Fima (36 page)

"Dost thou here also dwell, my good man? Beside Spasov I dwell, close by the V—Monastery, in the service of Marfa Sergeyevna, who is the sister of Avdotya Sergeyevna, if Your Honor might condescend to recall, her leg she broke as from the carriage she leaped, when to the ball then she was going. Now beside the monastery she dwells, and I—in her house."

Uri had said:

"You could go around the country giving public performances."

And Teddy said:

"It's straight out of the wedding scene in
The Deerhunter
—what was it called in Hebrew?"

Whereas Yael remarked dryly, almost to herself:

"Why do you all encourage him? Just look at what he's doing to himself."

Fima now accepted those words of hers like a slap in the face that brought tears of gratitude to his eyes. And he resolved that he would never again make a fool of himself in her presence. Or in the presence of others. From now on he would concentrate.

While he was standing there preparing his new life, staring at the names of the residents inscribed on a row of worn mailboxes in the hallway of a gray stone building, startled to see that there was a Pizani family here too and half surprised not to find his own name underneath it, a smooth-talking Sephardi rabbinical student, a thin, bespectacled youth clad in the costume of an Ashkenazi Hasid, addressed him politely. Warily, as if fearing a violent reaction, he urged Fima to fulfill the commandment of putting on tefillin, here, on the spot. Fima said:

"So, will that hasten the coming of the Messiah, in your opinion?"

The youth replied at once, eagerly, as though he had prepared himself for this very question, in a North African accent with a Yiddish lilt:

"It will do your soul good. You will feel relief and joy instantly, something amazing."

"In what sense?" asked Fima.

"It's a well-known fact, sir. Tried and tested. The arm tefillin cleanses the defilement of the body and the head tefillin washes all the dirt out of the soul."

"And how do you know that I have a defiled body and a dirty soul?"

"Heaven forbid that I should say such a wicked thing. Lest I sin with my lips. Every Jew, even if he be a sinner—may it not happen to us!—his soul was present at Mount Sinai. This is a well-known fact. That is why every Jewish soul shines forth like the heavenly radiance. Nevertheless, sometimes it happens, sadly, on account of all our troubles, on account of all the rubbish that life in this lower world is always heaping on us, that the heavenly radiance inside the soul becomes dirty, so to speak. What does a man do if he gets dirt inside the engine of his car? Why, he takes it to be cleaned out. That is an allegory of the dirt in the soul. The commandment of putting on tefillin cleanses that dirt out of you instantly. In a moment you will feel like new."

"And what good will it do you if a nonbeliever puts on tefillin once and then goes on sinning?"

"Well, you sec, it's like this, sir. First, even once helps. It improves the maintenance. One commandment leads to another. It's also like a car: after so many kilometers you service it, clean out the carburetor, change the oil, and all that. Naturally, once you've invested a little something in maintenance, you start to take better care of your car. So it keeps its value. Gradually you get into a daily maintenance routine, as we call it. I give you this example only as an illustration, to help you grasp the idea."

"I don't have a car," Fima said.

"No, really? You see, it's true what they say: everything comes from Heaven. I've got a car for you. A bargain like you've never seen. A once-in-a-lifetime chance. But first let's mark the difference between sacred and profane."

"I can't drive," said Fima.

"We'll get you through the test for three hundred dollars in all. Unlimited lessons. Or we'll find a way to include it in the price of the car. Something special. Just for you. But, first, put on tefillin: you'll see, you'll feel like a lion."

Fima laughed:

"Anyhow, God's forgotten me."

"And second," the young man continued, oblivious, with ever-mounting enthusiasm, "you should never say 'nonbeliever.' There's no such thing as a nonbeliever. No Jew in the world can be a nonbeliever. The very expression is tantamount to slander, or even—Heaven forbid!—to blasphemy. As it is written, a man should not reckon himself as wicked."

"I happen," Fima insisted, "to be a one-hundred-percent nonbeliever. I don't observe a single commandment. Only the six hundred and thirteen transgressions."

