Free Fima by Amos Oz

be strolling down our road at eleven o'clock at night? Whatever will become of you, Fima?"
    "I had a date," he muttered, struggling to disentangle himself from his dripping overcoat. He explained:
    "The sleeve's stuck."
    Nina said:
    "Sit yourself down here by the heater. You've got to get dry. I don't suppose you've eaten anything cither. I was thinking about you today."
    "I was thinking about you too. I wanted to try to tempt you into coming to a film with me, to see a comedy with Jean Gabin at the Orion. I called you but there was no answer."
    "I thought you had a date. I got held up at the office till nine. An importer of sex aids has gone broke and I'm liquidating him. The creditors are a pair of ultrapious brothers-in-law. You can imagine how funny that is. I hardly need Jean Gabin. Never mind. Come on, get those clothes off; you look like a drowned cat. Wait! Have a shot of Scotch first. It's a pity you can't see yourself. Then I'll get you something to eat."
    "What was it that made you think of me today?"
    "Your article in Friday's paper. It was okay. Possibly a touch too hysterical. I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you this, but Tsvi Kropotkin is secretly scheming to get a search party to break into your flat, ransack your drawers, and publish the poems he's convinced you're still writing. So you won't be completely forgotten. Who did you have a date with, a mermaid? Even your underwear's soaked."
    Fima, who had stripped down to his long johns and a yellowing winter undershirt, laughed.
    "As far as I'm concerned, they can forget me. I've already forgotten myself. What, take the underwear off too? Why, are you still liquidating your sex boutique? Are you planning to hand me over to your ultra creditors?"
    Nina was a lawyer, a friend and contemporary of Yael, a chain-smoker of Nelson cigarettes, and her glasses gave her a bitter look. Her thin, graying hair was severely cropped. She was small and skinny, like an underfed vixen. And her triangular face reminded Fima of a cornered vixen. But her breasts were full and appealing, and she had beautifully shaped hands, like those of a young girl from die Far East. She handed him a bundle of Uri's clothes, freshly ironed and clean-smelling.
    "Put these on," she ordered. "And drink this. And come and sit by the fire. Try not to talk for a few minutes. Iraq is winning the war without your help. I'll make you an omelette and a salad. Or shall I warm you some soup?"
    "Don't make me anything," Fima said, "Pm leaving in five minutes."
    "Got another date, have you?"
    "I left the lights on in my flat this morning. And anyway..."
    "I'll run you home," Nina said. "After you've dried out and warmed up and had something to eat."
    "Yael called," she added. "She told me you haven't eaten. She said you've been pestering Teddy. You're the Eugene Onegin of Kiryat Yovel. Quiet now. Don't say anything."
    Uri Gefen, Nina's husband, was once a famous combat pilot, and later became a pilot with El Al. In 1971 he went into private business, starting a complex network of importers. He had a reputation in Jerusalem as a hunter of married women. The whole city knew that Nina had reconciled herself to his adventures, and that for several years their marriage had been purely platonic. Sometimes Uri's lovers ended up as Nina's friends. Uri and Nina had no children, but their charming home had become the regular Friday-evening rendezvous of a group of lawyers, army officers, civil servants, artists, and university lecturers. Fima was fond of them both, because both of them, in their different ways, had taken him under their wing. He was indiscriminately fond of anyone who could put up with him, and he had an unbounded affection for that circle of dear friends who still continued to have faith in him and endeavored to spur him on, lamenting how he frittered away his talents.
    On the sideboard, mantelpiece, and bookshelves stood photographs of Uri in or out of uniform. He was a large, stocky, rumbustious