was an icy, taciturn man. He had a habit of staring long and hard at his fingers. As if he was afraid of losing them, or as if their very existence never ceased to amaze him. The fingers in question were well shaped and long, and wonderfully musical. He also moved like a drowsy wild beast, or one that was just waking up. At times a thin, chilly smile spread over his face: his watery eyes took no part in it. Evidently his coolness aroused in women a certain confidence and excitement, and an urge to shake him out of his indifference or to melt his cruelty. Eitan would ignore any hint of an overture, and respond to confessions on the part of a patient with a dry phrase such as "Well, yes, but there's no alternative" or "What can one do: these things happen."
In the middle of Wahrhaftig's stories Eitan would sometimes turn quickly through one hundred and eighty degrees, like the turret of a tank, and vanish on cat's paws through the door of his consulting room. It seemed as though all people, men and women alike, caused a faint revulsion in him. And because he had known for several years that Tamar was in love with him, he enjoyed occasionally firing an acerbic remark at her:
"What do you smell of" today?"
Or:
"Straighten your skirt, will you, and stop wasting your knees on us. We have to watch that kind of view at least twenty times a day."
This time he said:
"Would you kindly put that artist's vagina and cervix on my desk. Yes, the famous lady. Yes, the results of her tests. What did you think I meant? Yes, hers, I've no use for yours."
Tamar's eyes, the green left one and the brown right one, filled with tears. And Fima, with an air of someone rescuing a princess from the dragon's jaws, got up and placed the file in question on the doctor's desk. Eitan shot a vacant glance at him and then turned his icy eyes to his own fingers. Under the powerful theater lights his womanly fingers took on an unnatural