himself president and decided on a dramatic step. He would make an official visit to the Arab village of Deir Yassin on the anniversary of the massacre there and deliver a simple, trenchant statement amid the ruins of the village: Without going into the details of which side is more to blame, we Israeli Jews understand the depth of the suffering that the Palestinian Arabs have undergone during these past
forty
years, and to put an end to it we are willing to do anything that is reasonable, short of committing suicide. Such a speech would immediately echo through every Arab hovel; it would fire the imagination and might help to start the ball rolling. For a moment Fima hesitated between "start the ball rolling" and "achieve a breakthrough." Which would make a better heading for the short article he intended to write next morning for the weekend paper? Then he rejected them both and dropped the idea of the article.
In the elevator, on the way up to the sixth-floor flat in Beit Hakerem, he made up his mind to be calm and cordial this time, to try to talk to Ted as equal to equal, even on political topics, though normally he was very quickly irritated by the other's way of talking, his slow, balanced speech, his American accent and sort of desiccated logicality, his way of buttoning and unbuttoning his expensive knit jacket, like an official spokesman from the State Department.
Fima stood at the door for a couple of minutes without pressing the bell. He rubbed his soles on the doormat so he wouldn't bring any mud into the flat. While he was in the middle of this ball-less game of soccer, the door opened, and Ted helped him out of his overcoat, which had been turned into a snare by the rip in the lining.
"What foul weather," Fima said.
Ted asked if it was raining outside.
Even though it had stopped before he left the clinic, Fima replied pathetically: "Raining? A deluge, more like."
Without waiting to be asked, he advanced straight into Ted's study, leaving a trail of damp footprints across the hall. He proceeded steadily between piles of books, diagrams, sketches, and printouts on the floor until his progress was blocked by the massive desk on which stood Ted's word processor. He peered without permission at a mysterious green-and-black graph that was flickering on the screen. Joking about his hopelessness with computers, he began to urge Ted politely, as if he himself were the host and the other the guest: "Sit down, Teddy, sit down; make yourself at home." And without hesitating he grabbed the office chair in front of the computer screen.
Ted asked what he would like to drink. Fima answered:
"Anything. A glass of water. Don't waste any time. Or some brandy. Or else something hot. It really doesn't matter. I've only dropped in for a moment anyway."
With his broad, slow accent, with the dryness of a telephone operator, without a question mark at the end of any of his sentences, Ted stated:
"Okay. I'll get you a brandy. And you're sure, positive, you've had some supper."
Fima had a sudden urge to lie, to say no, though actually he was dying of hunger. But he chose to restrain himself.
Ted, in the rocking chair, swathed himself in silence and tobacco smoke. Despite himself, Fima enjoyed the smell of the fine pipe tobacco. And he noticed that Ted was observing him calmly, with a faintly anthropological curiosity. He looked as though he would not raise an eyebrow if his guest suddenly burst out singing. Or crying. Instead of doing either, Fima remarked:
"So Yael's out and so is Dimi. I forgot to bring some chocolate for him."
"Right," said Ted, stifling a yawn. And he exhaled another cloud of pleasant blue smoke.
Fima fixed his eyes on the pile of computerized plans, flicked through them as though they were his own, and made a special point of comparing pages six and nine, as though he had just made the decision to qualify, instantly, as an aeronautical engineer himself.
"And what are you concocting for us here? A
forty
years, and to put an end to it we are willing to do anything that is reasonable, short of committing suicide. Such a speech would immediately echo through every Arab hovel; it would fire the imagination and might help to start the ball rolling. For a moment Fima hesitated between "start the ball rolling" and "achieve a breakthrough." Which would make a better heading for the short article he intended to write next morning for the weekend paper? Then he rejected them both and dropped the idea of the article.
In the elevator, on the way up to the sixth-floor flat in Beit Hakerem, he made up his mind to be calm and cordial this time, to try to talk to Ted as equal to equal, even on political topics, though normally he was very quickly irritated by the other's way of talking, his slow, balanced speech, his American accent and sort of desiccated logicality, his way of buttoning and unbuttoning his expensive knit jacket, like an official spokesman from the State Department.
Fima stood at the door for a couple of minutes without pressing the bell. He rubbed his soles on the doormat so he wouldn't bring any mud into the flat. While he was in the middle of this ball-less game of soccer, the door opened, and Ted helped him out of his overcoat, which had been turned into a snare by the rip in the lining.
"What foul weather," Fima said.
Ted asked if it was raining outside.
Even though it had stopped before he left the clinic, Fima replied pathetically: "Raining? A deluge, more like."
Without waiting to be asked, he advanced straight into Ted's study, leaving a trail of damp footprints across the hall. He proceeded steadily between piles of books, diagrams, sketches, and printouts on the floor until his progress was blocked by the massive desk on which stood Ted's word processor. He peered without permission at a mysterious green-and-black graph that was flickering on the screen. Joking about his hopelessness with computers, he began to urge Ted politely, as if he himself were the host and the other the guest: "Sit down, Teddy, sit down; make yourself at home." And without hesitating he grabbed the office chair in front of the computer screen.
Ted asked what he would like to drink. Fima answered:
"Anything. A glass of water. Don't waste any time. Or some brandy. Or else something hot. It really doesn't matter. I've only dropped in for a moment anyway."
With his broad, slow accent, with the dryness of a telephone operator, without a question mark at the end of any of his sentences, Ted stated:
"Okay. I'll get you a brandy. And you're sure, positive, you've had some supper."
Fima had a sudden urge to lie, to say no, though actually he was dying of hunger. But he chose to restrain himself.
Ted, in the rocking chair, swathed himself in silence and tobacco smoke. Despite himself, Fima enjoyed the smell of the fine pipe tobacco. And he noticed that Ted was observing him calmly, with a faintly anthropological curiosity. He looked as though he would not raise an eyebrow if his guest suddenly burst out singing. Or crying. Instead of doing either, Fima remarked:
"So Yael's out and so is Dimi. I forgot to bring some chocolate for him."
"Right," said Ted, stifling a yawn. And he exhaled another cloud of pleasant blue smoke.
Fima fixed his eyes on the pile of computerized plans, flicked through them as though they were his own, and made a special point of comparing pages six and nine, as though he had just made the decision to qualify, instantly, as an aeronautical engineer himself.
"And what are you concocting for us here? A
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