Friendly Fire (23 page)

Ya'ari hangs his head and recalls Gottlieb's words, that people like this have a different agenda and with a touch of inner satisfaction he says, "I may not be a bereaved father like you, Mr. Kidron, only a bereaved uncle, but I have insider knowledge, family knowledge, of your grief, and I respect it a great deal. So please, don't be angry that I made a little joke. You can rest easy: this is what I came here for, and I'm going to arrange a four-way meeting with the elevator manufacturer and the contractor and the architect, so that in a team effort we can determine where the winds are sneaking in, and after we discover the source and maybe also the cause, we'll try to calm them down."

A
S SOON AS
they return to the farm, Daniela, exhausted from the journey to Dar es Salaam and the walk down her sister's via dolorosa, excuses herself to her brother-in-law and the nurse, takes
what remains of the sweets, and goes up to her room. With uncharacteristic speed she strips off the dress that she can now no longer wear on this trip, takes a long shower, and decides to forgo the candies, whose aftertaste and excessive sweetness she finds repellent, and to go to bed hungry. She does not touch the novel lying beside her bed, opting instead to turn out the light immediately, find the right position, and fall into a deep sleep.

The next morning she wakes early. When five
A.M.
dawns on her wristwatch, she knows her night is over; she has no magic up her sleeve to eke out any extra sleep. For half an hour she stays curled up in the darkness with her eyes open, taking mental inventory of all her family members in their familiar beds, but finds it hard to imagine the sleeping arrangements of the military prisoner. In the end, hunger forces her to rise in the hesitating dawn, if only for a cup of coffee and a slice of bread.

In principle she could speed up time by returning to her novel. If the editor only made it clearer on the back cover that some sort of rewarding surprise awaited the reader, maybe anticipation would lend her some patience. But her hunch is that there will be no real dramatic twist in the plot or acquisition of self-knowledge on the part of the main character. The most she can expect is a change in her own understanding of the intention or genre of this novel. Which is ultimately not much of a reversal and depends upon the willingness of the reader. But this novel is not broad or deep enough for the effort.

No, she has no desire to go back to the novel. But if she had Friday's
Ha'aretz
spread open in her hands, she could use that to satisfy her hunger and keep lying in bed. Unlike her husband, she knows how to glean from its various columns new signs of human compassion in the world.

But until she gets back to Israel she will not have a newspaper. So she dresses in the clothes she wore on the airplane and makes her way down the dark stairway to the vast kitchen. I'm already a
little bit of the landlady here, she thinks to herself, amused. But in the kitchen a small light is on. The old groundskeeper who yesterday helped her locate coffee and sugar stands up straight as she enters. Was it his idea to wait for her, following her previous failure to find the coffee and sugar on her own, or is he here on the secret orders of her host?

But she's glad of his company, and warmly takes his hand in both of hers and squeezes it firmly. In lieu of her husband, she has at her disposal a shriveled old man who has already boiled the water and placed a plate and cup and silverware on the table along with jars of coffee and sugar, and now removes the grayish milk from the fridge. Maybe in the meantime he has learned to pronounce the English name of the animal that produced it, so that the white woman can consent to lighten her coffee.

Even if most of the sights and details of this visit to Africa fade with the passage of time, she knows she will never forget till her dying day the old wizened African who serves her like a husband, in a huge kitchen before dawn.

M
UCH AS
Y
A'ARI
would like to delay his mission of mercy to Jerusalem, which will almost certainly come to naught, the drive goes quickly. All wheeling and dealing in the capital sloughs off on the weekend to the coastal plain. Jerusalem on the eve of the Sabbath becomes a provincial town, not locked shut, exactly, but nearly abandoned and therefore very easy to get into. It's not even nine in the morning and already he is parking his car on a small street near the old Knesset building.

