Fima - Amos Oz [63]
This biblical phrase, "his place does not know him," so moved and fascinated him that he had to whisper it to himself. Suddenly, illuminated, he could see a whole sublime, beguiling Utopia enfolded in that everyday phrase. He made up his mind not to talk to Tamar about it, so as not to add insult to injury.
Tamar said:
"Look: the kerosene heater is almost empty. Why are you talking to yourself?"
Fima said:
"I put the electric one on in Gad's room. I didn't go into Alfred's room at all. I'll do it in a minute."
Then he grasped what he was being asked, and went outside to refill the container. When he came back in, there was an urgent roll of thunder, as though a desperate tank battle had begun. Fima suddenly remembered the text "He toucheth the hills and they smoke," and he could almost visualize it. He trembled. From the flat upstairs came the sound of the cello, slow, solemn, soft, the same two heavy phrases repeated over and over again. Even though it was only half past three, the room was growing so dark that Tamar had to switch the light on to see her crossword puzzle. As she stood there with her back to him, Fima made up his mind to stand behind her and hug her, to bury her weary head in the hollow of his neck and switch off their thoughts, to sprinkle kisses on the nape of her neck and the roots of her lovely hair gathered up into such a neat little bun, which could be undone for once and set free. But he thought better of this, and they spent a little while together trying to guess the identity of a famous Finnish general, ten letters. At that moment Fima resigned himself to the realization that, when all was said and done, he was not made of the stuff of great leaders who have the power to make history, to end wars, to heal the hearts of the masses consumed by suspicion and despair. He derived some comfort from the thought that the present political leaders were not made of this stuff either. Less so, if anything.
15. BEDTIME STORIES
DIMI TOBIAS, AN ALBINO CHILD WITH THICK GLASSES AND SMALL red eyes, was ten years old but looked younger. He said little and spoke politely, in well-balanced sentences, sometimes surprising grownups with his striking phraseology and his cultivated ingenuousness, in which Fima imagined he could detect a trace of irony. His father sometimes called him a Levantine Einstein, but Yael complained that she was bringing up a devious, manipulative child.
He was sitting in the living room, huddled silently in a corner of his father's wide armchair, looking like an elongated parcel that had been abandoned on a park bench. In vain did Fima attempt to get him to say what the trouble was. All through the evening Dimi sat motionless, apart from his rabbit's eyes that blinked nonstop behind the thick lenses. Was he thirsty? Did he want a glass of milk? Juice? Fima had made up his mind that the child was dehydrating and needed fluids. Some ice water, perhaps? Some whisky?
Dimi said:
"Stop it."
Fima, who was certain he was not doing the right thing but was damned if he could think what he ought to be doing or saying, opened a window to let in some cool air. Then it struck him that the child might be nursing the flu, so he hurriedly closed it. He poured himself a glass of mineral water in the kitchen and came back to the living room to drink it, perhaps in the hope that Dimi would follow his example and drink something too.
"Sure you're not thirsty?"
Dimi raised his pale face slightly and looked at Fima with consternation, as one looks at a grownup who is getting into difficulties but who cannot be helped. Fima attempted another line:
"Well, let's play cards then. Or how about a game of Monopoly? Or would you like to watch the news with me? Just show me how to switch on this TV of yours."
"You press the button. The top one," Dimi said. And he added:
"You don't offer spirits to a child."
Fima said:
"Course you don't. I was just trying to make you laugh. Tell me what you feel like doing. Shall I do an impersonation