Fima (18 page)

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.

D
IMI
T
OBIAS, 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 of Shamir and Peres?"

"Nothing. I've told you three times already."

In vain Fima suggested an adventure story, a computer game, jokes, a pillow fight, a game of dominoes. Something was weighing on the child, and though Fima quizzed him about school, about the afternoon at the neighbor's, tiredness, tummy aches, the U.S. space program, all he could get out of him was "Stop it." Could it be the beginning of tonsillitis? Pneumonia? Meningitis? Fima squeezed himself into the armchair, forcing the skinny Challenger to huddle even farther into his corner. He put an arm around the limp shoulders, and insisted:

"Tell me what's happened."

"Nothing," said Dimi.

"Where does it hurt?"

"Doesn't."

"Shall we be a little wild together? Or would you like to go to sleep? Your mother said to give you half a Valium. Do you want a story?"

"You already asked."

Fima was uneasy. Something nasty, something serious and possibly even dangerous was happening in front of his eyes and he could not think what to do. What would Teddy do now if he were here? He ran his fingers through the albino hair and muttered:

"But you're obviously not well. Where do they keep that Valium? Tell me."

Dimi recoiled from the caress and slipped away like a cat whose rest is disturbed. He tottered to the other armchair, and buried himself under a heap of cushions so that only his head and shoes were visible. His eyes blinked behind his thick lenses.

Fima, whose anxiety had turned into panic mixed with mounting anger, said:

"I'm going to call a doctor. But first we'll take your temperature. Where do they keep the thermometer?"

"Quit clowning," said Dimi. "Why don't you watch the news?"

As though he had been hit in the face, Fima sprang to his feet in a muddled frenzy and tried to switch on the television, but he pushed the wrong button. Instantly, realizing that he was being made a fool of, he regretted coddling the child and shouted at him:

"I'll give you sixty seconds to tell me what's wrong, and if you don't, I'm going to leave you here by yourself."

"Go then," said Dimi.

"Very well then," Fima snapped, attempting to imitate Ted's strictness and even his accent. "I'm going. Okay. But before I go, you've got exactly four minutes on the clock to get ready and into bed. And no fuss. Teeth, glass of milk, pajamas, Valium, the lot. And no more ridiculous scenes."

"You're the one who's making ridiculous scenes," said Dimi.

Fima walked out of the room and made his way to Ted's study. He had no intention of leaving the sick child alone. On the other hand, he had no idea how to retract his ultimatum, so he sat down on Teddy's padded chair in front of the computer, without turning the light on, and urged himself to think rationally. There were only two possibilities: either the child was developing some illness and needed immediate treatment, or he was tormenting him on purpose, and he, Fima, was behaving like a clown. Suddenly he felt full of pity for the pale, tortured Challenger. And for himself too: "They hadn't even bothered to leave a phone number. They're probably having a night out in Tel Aviv, living it up in some exotic restaurant or nightclub, without so much as a thought for us. What if something terrible is happening? How can I get hold of them? What if he's swallowed something? Caught a lethal virus? Appendicitis? Polio? Or perhaps it's his parents who are in trouble? A car crash on the way back to Jerusalem? Or a terrorist attack?"

Fima made up his mind to ask the downstairs neighbor. On second thought he did not know what he could say to her, and was afraid of again making a fool of himself.

So he walked back sheepishly to the living room and wheedled:

"Are you angry with me, Dimi? Why are you doing this to me?"

A ghost of a tired old man's smile flitted across the child's mouth. In a factual tone he remarked:

"You're bugging me."

"In that case," Fima said, fighting back a fresh wave of fury, a mighty urge to give this devious, impertinent creature a small slap across the face, "you can be bored all by yourself. Good night. I'll forget you."

But instead of leaving he feverishly pulled down from the shelf the first book his fingers encountered. It turned out to be an orange-bound tome in English on the history of Alaska in the eighteenth or nineteenth century. Collapsing onto the couch, he began to leaf through it, straining to take in the pictures at least. He made up his mind to pay no attention to the little enemy. But he had trouble concentrating. Every now and then he peeked at his watch. Whenever he looked, it was always twenty-five past nine, and he was furious not only because time seemed to be standing still but also because he had missed the news. A sense of disaster weighed on his chest like a stone. Something really bad is happening. Something you are going to regret bitterly. Something that will eat away at you for days and years, while you wish in vain that you could turn back the clock to this moment and correct the terrible error. To do the simple, obvious thing that only a blind man or an idiot would not be doing now. But what is that thing? Time and again he stole a glance at Dimi, who was lying inside his den of cushions in the armchair, blinking. Eventually he managed to latch onto the story of the early whale hunters who reached Alaska from New England and set up beach stations that were often attacked by savage nomads who had crossed the Bering Straits from Siberia. And suddenly Dimi said:

"Tell me something. What's edema?"

"I don't know exactly," said Fima. "It's the name of an illness. Why?"

"What kind of illness?"

"Show me where it hurts. Fetch the thermometer. I'll call a doctor."

"Not me," said Dimi. "Winston."

"Who's Winston?" It occurred to Fima that the child might be delirious. To his surprise this discovery made him feel easier. Now, how could he get hold of a doctor? Call Tamar and ask her advice. Not
our
doctors, that's for sure. Not Annette's husband, either. And anyway, what
was
edema?

"Winston's a dog. Tslil Weintraub's dog."

"Is the dog ill?"

"He was."

"And you're afraid you may have caught it?"

"No. We killed him."

"Killed him? Why did you do that?"

"They said he had edema."

"Who killed him?"

"Only he isn't dead."

"He's not alive and he's not dead."

"He's alive and he's also dead."

"Will you explain that to me?"