Sometimes design jobs in Jerusalem come Ya'ari's way, though no longer in the city center, but rather in the suburbs, primarily the newer office parks. His visit to the area near the old Knesset, now the headquarters of the Rabbinical Court, is almost a tourist
excursion, and he takes a moment to enter the building and examine a small exhibition of black-and-white photos of days long gone but not forgotten. Although he never lived in Jerusalem, and in the '50s and '60s there was no television to inflict the city's politicians on the public, he still remembers well the newsreels screened in the movie theaters. The prime minister and his cabinet would walk around simply and naturally, without the trappings of power or burly security men, in the middle of King George V Street where he is walking now, and only two policemen were needed to direct the traffic around them.

But why wallow in nostalgia for the good old days? Wasn't this same modest, innocent Knesset building pelted with stones and bottles during the stormy debate whether to accept German reparations for the Holocaust? It's better not to romanticize the purity of the past; better to concentrate on the present. He locates his destination, then steps into a pleasant café at the corner and orders a fresh croissant and a large coffee. This way he can excuse himself at the outset from whatever refreshments Mrs. Bennett might offer and be able to make a quick getaway from her home. Not only does he not want to be regarded by anyone as a technician of old elevators, he is also particularly reluctant to meet a woman who meant something to his father; maybe he loved her, even if today she is just a girl of eighty-one.

But for all his efforts, he hasn't turned the clock very far forward. When at last he climbs the stairs to the fourth floor, it is still only 9:20, so he lingers on every landing, checking the names of the tenants. On the top floor, beside an iron ladder that ascends to the roof, there is a single door, with a name on it in Hebrew and English: Dr. Devorah Bennett, Psychoanalyst. He doesn't ring the bell but instead knocks lightly, to test her hearing.

A conversation is apparently going on inside, since the tenant's voice is loudly audible. Nonetheless she is aware of his tap on the door and opens it. There she is, an elderly light-haired woman,
shrunken and wrinkled but also nimble and elfin and cheerful, who holds a phone in her hand and keeps talking: Yes, it's your son. Punctual, like his father.

Ya'ari's mood sours at once: clearly this old girl was a good-looking woman in her day, and if she was never actually his father's lover, she was surely the object of his lust. The only question is whether all this happened before or after the death of his mother.

"It's your father on the phone," she says, gracefully waving the receiver. "He called to see if you had arrived. Would you care to speak with him?"

"No," retorts Ya'ari, "I'll report to him after my visit."

"No, Yulik," she shouts into the phone, pressing it close to her ear, "your son has decided to speak with you only after the house call, so good-bye for now, my dear, and don't bother us any more." She gently replaces the phone receiver and extends to Ya'ari a liver-spotted hand.

"Thank you for agreeing to come and see me after all. Don't worry, I know you're only an engineer and not a technician, but if you give me a diagnosis, it'll be possible for me to look for a cure. Your father said he isn't going for his walk in the park today but is staying by the phone, so if you want to ask him something during the inspection, he's ready."

"I have nothing to ask him," Ya'ari interrupts, "and by the way, did you know that my father is confined to a wheelchair and takes his walk with a Filipino who pushes him?"

Mrs. Bennett wasn't told about the wheelchair, but she'd guessed, having known for years about the Parkinson's disease, and she was very cross with the man who was ashamed of his illness and stopped visiting her, because what was there to be ashamed of? To tremble is human too.

Ya'ari studies her. "He visited you, in recent years?"

"Of course. After your mother's death, we were more than friends ... so far as our age permitted. But sit, please, drink a cup
of tea, so you'll have strength to listen to the yowling of my elevator. It's all ready; it won't take much of your time."

On a table in the living room, beside a menorah prepared for the evening with five candles, are waiting two shiny white cups, a sugar bowl, packets of Sweet 'n' Low, teabags of various types, and little saucers of cookies and chocolate squares. Dominating this array is a vase stuffed with flowers.

"Thank you, I already had mine at that nice café next to the Knesset."

"So you didn't count on me," she says, without complaint. "A shame that you didn't hear from your father how good I am at pampering. It's my loss, as they say these days. But at least sweeten your bitterness a little with a piece of chocolate."

A little smile crosses Ya'ari's lips. He nibbles a chocolate square and looks around, but sees no trace of an elevator.

"You are obviously looking for the elevator. Please, come with me."

