Fima

14. DISCOVERING THE IDENTITY OF A FAMOUS FINNISH GENERAL

ONE FRIDAY EVENING THE MUSE DESCENDED ON FIMA, AND HE entertained the company with the story of how he was called up for reserve duty during the Six Days' War and dumped on a barren hilltop just outside Arnona with a painter and a couple of university professors. They were given a pair of binoculars and a field telephone and told not to fall asleep. On the next hill some Jordanian soldiers were setting up mortars and a machine gun; they were going about it calmly, like boy scouts at a camp. When they had finished all their preparations, they Jay down and started firing at Fima and his pals. "Can you guess," Fima asked, "what my first thought was? No, it wasn't to run away. It wasn't to fire back, either. No. It was simply to phone the police and complain that there were some madmen shooting at us. Even though they could see perfectly well that there were people here on this hill. What did they take me for, a friend or acquaintance? Had I seduced their wives? What did they know about me anyway? I had to get the police to come right away and take care of them. That was how I felt."

There was a news item in Ha'arets that seemed to hint at a slight softening in the government's position. A kind of sign of readiness to rethink at least one element in the official line. Fima saw in this a confirmation of his theory about tiny movements. He therefore convened the Revolutionary Council for a short morning meeting in Tsvika's seminar room at the Mount Scopus campus. He announced that he had changed his mind and decided to put off flying to Tunis. This time the peace process must begin not with an operatic overture, in the style of Begin and Sadat, but with an exchange of small gestures that might gradually break down the barriers of hatred and anger. Or set in motion the first stirrings of an emotional détente. Joycean ripples rather than Shakespearean breakers. Tropisms rather than cataclysms. The proposal on the agenda is the following. The PLO agrees to assist in the rescue of the remaining Jews of Ethiopia. Or Yemen. We send a letter of thanks to their Tunis headquarters, thus opening up a chink in the deadlock. Tsvi is wrong to hope for U.S. pressure. And Uri Gefen is definitely wrong in maintaining that the situation has to get much worse before there can be any change for the better. Both attitudes express the tacit inclination of the doveish left to wait resignedly for a change in reality instead of getting up and doing something. Even if it is something limited.

He suddenly felt a longing for Uri's presence: his broad shoulders, his jokes, his deep warm laughter, his youth leader's manner, his peas-antlike habit of hugging your shoulders, punching you in the stomach, and saying, for instance, Come here, you Salman Rushdie; where have you been hiding yourself? And after a furtive sniff and an ostentatious wrinkling of the nose, When did you last change your shirt? For Ben Gurion's funeral? And then again: All right, get on with it, if there's no alternative: give us your lecture on Christian ascetic seas. But first help yourself to a slice of this smoked ham. Or have you turned Muslim on us?

The longing for Uri's warm voice and body brought with it a desire to rest his own pale fingers on his friend's huge freckled hand, gnarled like a stoneworker's, and to generate flashing sparks of wit that would cause the discussion to take amazing turns at every point. Like three weeks ago, at the Kropotkins', when Shula was voicing her fear of Islamic fundamentalism, and Fima interrupted her and dazzled everyone by arguing that our feud with the Arabs is merely a hundred-year-old episode, a mere dispute over land, whereas the real danger always was and still is the bottomless chasm between the Jews and the Cross. Despite his longing, Fima hoped that Uri was still in Rome. He dialed Nina's office, and hung on patiently until the secretary passed him Nina's tobacco-charred voice saying, Yes, Fima, but make it short; I'm in a meeting. He tried to tempt her into going out with him that evening, to see the late showing of the film with Jean Gabin at the Orion. I made a real ass of myself two nights ago, he said, but tonight I'll be on my best behavior. You'll sec. Promise.

Nina said:

"As it happens, I've got rather a long day today. But why not call me here at the office between seven-thirty and eight and we'll see how things look. Meanwhile, Fima, just count how many socks you have on."

Fima did not take offense, but started to tell her the main points of his new article about the price of morality and the price of abandoning morality, and the different meanings of the term "price" for people with different value systems. Nina interrupted him: Right now we happen to be having a meeting here, the room's full of people, we'll talk some other time. He began to ask whether the meeting was about her ultrapious sex shop, but he thought better of it and said good-bye, and he held off for nearly a quarter of an hour before calling Tsvi Kropotkin and telling him about the article he had written in the night in reply to his. He was secretly hoping to score a pleasant telephonic victory: checkmate in four or five moves. But Tsvi was on his way to a class, he was late already: Why don't we talk about it later, Fima, when we've had a chance to read your new gospel in the paper?

It occurred to him to call his father, to read him the facts about India, force him to admit his mistake, and tell him he'd left one of his cuff links behind. Unless the glowworm really was one of Annette's earrings. He decided it was best to drop the idea of calling Baruch, so as not to get involved.

Since he had no one left to call, Fima stayed in the kitchen for a few minutes longer, picking up the crumbs from his breakfast to preserve the new clean look and admiring the gleaming new kettle. A little willpower, he thought, a little energy, a little elbow grease: it's not that difficult to start a new chapter. Having arrived at this conclusion, he phoned Yael. He hoped that it would not be Ted who answered. And trusted to the inspiration of the moment to put words in his mouth and tell him what to say to her.

"It must be telepathy," Yael exclaimed. "I was just telling Teddy to give you a call. You're barely half a minute ahead of us. It's like this. Teddy and I are going to a conference at the Aircraft Industry. We can't be back till this evening. I don't know what time. Our neighbor is collecting Dimi from school and looking after him for the rest of the day. Could you be a dear and pick him up from her after work? Put him to bed and keep an eye on him till we get home? He'll have had his supper, and he's got the key in his pocket. What would we do without you? Sorry, I've got to hang up now. Teddy's calling me from downstairs that they've come to pick us up. You're wonderful. I'm off now. Thanks a million and see you late tonight. He can have half a Valium tablet if he can't get to sleep. Help yourself to anything you fancy in the fridge."

Fima cherished the words "see you late tonight," as though they contained a secret promise. After a moment he laughed at himself for being so pleased, and set to work tidying the heap of newspapers and dusty magazines at the foot of his bed. But his glance fell on an old article by Yehoshaphat Harkabi and he started reading it and thinking about the failure of the Jewish revolt against the Romans. He thought the analogy with our own times was brilliant and original, if in some respects simplistic.

In the bus on his way to work he saw a woman, an immigrant from an Arab country, sobbing on the back seat, while a little girl, probably her daughter, aged seven or eight, comforted her by repeating over and over again, "He didn't do it on purpose." At that instant the word "purpose," good purpose, bad purpose, not on purpose, suddenly seemed to contain one of the secrets of existence: love and death, loneliness, desire, and jealousy, and the wonders of light and forest, mountains, plains, and water — is there or is there not a purpose in these things? Is there or is there not a purpose in the basic similarity between you and the lizard, between a vine leaf and your hand? Is there or is there not a purpose in the fact that your life is trickling away day by day between burned-out kettles and dead cockroaches and the lessons of the Great Revolt? The word "trickling," which he had stumbled across many years before in Pascal's Pensées, struck him as cruelly apposite, as though Pascal had selected it after delving into his, Fima's, life, just as he himself studied the life of Yoezer even though Yoezer's parents were not yet born. And what might the wizened Sephardic señor dozing on a wicker stool in front of the haberdashery shop think of Pascal's gamble, in which, according to its author, the gambler cannot lose? And can a wager which one can only win properly be called a gamble? And by the way, would His Worship please explain Hiroshima or Auschwitz? Or the death of the Arab child? Or the sacrifice of Ishmael and Isaac? Or the fate of Trotsky? I am that I am? Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? His Worship is silent. His Worship is dozing. His Worship is smiling. His Worship is amused. Amen. Meanwhile, Fima missed his stop and had to get off at the next one. Despite which, he did not forget to thank the driver and say good-bye. As he always did.

At the clinic he found Tamar Greenwich alone. The two doctors had gone to sort something out at the tax office and would not be back till four o'clock or so. "Yesterday, when you didn't come to work," Tamar said, "it was a really crazy day. And today it's completely quiet. There's nothing to do except answer the phone. We could have an orgy. Except your shirt's buttoned wrong. You missed a button. Tell me, Fima, can you think of a river in Eastern Europe, three letters beginning with B?"

She was sitting on his chair at the reception desk, bent over a crossword magazine. She had stern square shoulders like an elderly sergeant major, a stout body, and a kindly, open face, and her splendid silky hair was soft and gleaming. Every visible patch of her skin was covered with freckles. Presumably they also covered the parts that were concealed. The unusual trick of pigmentation that gave her one green eye and one brown one made him feel not amusement at her expense but wonder and even a certain awe. He himself might have been born with one of his father's ears and one of his mother's. He might have inherited out of the evolutionary abyss the lizard's tail or the cockroach's feelers. Kafka's story about Gregor Samsa, who woke up one morning to find he had turned into a giant cockroach, seemed to Fima to be neither a parable nor an allegory, but a realistic possibility. Tamar did not know the story, but vaguely recalled that Kafka was a poor Yugoslav who was killed fighting against the bureaucrats. Fima could not contain himself: he told her all about Kafka and his various love affairs. Once he was certain he had whetted her appetite, he went on to give her a summary of the plot of Metamorphosis. He told her that the Hebrew tide of the story was not an accurate translation, but he failed in his effort to explain what was wrong with it and how the title ought to be translated.

Without looking up from her crossword puzzle, Tamar said:

"But what was he trying to say? That the father was really a murderer? Maybe he was trying to be funny, but it doesn't amuse me at all. I'm in exactly the same situation myself. Not a day goes by without his poking fun at me. He never misses an opportunity to humiliate me. Actually, yesterday, when you weren't here, he hardly insulted me at all. He treated me almost like a human being. He even offered mc a throat lozenge. Can you think of a bird in seven letters ending with L?"

Fima peeled an old orange he found under the counter: he managed to avoid cutting his fingers though he did rather massacre the orange. Handing a few segments to Tamar, he replied:

"Maybe he wasn't feeling well yesterday, or something."

"Do you have to joke about it too? Can't you see it's painful. Why don't you talk to him about it? Can't you ask him why he's always so cruel to me?"

"It must be sea gull," said Fima. "But why did you get involved with that monster in the first place? He hates the human race in general and women in particular."

Tamar said:

"You must understand, Fima. It's not up to me."

"Disentangle yourself," Fima said. "What is there to love in him anyway? Or maybe it's not he you're in love with but your own unrequited affection?"

"Philosophizing," said Tamar. "When you try to be clever, you're a real idiot, Fima."

"Yes, an idiot," Fima said, and a shy smile spread on his lips. "I know. And yet I think I've found the answer for you. Bug."

"I don't get it," said Tamar. "Why don't you just keep quiet for a while and let me finish this crossword?"

"Bug, sweetheart. The Eastern European river in three letters. Incidentally, historically speaking, the river Bug…"

"Stop it, Fima. Once in a blue moon I say two words about myself; why do you have to go changing the subject and speaking historically? Why can't you listen for a moment? I can never get a word in. With anyone."

Fima apologized. He hadn't meant any harm. He'd make her a glass of tea and get himself coffee, and then he'd shut up like a clam. He'd help her do her crossword and not philosophize at all.

But once they were sitting down together drinking, Fima could not restrain himself. He started outlining his peace plan to Tamar. This very night he would call a meeting of the cabinet and describe ruthlessly to the ministers the surgery they must apply at once to rescue the state. When he said "surgery," he suddenly had a vivid image of the expression of Prussian arrogance on Gad Eitan's face. Perhaps it was due to the fact that Dr. Eitan was not only an excellent gynecologist but also the clinic's anesthetist. As the need arose, he anesthetised his own patients and Wahrhaftig's.

Tamar said:

"My misfortune, Fima, is that I can't stop loving him. Even though I haven't got one chance in a million with him, even though I've known for a long time that he's a cruel man and that he loathes me. What can I do when all the time, for years now, I feel that underneath his cruelty there's a hurt little boy hiding, a lonely little boy who doesn't hate women, he's frightened of them, he's afraid that he just won't be able to stand another blow? It may be just cheap psychology. Or maybe he's still in love with his wife who left him? Maybe he's waiting for her to come back to him? Maybe the reason he's so poisonous is because inside he's full of tears. Or do you think I've just seen too many romantic films? Often, when he torments me, I feel he's really calling out to me like a little boy lost. Try arguing with your feelings. What's a country in Africa, eleven letters, third letter E, eighth letter also E?"

Fima's eyes explored the recovery room through die open door, the reception area, the desk, as though he was looking for an answer to her question. An air conditioner. Reproductions of a Degas and a Modigliani. Two unpretentious plants in hydroponic gravel. A white fluorescent tube. Pale green wall-to-wall carpet. A clock with Roman numerals. A telephone. A combined coat and umbrella stand. A basket full of magazines. A few magazines lying on the table. A blue leaflet: "Osteoporosis — Accelerated Deterioration of the Bones: A Guide for Women. Which women are especially vulnerable? High-risk groups: Underweight women. Women with fine bone structure. Women who have had their ovaries removed. Women who have undergone radiation therapy and ceased to produce estrogen. Women who have never been pregnant. Women with a family history of the condition. Women who have been on a low-calcium diet. Women who smoke. Women who do not take sufficient physical exercise, or whose consumption of alcohol is excessive, or who suffer from hyperthyroidism."

He peered at another explanatory leaflet, in purple this time, on the table in front of him. "My Little Secret the Menopause: Hormone-Replacement Therapy. What is menopause? What are female hormones and how are they produced? What are the characteristic signs of the onset of menopause? What are the changes resulting from decreased production of female hormones? Comparative graph of estrogen and progesterone. What are hot flashes and when can you expect them? What is the connection between estrogen, high blood-fat levels, and heart disease? Is it possible to improve your ability to cope emotionally with the changes in your body at this time of life?"

Fima contented himself with reading the main headings. Tears of compassion suddenly flooded his eyes, not for a specific woman, Nina, Yael, Annette, Tamar, but for womanhood in general. The separation of humankind into two sexes struck him as an act of cruelty and an irreparable injustice. He felt that he had a share in this injustice and was therefore partly to blame, because he had sometimes unintentionally benefited from its consequences. Then he thought for a while about the punctuation of the leaflet and how it could be improved. Whoever left these leaflets here foolishly forgot that men sometimes come to the clinic, including religious men: problems of infertility and so forth. Pamphlets like these might embarrass them. Women might even be embarrassed, waiting and watching a man reading this kind of literature. Then he recalled that it was he himself who put the pamphlets out: he had never looked at them before. Also, despite the risk of embarrassment or tactlessness, various pictures, ornaments, and souvenirs were displayed on the walls and shelves bearing messages of thanks from grateful patients. They signed their dedications only with their initials or with their first name and the first letter of the surname, like that brass dish from Carmela L., "in eternal gratitude to the dedicated and wonderful staff." Fima had not forgotten this Carmela, because one day he heard that she had killed herself. Even though she always struck him as somebody outstandingly courageous and cheerful. The mayor of Jerusalem ought to ban the use of the word "eternal," at least within the city limits.

He began to comb the map of Africa in his mind from north to south, from Egypt to Namibia, and then again from east to west, from Madagascar to Mauretania, looking for the country that was holding up Tamar's crossword puzzle. While he did so, he conjured up a vision of Gad Eitan, the arrogant catlike Viking, as a miserable unloved child wandering forlornly through the jungles and deserts of Africa. He could not find the answer. But he asked himself whether those who came after us, Yoezer and his contemporaries, living here in Jerusalem a hundred years from now, would also be solving crossword puzzles. Would they too suffer the humiliation of unrequited love? Would they button their shirts wrong? Would they be condemned to a lack of estrogen? Would abandoned children in a hundred years continue to roam forlornly around the Equator? Fima could feel sadness gripping him. In his sadness he was ready to lean over and hug Tamar. To press her wide face to his chest. To stroke her beautiful hair, which was gathered in a chaste bun at the back, like a pioneer's in the previous generation. If he were to suggest that she sleep with him here and now, on the sofa in the recovery room, she would no doubt turn red and white in alarm, but in the end she would not refuse him. After all, they would be alone till four o'clock at least. He could give her more pleasure than she had ever known in her life, and draw forth laughter, pleas, sobs, whispered requests, low groans of surprise, sounds that would produce in him too the sweetest pleasure he knew: the joy of altruism. So what if she was not pretty? Good-looking women only made him feel humble and submissive. Only the unwanted and rejected were capable of igniting in him that spark of generosity that always fueled his desire. But what if she wasn't protected? What if she got pregnant here, of all places, in this abortion inferno? Instead of love he offered her an orange, though he omitted to check first that there was another one left in the drawer under his counter. He startled her by adding that her light-blue skirt flattered her figure and she should wear it more often. And he thought her hair was lovely.