"You are mistaken," the young man said politely but firmly, "totally mistaken, sir. There is no such thing in the whole world as a Jew who does not keep some commandments. There never has been. One does more, another does less. As the Rebbe says, it is a matter of quantity, not quality. Just as there is no such thing as a righteous man who never sins, so there is no such thing as a sinner who does not perform some righteous acts. Just a few. Even you, sir, with all due respect, every day you observe a few commandments, at least. Even if a person considers himself a total
apikoros
, he still observes a few commandments each day. For example, the fact that you're alive, you're already keeping the commandment Thou shalt choose life.' Every hour or two, every time you cross the road, you choose life, even though you could have chosen the opposite, Heaven forbid! Am I right? And then the fact that you've got kids—they should be healthy!—you have observed the commandment 'Be fruitful and multiply.' And the fact that you're living in the Land of Israel—that's another half-dozen commandments. Then if you feel happy sometimes, you've got another one. Every one's a winner! Sometimes you may have an overdraft up in Heaven, but they never cut off your credit. Unlimited credit, that's what you get. And meanwhile, for the few commandments that you do keep, you've got your own private savings plan up there, and every day you invest a bit more and a bit more, and every day they credit you with interest and they add it to your capital. You'd be amazed, sir, how rich you are without even knowing it. As it is written, the ledger lies open and the hand writes. Five minutes to put on tefillin, less than five minutes even—believe me, it doesn't hurt—and you accumulate an extra bonus for Sabbath. Whatever your line of business in the lower world, believe me there's no other five-minute investment that will give you a higher yield. It's a tried and tested fact. No? So it's not so terrible. Maybe it's just that your time hasn't come yet to put on tefillin. When it comes, you'll know. You'll receive a signal there's no mistaking. The main thing, sir, don't forget: The gates of repentance stand ever open. Around the clock, as they say. Sabbaths and festivals included. Now, about the business of the car and the driving test, here, take these two phone numbers."

Fima said:

"Right now I haven't even got a phone."

The missionary shot him a pensive sideways glance, as though making some kind of mental assessment, and hesitantly, in a voice that was close to a whisper, he said:

"You're not in some kind of trouble, are you, sir? Shall we send someone around to sec what we can do to help? Don't be embarrassed to say. Or maybe the best thing would be, why don't you come and make Sabbath with us? Feel what it's like to be among brothers, just for once?"

Fima said:

"No, thank you." This time there was something in his voice that made the young man timidly wish him a good Sabbath and move away. He turned twice and looked back toward Fima, as though afraid he might be pursued.

For a moment Fima was sorry he had not given this peddler of pious deeds and used cars a vitriolic answer, a theological knockout blow that he would not forget in a hurry. He could have asked him, for example, whether you got five credit points up there for killing a five-year-old Arab girl. Or whether to bring a child into the world that neither you nor the mother wanted was a virtuous act or a transgression. After a moment, to his surprise, he felt some regret that he had not said yes, if only to afford a small pleasure to this North African youth in the Volhynian or Galician costume, who, despite his transparent guile, seemed to Fima to be innocent and goodhearted. No doubt in his own way he too was trying to put right what cannot be put right.

Meanwhile he shuffled past a carpenter's workshop, a grocer's that smelled strongly of salt fish, a butcher's shop that struck him as murderously bloodstained, and a dingy shop selling snoods and wigs, and he stopped at a nearby newsstand to buy the weekend editions of
Yediot, Hadashot
, and
Ma'ariv
. For once he also bought the ultrapious paper
Yated Ne'eman
, out of vague curiosity. And so, laden with newspapers, he entered a small café on the comer of Zephaniah Street. It was a family restaurant, with three tables covered with peeling pink Formica, and lit by a single feeble bulb that cast a sickly yellow light. Lazy flies wandered everywhere. A bearlike man was dozing behind the counter, his beard between his teeth, and Fima wondered for a moment about the possibility that this was actually himself behind the reception desk at the clinic transported here by magic. He dropped onto a plastic chair that seemed none too clean, and tried to recall what his mother used to order for him on those Fridays a thousand years ago at the Danzigs' restaurant. Eventually he asked for chicken soup, beef stew, a mixed salad, pita and pickles, and a bottle of mineral water. As he ate, he rummaged in his pile of papers until his fingers were black and the pages were grease-stained.