She leads him into the corridor of the apartment, which, it turns out, is not at all small. The clutter that typically accumulates in old people's apartments is not oppressive here. The ancient furniture is polished, and the upholstery shows no signs of wear or neglect. On the hooks on the backs of the doors, coats hang in orderly fashion. He follows her, looking at the whitish flaxen hair braided and bunched at the nape. They walk past her consultation room, where photos of Sigmund Freud in youth and age peek out from shelves stuffed with journals and books, then the bathroom and kitchen, and finally her bedroom, in the center of which stands a big double bed covered by a spread decorated with flowers and peacocks and scattered with many silk pillows.

There is still no sign of an elevator. Now she goes over to a large closet and opens wide two of its doors, as reverently as if it were the Holy Ark of the synagogue. But instead of a curtain, she slides aside a thin metal grille, revealing, at last, the elevator—small, narrow,
and the incarnation of his nocturnal vision of that fifth elevator in the corner. Inside the car are three buttons: green for up, blue for down, red for help in an emergency.

W
HILE SHE DRINKS
her coffee, Daniela offers her pack of cigarettes to the elderly African, who is watching her from across the table. The man accepts a cigarette, selects a small branch from the stack of firewood, opens the door of the stove and pokes it in, and before lighting his own brings the flame to the cigarette between her lips.

His name is Richard. There is no way to tell whether this is his original name or a name given to him in the days when he worked at a local English farm. It has been many years now since he used much English, and he remembers only bits of the language—fossilized remains whose meaning he can still reconstruct. When spoken to, he tilts his head with great attention, as if to encourage the speaker to rattle off more and more words, until one comes up that will enable him to figure out the rest.

She likes this old man, and since the morning is young and Yirmiyahu and Sijjin Kuang haven't yet arrived, she is willing to chatter to him indefinitely, without expecting him to understand much or reply. She just wants him to feel that she respects him and is grateful for his help, and she also believes that among all the words she generously heaps upon him, eventually there will be one that registers. And that word must have arrived, she thinks, when suddenly he rises from his seat and leads her up to the first floor and opens the door of the room temporarily occupied by her brother-in-law. It isn't large, and the bed inside is narrow and disheveled. For some reason Daniela is relieved that there is no second bed, unmade or otherwise, even though she really doesn't care and has no right to worry about something no longer significant. The groundskeeper quietly limps over to the bed and straightens the sheets, and she is drawn to the little window, which looks out on the dirt road she took to the village of the sadly wise elephant. The rain of the night before has cleansed the world and sweetened the morning light, and before the sun gets too strong she can take a walk and not sit around idly waiting for her brother-in-law to show up.

But is she allowed to walk alone? Why not? She remembers the tranquil road very well and has no intention of going too far. For a moment she considers asking Richard to escort her, but really, why impose upon him and also on herself? She hurries up to her room before the sun can get stronger, takes her sister's windbreaker, gets some dollar bills and sticks them in a pocket—money Amotz put in her purse for emergencies—and returns to the ground floor, hoping the old man will witness her departure. But he has already vanished, gone as silently as he came.

The air is fresh, the road a bit muddy. Not overdoing it, she climbs the hill slowly, feeling liberated but a bit fearful too. Now and then she looks behind her, but no one is there. Even when she reaches the top there is no one to be seen. She does not think about animals. Everything here is open and exposed; if some animal is hiding nearby, it must be small and harmless.

As she descends the slope the farm disappears from view. But she recalls the road clearly and feels serenely confident that she'll find her way back. Two young women at the river are busy with laundry. When Daniela draws nearer she notices that their breasts are bare, so she bows her head in a gesture of respect and gives a friendly smile. She greets them in simple English and also points behind her, toward the farm hidden behind the hill, in order to explain to them where she belongs and where she will return. But the two young women seem unconcerned by the presence of the older white woman. They laugh and splash each other. Their breasts are perfectly formed, smooth and solid. Thatches of youthful pubic
hair are visible between their long legs. One of them says something to her friend, and suddenly they point toward the village, and each cups a hand over her eye as both try in vain to find the right word to spur the lone tourist to keep walking. "
Elephant,
" they finally exclaim. "Elephant!" they shout, delighted to have lit upon the word.