Tamar said:

"Stop it, Fima. It's not funny."

Fima said:

"I suppose it's like a fish: it's only when it's lifted out of the water for the first time that it realizes it needs to be in the water to live. Never mind. I just want to tell you I wasn't joking. I meant exactly what I said about the light blue and your hair."

"You're rather a darling yourself," Tamar said timidly. "You're very knowledgeable, you're a poet and all that. A good man. The trouble is, you're a child. It's just incredible how childish you are. Sometimes I feel like coming around in the morning and shaving you myself so you don't cut yourself, your cheeks and your chin. Look, you've done it again today. You're nothing but a baby."

After that they sat facing each other and hardly spoke. She concentrated on her crossword while he looked at an old copy of Woman that he picked out of the basket. He found an article about an ex-call girl who had married a handsome Canadian millionaire and then left him for a group of Bratslavan Hasidim in Safed.

After a silence Tamar said:

"I've just remembered. Gad asked us to clean and tidy his room. And Wahrhaftig said to sterilize the forceps and speculums and boil the towels and gowns. Only I don't feel like moving. I'll just finish this crossword first."

"Forget it," Fima said enthusiastically. "Just you sit there quietly like a queen, and I'll do it all. It'll be all right, you'll see."

At that he stood up and went into Dr. Eitan's room, holding the duster. First he changed the roll of paper sheets, which felt pleasantly rough to his fingertips. Then he tidied the drugs cupboard, pondering on his father's anecdote about the length and width of railway tracks. He discovered he had a soft spot for the Israeli representative: in refusing to give way to his U.S. counterpart, he had delivered a devastating reply. It was only on the surface that it appeared funny: in fact, it was the American's position that was ridiculous. As if there was any sense in his implied claim that in an international gathering of railway chiefs each delegate's speech should be in direct relation to the length of track in his country. Such a crude approach was both morally untenable and logically absurd. While he was pursuing this line of thought further, he absent-mindedly attempted to take his own blood pressure with the device he found on Eitan's desk. Perhaps it was because he had remarked jokingly to Tamar that Gad Eitan may not have been feeling well the day before, since he had failed to tyrannize her. But Fima's efforts to bind the rubber tube, phylactery-like, around his arm with his free hand were unsuccessful, and he abandoned the attempt. He contemplated a colored poster on the wall: a humorous picture of a good-looking young man with a pregnant tummy holding a plump baby in his arms, the two of them beaming with joy. The wording read: "Materna 160— your vitamin supplement. Easy to take. Odorless. Tasteless. The leading product in the field. Widely endorsed by expectant mothers in the USA. Available strictly on medical prescription only." One of the two words, "strictly" and "only," was redundant, Fima mused, but for some reason he could not decide which to delete. The expression "leading product" struck him as crude, while "widely endorsed by expectant mothers" was positively offensive.

Moving on, he flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the examination couch. He struggled against the sudden urge to lie down with his legs apart for a minute or two, just to experience the sensation. He was certain there must be a mistake in Tamar's crossword: the only country he could think of in Africa with eleven letters was South Africa, but that didn't fit because it didn't have two E's. As though if it did have two E's, everything there would be perfect!

Fima eyed the stainless-steel speculums intended for taking cervical smears. When he imagined to himself the mysterious entrance exposed and dilated by means of the metal jaws, he felt a dull pang of revulsion in his stomach. He made a sound like an intake of breath through clenched teeth, as though he had been scalded but was determined not to shriek. Laid out with obsessive precision beside the speculums were long-bladed scissors, forceps, IUDs hermetically sealed in sterile plastic. To the left behind the doctor's desk, on a small trolley, stood the suction pump that was used, Fima knew, to terminate pregnancy by means of suction. His guts went into spasm at the grim thought that this was a kind of enema in reverse, and that womanhood was an irreparable injustice.

And what did they do with the fetuses? Put them in a plastic bag and drop them into the trash cans that he or Tamar emptied at the end of the day? Food for alley cats? Or did they flush them down the toilet and rinse with disinfectant? The snows of yesteryear. If the light within you darkens, it is written, how great is the darkness.