In
Ma'ariv
, on the second page, there was a report about an Arab youth in Jenin who had been burned to death while trying to set fire to a military jeep that was parked in the main street of the town. An investigation had shown, the newspaper reported, that the Arab mob which gathered around the burning youth prevented the military orderly from offering him first aid and did not allow the soldiers to get close enough to douse the flames, apparently in the belief that the young man burning to death in front of them was an Israeli soldier. He roasted for about ten minutes in the fire that he himself had lit, uttering "fearful screams" before finally expiring. In the town of Or Akiva, on the other hand, a minor miracle had occurred. A five-year-old boy who fell from an upper story, receiving serious head injuries, had been lying unconscious since the Day of Atonement. The doctors had written him off and placed him in a home, where he was expected to live out the rest of his days as a vegetable. But the mother, a simple woman who could neither read nor write, refused to give up hope. When the doctors told her the child did not have a chance and that only a miracle could save him, she prostrated herself at the feet of a famous rabbi in Bnei Brak, who told her to have a certain rabbinical student who was known to be brain-damaged himself repeat a page of the Zohar about Abraham and Isaac day and night into the ear of the child (whose name was Yitzhak or Isaac). And indeed, after four days and nights the boy began to show signs of life, and he was now fully recovered, running around and singing hymns and attending a religious boarding school, where he had a special scholarship and was gaining a reputation as a budding genius. Why not try reading the same passage of the Zohar into the ears of Yitzhak Rabin and Yitzhak Shamir, Fima thought, chuckling to himself, and then muttered when he spilled sauce on his trousers.

In the religious paper,
Yated Ne'eman
, he skimmed through various malicious rumblings about desertions from the kibbutzim. According to the paper, the younger generation of kibbutzniks were all wandering around the Far East and the Indian mountains, attaching themselves to all sorts of terrible pagan sects. And in
Ma'ariv
a veteran columnist again argued that the government should not be in a hurry to rush off to all sorts of dubious peace conferences. We should wait until the Israeli deterrent was renewed. We must not go to the negotiating table from an inferior position, with the sword of the intifada, as it were, at our throats. Discussions about peace might be desirable, but only when the Arabs finally realized that they had no chance politically or militarily, indeed no chance at all, and came pleading for peace with their tails between their legs.

In
Hadashot
he read a satirical piece suggesting that instead of hanging Eichmann we should have had the foresight to spare him, so we could use his experience and his organizational skills at the present juncture. Eichmann would be well received among the torturers of Arabs and those who wanted to deport the Arabs to the east en masse, an operation in which Eichmann was known to have particular expertise. Then in the weekend magazine of
Tediot Aharonot
he came across an article, illustrated with color photographs, about the ordeals of a once popular singer who had become addicted to hard drugs, and now, when she was fighting that addiction, a heartless judge deprived her of custody of her baby daughter by a famous soccer star who refused to recognize his paternity. The judge ruled that the baby should be handed over to a foster family, despite the singer's protest that the foster father was actually a Yugoslav who had not been properly converted and might not even be circumcised. When Fima had searched all the pockets of his trousers, his shirt, and his overcoat and almost given up hope, he eventually fished out of the inside pocket of the coat, of all places, a folded twenty-shekel note which Baruch had managed to plant there without his noticing. He paid and took his leave with a muttered apology. He left all his newspapers on the table.

Outside the restaurant he found the cold had intensified. There was a hint of evening in the air, even though it was still only midafternoon. The cracked asphalt, the rusty wrought-iron gates, some of which had the word "Zion" worked into them, the signboards of the shops, workshops, Torah schools, real estate agencies, and charities, the row of trash cans parked along the street, the distant view of the hills glimpsed beyond neglected gardens—everything was becoming clothed in various shades of gray. Occasionally alien sounds penetrated the regular hubbub of the streets: church bells, high and slow, punctuated by silence, or low, or shrill, or heavy and elegiac, and also a distant loudspeaker, and pneumatic drills, and the faint blaring of a siren. All these sounds could not subdue the silence of Jerusalem, that permanent underlying silence, which you can always find if you look for it underneath any noise in Jerusalem. An old man and a boy walked slowly past, grandfather and grandson perhaps. The boy asked: