"Right. Exile."
And he added:
"So what?"
Shakespeare's King Richard vainly offered his kingdom for a horse. Whereas Efraim Nisan, close to three in the morning, was ready to exchange the whole of his legacy for one day, one hour of total inner freedom and of feeling at home. Although he had a suspicion that there was a tension and perhaps even a contradiction between the two, which could not be resolved even by Yoezer and his happy friends who would be living here in a hundred years.
At five in the morning he fell asleep fully dressed, and he slept till eleven. Even then he did not wake of his own accord: his friends had returned to sit with him and cushion his grief. The women had brought pots of stew, and they and the men tried their best to surround the orphaned Fima with love and kindness, warmth and affection. Again and again they tried to draw him into political discussions which Fima did not wish to join, but he condescended to contribute an occasional smile or a nod of the head. On the other hand, he called Dimi and was delighted to learn that Dimi was interested in the collections of stamps and coins, provided he could be partners with Fima. Fima said nothing about the hundreds of tin soldiers from his childhood, which he had found in a drawer. They would be a surprise for his Challenger.
On Saturday evening, at the end of the Sabbath, Fima suddenly put on his father's winter overcoat and, leaving his friends to keep up the mourning, went out to get some air, promising to be back in a quarter of an hour.
Next morning at eight he intended to visit the offices of the cosmetics factory in the Romema Industrial Zone. The funeral was set for three
P.M.
, and in this way he could put himself in the picture beforehand. Put this evening he could surely be allowed to take one last aimless stroll.
The sky was dark and clear, and the stars went out of their way to attract his attention. As if the Third State was self-evident. Intoxicated by the Jerusalem night air, Fima forgot his promise. Instead of returning to his friends after his stroll, he chose to ignore the protocol of mourning and take a short break. Why not go, at long last, alone, to see the early showing of that comedy film with Jean Gabin, about which he had heard only good reports ? He queued patiently for twenty minutes, bought a ticket, and, entering the cinema shortly after the beginning of the film, sat down in one of the back rows, which were almost empty. But after a few moments' confusion he realized that the Jean Gabin film had ended its run and a new film was showing, starting this evening. So he decided to leave the cinema and check what was new in the pretty, old lanes of Nahalat Shiva, which he had loved since he was a child and which he had walked with Chili a few nights previously. Because he was tired, and perhaps also because his heart was light and clear, he continued sitting in the cinema, huddled in his father's overcoat, staring at the screen and asking himself why on earth the characters in the film kept inflicting all sorts of agonies and indignities on each other. What was it that kept them from taking pity on each other occasionally? It would not be difficult for him to explain to the heroes, if they would only listen for a moment, that if they wanted to feel at home, they ought to leave each other alone, and themselves too. And try to be good. At least as far as possible. At least as long as eyes can see and ears can hear, even in the face of mounting tiredness.
Be good, but in what sense?
The question seemed like sophistry. Because everything was really so simple. Effortlessly he followed the story. Until his eyes closed and he fell asleep in his seat.