On a little stand was the resuscitation equipment, an oxygen bottle and an oxygen mask. Nearby was the anesthetic equipment. Fima switched on the electric radiator and waited for the elements to glow red. He counted the drip bags, trying to understand the formula printed on them, glucose and sodium chloride. With his duster poised in his hand he reflected on how anesthesia and resuscitation, fertility and death, rubbed shoulders with each other within this little room. There was something absurd, something unbearable about it, but what it was he could not say.

After a moment he pulled himself together and caressed the screen of the ultrasound machine with his duster. It did not seem much different from the screen of Ted's computer. When Ted had asked him how to say "deadline" in Hebrew, he had not been able to think of the answer. The only equivalent he could think of sounded artificial and anemic. "Tasteless and odorless," like the leading product that was widely endorsed by expectant mothers in the USA. Meanwhile he upset a neat pile of transparent plastic gloves made by a firm called Pollack, each encased in a sterile wrapping that was similarly transparent. As he carefully remade the pile, he asked himself what it meant, this transparency that was so prevalent here, as if it were an aquarium.

Eventually he made his way to the utility room, a kind of open cubicle formed by closing in a balcony with opaque glass. He fed a heap of towels into the washing machine, pushed his duster in too, read and reread the instructions, and surprised himself by getting the machine to work. To the left of the washing machine stood the sterilizer, with the instructions printed on a panel in English: 200° centigrade, 110 minutes. Fima decided not to put this machine on yet, even though it contained a couple of pairs of scissors and several forceps, as well as some stainless-steel bowls. Perhaps it was because the temperatures struck him as lethal. Going into the lavatory, he inhaled with a strange pleasure the pungent cocktail of disinfectant smells. He tried to empty his bladder but failed, perhaps because of his thoughts about drowned infants. Angrily he gave up, cursed his penis, zipped up, returned to Tamar, and, resuming their earlier conversation, said: "Why don't you try breaking off contact? Just ignore his rudeness? Signal nothing from now on except utter indifference? I dusted and tidied everything and put the washing machine on. As if he was thin air, that's the way to treat him."

"How can I, Fima? I'm in love with him. Why can't you understand? But there is one thing I ought to do, really: instead of looking glum, I ought to slap his face. Sometimes I have a feeling he's just waiting for me to do it. I think it might do him good."

"The truth is" — Fima grinned—"he's earned himself an honest slap from you. What is it Wahrhaftig says: 'like in a civilized country.' I'd really enjoy seeing that. Even if in principle I'm not keen on violence. There, I've found it for you."

"Found what for me?"

"Your African country. Try Sierra Leone. I didn't put the sterilizer on because it was almost empty. A waste of electricity."

Tamar said:

"Stop loving him. That's the only thing that would save me. Stop just like that. But how do you do it? You know everything, Fima. Do you know that too?"

He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, muttered something, regretted it, finally pulled himself together and said:

"What do I understand of love? Once I used to think that love is the point where cruelty and compassion meet. Now I think that's idle chatter. Seems to me now I never understood anything. I comfort myself by reflecting that apparently other people understand even less than I do. It's all right, Tamar, just cry, don't hold back, it'll make you feel better. I'll make you a glass of tea. Never mind. In a hundred years love and suffering will go the way of the dinosaurs, along with blood feuds, crinolines, and whalebone corsets. Men and women will mate by exchanging tiny electrochemical impulses. There will be no mistakes. Do you want a biscuit with it?"

After making the tea, and after some hesitation, he told her the story about the conference of railway chiefs, and he explained why in his opinion Mr. Cohen was right and Mr. Smith was wrong, until she smiled faintly through her tears. In the drawer of his desk he found a pencil sharpener, a pencil, some paper clips, a ruler and a paperknife, but there were no more oranges, and no biscuits. Tamar said it didn't matter, thanks. She was feeling better already. He was always so goodhearted. Her projecting Adam's apple seemed not so much funny as tragic. Because of this tragic feeling he began to doubt whether those to come, Yoezer and his friends, would really manage to live more rational lives than ours. At most, cruelty and stupidity would adopt subtler and more sophisticated forms. What use are jet-propelled vehicles to someone who is aware that his place docs not know him?

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.