The Finkler Question

by Howard Jacobson

It is terrible to lose a woman you have loved, but it is no less a loss to have no woman to take into your arms and cradle before tragedy strikes . . . ‘Without that, what am I for?’ he asked himself, for he was a man who did not function well on his own.

The BBC, Treslove believed, made addicts of those who listened to it, reducing them to a state of inane dependence.

As always he wondered if he would ever get to the bottom of what Finklers were permitted to say about themselves that non-Finklers were not.

‘I am not seeking anyone’s love. I am seeking justice.’ ‘Justice? And you call yourself a philosopher! What you are seeking is the warm glow of self-righteousness that comes with saying the word.

‘And what’s wrong with the family argument?’ ‘When a member of your family acts erroneously, Libor, is it not your duty to tell him?’ ‘Tell him, yes. Boycott him, no. What man would boycott his own family?’

In the morning he woke to twin realisations. The first was that she had left him. The second was that his sheets were on fire.

‘I can say it,’ he said. ‘I’m Czech. I’ve seen what leftists do. And they’re all smug leftists at the BBC. Especially the women. Jewish women the worst. It’s their preferred channel of apostasy. Half the girls Malkie grew up with disappeared into the BBC. They lost their sense of the ridiculous and she lost them.’ He could say ‘Jewish women the worst’, too. He was one of the allowed.

‘Reminds me of our escritoire,’ she would tell him. ‘It responds in the same way to a good buffing.’ It amused him to be her furniture. ‘You can open my drawers whenever you like,’ he would say. And she would laugh and cuff him with her sleeve. At the end they had talked dirty to each other. It was their defence against pathos.

‘Come over,’ he said. ‘I’ll order in Chinese.’ ‘You speak Chinese now?’ ‘Funny guy, Libor. Be here at eight.’ ‘You sure you’re up for it?’ ‘I’m a philosopher, I’m not sure about anything. But come. Just don’t bring the Sanhedrin with you.’

‘I don’t have friends who are anti-Semites,’ Finkler said. Libor screwed up his face until he resembled a medieval devil. All he lacked were the horns. ‘Yes, you do. The Jewish ones.’

without doubt he felt more purposeful this minute than he had in years. How this could be, he didn’t know. He would have expected himself to want to stay in bed and never rise again. Mugged by a woman! For a man whose life had been one absurd disgrace after another, this surely was the crowning ignominy. And yet it wasn’t.

Doctors read the genes the way fortune-tellers read the tea leaves; they believe in rational coincidence.

I have been in the hands of Lattimores from the beginning. It might be time now for a third-generation Lattimore to recommend me sheltered accommodation.’ ‘I don’t want to disabuse you but if you think you’ll be safe in sheltered accommodation you’re mistaken. There are women there who’d rob you as soon as look at you.’ ‘What about an old folks’ home?’ ‘The same, I’m afraid.’

‘Very sensible. I hope they’ve caught this one at least.’ ‘Who? The police? I didn’t notify the police.’ ‘Don’t you think you should have?’ ‘So that they can ask me what I did to provoke her? No. They’ll accuse me of propositioning or abusing her. Or they’ll warn me against going out at night on my own. Either way they’ll end up laughing. It’s thought to be amusing – a man copping a broken nose from a woman. It’s the stuff of seaside cartoons.’ ‘It’s not broken. And I’m not laughing.’ ‘You are. Inside you are.’ ‘Well, I hope you are, inside, as well. Best medicine, you know.’ And strangely, Treslove was. Laughing inside.

her breasts had too much elevation and attack in them to be English. Had Jane Austen’s heroines had breasts like these they would not have worried about ending up without a husband.

he said he found some of Jane Austen’s heroines a touch effervescent for his taste – not Emma, of course not Emma – preferring Anne Elliot, no, loving, really loving Anne Elliot.

Libor was smiling at him. ‘Now you’re a Jew, come to dinner,’ he said. ‘Come to dinner next week – not with Sam – and I’ll introduce you to some people who would be pleased to meet you.’ ‘You make it sound sinister. Some people. Which people? Watchmen of the Jewish faith who will scrutinise my credentials? I have no credentials. And why wouldn’t they have been pleased to meet me before I was Jewish?’ ‘That’s good, Julian. Getting touchy is a good sign. You can’t be Jewish if you can’t do touchy.’

‘Anyway, that was where he came out with it.’ ‘Came out with what?’ ‘His confession of shame.’ ‘Shame about Ronit?’ ‘Shame about Israel, you fool.’ ‘Oh, that. I’ve heard him on the subject with Libor. It’s nothing new.’ ‘It’s new to announce it to the country. Do you know how many people listen to that programme?’ Treslove had a fair idea but didn’t want to get into a discussion about numbers. Mention of millions hurt Treslove’s ear. ‘So does he regret it now?’ ‘Regret it! He’s like the cat that got the cream. He has a whole new bunch of friends. The ASHamed Jews. They’re a bit like the Lost Boys. It’s all down to careless mothering if you ask me.’