Fima - Amos Oz [97]
Fima leaped forward to help Tamar, who was helping a dazed girl of about seventeen, pale as a sheet and thin as a matchstick, walk falteringly toward the recovery room. As though to atone for the sins of the whole male sex, Fima bustled here and there, hurrying to fetch a soft blanket, a cold glass of mineral water with a slice of lemon in it, paper tissues, aspirins. Later he called a taxi for her.
At four-thirty there was a coffee break. Dr. Wahrhaftig came and leaned on the reception desk, wafting a smell of medicine and disinfectant into Fima's face. His massive chest, blown up like that of a tsarist governor-general, and his broad round hips did give his heavy body the look of a basso profundo. His cheeks were crisscrossed by a network of unhealthy bluish, red, and pink blood vessels that were so close to the surface, you could almost take his pulse by their throbbing.
Lithe and silent, with velvety movements like a cat on hot tin, Dr. Eitan arrived. He was chewing gum slowly, impassively, with his mouth closed. His lips were thin and pursed. Wahrhaftig said:
"That was a very odd Schnitz. Just as well you stitched her up nice and tight."
Eitan said:
"We pulled her through. It didn't look too good."
Wahrhaftig said:
"About the transfusion: you were absolutely right."
Eitan said:
"Big deal. It was obvious from the start."
And Wahrhaftig said:
"God has given you clever fingers, Gad."
Fima interrupted gently:
"Drink your coffee. It's getting cold."
"Herr Exzellenz von Nisan!" roared Wahrhaftig. "And where has His Highness been hiding all these days? Has he been writing a new Faust for us? Or a Kohlhaas? We had almost forgotten what your face looks like!" He went on to recount a "well-known joke" about three layabouts. But he could not restrain himself from bursting into guffaws before he had even reached the third layabout.
Gad Eitan, lost in thought, suddenly remarked:
"Even so, we shouldn't have done it here, under a local. It should have been done in a hospital, with a general anesthetic. We nearly made a mess of it. We ought to think about it, Alfred."
Wahrhaftig, in an altered voice, said:
"What? Are you worried?"
Eitan took his time. After a pause he said:
"No. Not now."
Tamar hesitated, her mouth opened and closed twice, and finally she said warily:
"You look good in that white turtleneck, Gad. Would you rather have lemon tea instead of coffee?"
Eitan said:
"Yes, but no tail-wagging, please."
Wahrhaftig, a clumsy peacemaker, hastily turned the conversation to current affairs:
"So, what do you say about that Polish anti-Semite? They've learned nothing and forgotten nothing. Did you hear on the radio what the cardinal in Warsaw said about the Auschwitz convent? It's a straight replay of their old tunes: Why are the Jews so pushy, why are the Jews making such a fuss, why are the Jews inciting the whole world against poor Poland, why arc the Jews trying to make capital out of their dead again? After all, millions of Poles were killed too. And our cute little government, with old-fashioned Jewish obsequiousness, turns a blind eye to the whole thing. In any civilized country we'd have sent their chargé d'affaires home with a good kick in the you-know-where."
Eitan said:
"Don't you worry, Alfred. We won't take it lying down. One night we'll drop airborne commandos on them. A lightning raid. An Auschwitz Entebbe. We'll blow that convent sky high, and all our forces will return safely to base. Surprise will be total. The world will hold its breath like the good old days. Then Mr. Sharon and Mr. Shamir will gabble on about the long arm of the IDF and the renewal of Israel's deterrent force. They can christen it Operation Peace for the Crematoria."
Fima was instantly ignited. If I were prime minister, he thought, but before he could complete the thought,