"I can't explain."

Fima stood up and put one hand on Dimi's forehead and the other on his own. He couldn't feel any difference. Maybe they were both ill?

"It was murder," said Dimi. And suddenly, horrified by what had come out of his mouth, he snatched another cushion and, hiding his face behind it, began to sob. Broken, strangled gasps that sounded like hiccups. Fima tried to pull the cushion away, but Dimi held fast to it and would not let go, so he gave up. And he realized that there was no illness, no fever, but suffering that required patience and silence. He sat down on the rug in front of the armchair and took Dimi's hand, feeling that he too was close to tears and that he loved this weird child with his thick glasses and paper-white hair, his stubbornness, his knowingness, his perpetual air of solitary, premature old age. Fima's body ached from holding back the urge to snatch the sobbing creature up from the armchair and squeeze him to his chest with all his strength. Never in his life had he felt such a strong desire to press himself against a woman's body as he felt now to hold Dimi. But he controlled himself and did not stir so long as the gasps continued. Until Dimi stopped. And, oddly, it was just when he fell silent that Fima said gently:

"That's enough now, Dimi."

Suddenly the child slid out of the chair and into his arms. He huddled against Fima so hard, he seemed to be burrowing inside him. And he said:

"I will tell."

And he began to talk, clearly, in a soft, steady voice, without any more sobs and without halting for a moment to search for a word, even blinking less than before, about how they had found the dog crouching in the dirt among the trash cans. A repulsive sort of dog, with a mangy back, with open wounds and flies on one of his hind legs. Once he had belonged to a friend of theirs, Tslil Weintraub, but ever since the Weintraubs went abroad he belonged to nobody. He just lived on scraps. The dog was lying on his side behind the cans, coughing like someone who smokes too much. They gave him a medical examination, and Yaniv said, "He's going to die soon, he's got edema." Then they forced his mouth open and made him swallow a spoonful of a medicine invented by Ninja Marmelstein: muddy water from the pond mixed with a little sand and leaves and a little powdery cement and some aspirin from Yaniv's mother. Then they decided to carry him down to the wadi in a blanket and do the sacrifice of Isaac with him as they learned in Bible. It was Ronen's idea, and he even ran home and got a bread knife. All the way to the wadi this Winston lay quietly in the blanket. Actually he seemed happy, wagging his tail gratefully. Maybe he thought they were taking him to the vet. Anyone who came close to him got a lick on his face or his hands. In the wadi they collected stones and built an altar, and they put the unresisting dog on it. He looked at them all with a kind of curiosity, like a baby, trustingly, as though he was sure he was among loving friends, or as if he understood the game and was glad to be playing. His wounds were revolting, but his face was cute, with brown eyes that showed sense and feeling. "There's this thing sometimes—isn't that right, Fima?—when you look at an animal and you think it can remember things that human beings have forgotten. Or at least it looks like it." Anyway, he was a dirty, rather irritating dog, covered with fleas and ticks, always fawning on everyone; he loved to put his head on your knees and drool.

Dimi's idea was to pick some greenery and flowers and decorate the altar. He even arranged a little wreath for Winston's head, as they do
in nursery school when it's somebody's birthday. They tied his arms and legs together firmly, and even so he didn't stop fawning and being glad and wagging his tail all the time, as though he was happy to be the center of attention. Anyone who wasn't careful got a lick. Then they drew lots: Ninja Marmelstein had to chant the prayers, Ronen had to dig the grave, and he, Dimi, got the job of killing him. At first he tried to get out of it—he had the excuse that his sight wasn't too good—but they made fun of him, and got angry, and said a draw is a draw, stop being such a bleeding heart. So he had no choice. Only it wouldn't work. The knife was shaking in his hand and the dog kept moving all the time. Instead of cutting the throat, he cut off half an ear. The dog went mad and started to cry like a baby and bit the air. Dimi had to cut again, quickly, to stop the howling. But this time instead of the throat the knife went into something soft near the belly, because Winston wriggled and squealed and bled a lot. Yaniv said, So what? It's not so terrible; its only a smelly old Arab dog. And Ninja said, And he's got edema; he's going to die anyway. The third time Dimi struck with all his might, but he hit a rock and the knife broke in half. He was left holding just the handle. Ninja and Yaniv grabbed Winston's head and said Come on, hurry up, you dummy. Pick up the blade and cut real fast. But there wasn't enough of the blade left, and it was impossible to saw the throat; it was all slippery with the blood. And each time it cut in the wrong place. In the end everyone was covered with blood. How can it be that a dog has so much blood? Maybe it was because of the edema. Yaniv and Ninja and Ronen started running away, and the dog bit through the rope and got free, but only the front legs; the back ones stayed tied, and with shrieks, not dog shrieks, more like a woman shrieking, he dragged himself away on his belly and disappeared into the bushes, and when Dimi realized the others weren't there, he ran after them in a panic. He found them at last hiding in the garage underneath the block of flats. There was a tap there and they had managed to wash the blood off, but they didn't let him wash and they blamed him. It was all his fault Winston was not alive and not dead, cruelty to dumb animals, his fault Ronen's knife from home got broken, and they blamed him because he would tell on them, they knew him, and they started kicking him and they got some more rope, and Ninja said, Now there's an
intifada
going on here. Let's hang Dimi. Only Ronen was relatively fair and said to them, First just let me put his glasses somewhere so they don't get broken. That was why he didn't see who tied him and who, after they beat him, stood and peed on him. So they left him tied up down there in the car park and ran away, shouting that he had it coming to him, why did he kill Winston. He didn't tell the neighbor who was supposed to be looking after him. He just said he got dirty from the pond. If his parents found out, it would be the end of him.