Fima - Amos Oz [72]
"So tell me: how long do you think we should go on murdering each other?"
The driver said:
"Another hundred years if necessary. That's how long it was in Bible times. There's no such thing as peace between Jews and goyim. Either they're on top of us and we're underneath, or they're underneath and we're sitting on top of them. Maybe when the Messiah comes, he'll show them their rightful place. Good night, sir. You shouldn't feel sorry for them. It'll be better for this country when Jews start feeling sorry for each other. That's our problem."
In the entrance hall, near the bottom of the stairs, Fima saw a plump man sitting motionless under the mailboxes, huddled in a heavy cloak. He was so startled that he almost turned and ran after the taxi, which was maneuvering to turn around farther down the street. For a moment he weighed the possibility that this wretched person was none other than himself, sitting and waiting for the dawn to break because he had lost the key to his flat. Then he blamed this thought on his fatigue: it was not a person after all, only a tattered rolled-up mattress that one of his neighbors must have abandoned there. Nevertheless he switched the light on and groped frantically in his pockets until he located his key. There was a sheet of paper or a letter showing in his box, but he decided to wait till morning. If he had not been so tired, or so muddled, if it had not been so late, he would not have given up so easily. He should never have let that pass. It was his bounden duty to try to change the driver's mind with calm, cogent arguments, without losing his temper. Deep down under several poisoned layers of cruelty and fear there had to lurk some glimmering of reason. We must endeavor to believe that it is possible to dig down and rescue the goodness buried under the rubble. There is still a chance of changing a few minds and opening a chapter here. At any rate, it is our duty to keep on trying. We must not give in.
17. NIGHTLIFE
AND SINCE THE TAXI DRIVER HAD USED THE EXPRESSION "KILL THEM when they're young," Fima remembered the mysterious case of the death of Trotsky. Going to the kitchen for a glass of water before retiring to bed, he peered into the trash can under the sink to see if there were any more corpses. Then, noticing the sparkling aluminum of the new Korean kettle, he decided to make some tea. While the water was boiling, he bolted down two or three thick slices of black bread and jam. And immediately had to swallow a heartburn tablet. Standing in front of the open fridge, he brooded on Annette's misfortune. He felt that he could identify with the cruel injustice she had suffered; he could share her humiliation and despair. But at the same time and without contradiction he could understand the husband, the doctor, the dependable, hard-working man who had held back for decades, whistling occasionally between his front teeth, tapping gently on inanimate objects, until he felt the fear of approaching old age and realized that this was his last chance to stop dancing to his wife's tiresome tune and start living his own life. Just now he's sleeping in his young girlfriend's arms in some Italian hotel, his knee between her knees, a man rejuvenated; but some time soon he will make the discovery that she too wears a sanitary napkin inside her underpants, uses a scented deodorant to cover the smell of her sweat and other secretions, anoints herself with greasy creams in front of her mirror, and perhaps even goes to sleep beside him with curlers in her hair, just like his wife. And hangs her underwear to dry on the shower-curtain rod so that it drips on his head. And affects migraines and irritating mannerisms just at the moment his desire begins to stir.
"Mannerheim!" Fima suddenly exclaimed aloud with