Friendly Fire (4 page)

It's all right, she says regretfully to the woman, who has already steered her toward passport control. Six hours is long, but not impossibly so. Best not to burden your husband. I'll find myself some quiet corner; I bought a novel this morning at the airport, so the time should pass quickly.

And to the great dismay of her old student, she heads for the transit hall, wheeling her suitcase between the baskets and bundles of other passengers, looking for the cafeteria where three years ago she waited with her husband.

It's still there, and though as unattractive as ever, it is no longer gloomy. The place has been expanded with added tables and chairs, and the walls are decorated with colorful posters advertising hotels and restaurants in the city. Even as she wonders where she'll find that quiet corner in which to pass the long hours, she catches the eye of a waiter, who opens a folding table for her. In the corner, she points, the corner please, I'll be here a very long time.

Now she regrets having passed up the airplane meal, and so she orders a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and opens the novel. She chose it with no prior knowledge, purely by its name and cover illustration. But because it was written by a woman, naturally the main character will be a woman. Admittedly, Daniela is not always comfortable with women's novels. In general, the heroines don't like themselves much, making it hard for the reader to identify with them, and without that identification, no matter how smooth the writing and well-made the plot, the time won't go quickly.

She reads the long, closely printed blurb on the back cover. The editor promises the readers of this novel a dramatic reversal. An elusive secret only implied at the outset will by the end turn everything upside down. So the reading will not be simple; it will require concentration, and that's not going to be easy with two African youths standing near her table and staring at her. On the previous visit, at a table near this one, she waited with her husband for an evening flight back to Israel. That wait had lasted only an hour and a half, and with her husband by her side, attentive to her every word, the time passed quickly. She remembers that despite the anticipation of going home, and a satisfying visit with her sister and brother-in-law to think about, sadness overcame her. Something must have told her that this separation from her sister would be a long one, but she could hardly have foreseen that less than two years later a sudden heart attack would take her sister from the world in an instant, and her brother-in-law would bring back to Israel not a coffin but only an earthenware jug filled with ashes. What's the matter? he would argue to the hushed astonishment of his relatives, none of us, after all, believes in the resurrection of the dead.

Y
A'ARI SHIFTS WITH
finesse from the role of concerned father to the role of employer, asking whether Moran's release from army duty has been confirmed.

"It'll be fine, Abba, don't worry."

"When's it supposed to start, your reserve duty?"

"It started already. Yesterday."

"And you have a release? You've covered?"

"Nobody can give me an official release. I'm just ignoring it."

"But why don't you explain to them that this is a critical week at work, with many important decisions..."

"They don't need explanations. They've got them from everybody and his brother. Better just to keep quiet. Even if they discover I'm missing, the adjutant is a friend of mine; we were in officers' training together."

"So did you at least tell this adjutant?"

"No. If I tell him, he'll have to order me to come in. Best just to ignore the order. Like last time. I didn't show up, and nobody noticed. They have enough soldiers and officers."

"And this time, too?"

"I'm sure of it."

"We have those meetings coming up at the Defense Ministry. I'm sure that if you told them about the Defense Ministry, they'd free you up."

"The Defense Ministry impresses nobody. Every dropout has a fantastic excuse. Don't worry, it'll be fine. I'm here, with you."

"You know, because I wasn't sure you'd be free, I couldn't go on the trip with Imma."

"And I thought it was because she wanted to be there alone."

"That, too. Where's your unit going?"

"West Bank, but not too deep inside."

"Maybe you can cook up another excuse?"

"Such as?"

"A matter of conscience ... conscientious objection ... after all, your cousin..."

"Enough, Abba, I'm not going to masquerade as something I'm not. This army is always in flux, it's unfocused and aimless. There are surplus soldiers everywhere. Nobody'll notice that I didn't show up."

"But this adjutant, your friend..."

"Even if he notices, he won't bat an eyelash."

"I'll take your word for it. You know how crucial you're going to be to me in the coming days. So on the way over here, go down to the Pinsker Tower and listen to the wailing winds. The tenants
are livid, and rightly so. I was there this morning, and the roaring is enough to drive you mad. I have a couple of theories about what exactly is going on, but I won't say a word till I get your opinion. And you haven't forgotten the noon meeting at the new site?"

"I haven't forgotten."

"Now what about Nadi, is he a little calmer at night?"

"Sometimes."

"Last night?"

"So-so. Maybe before preschool I'll take him to the clinic. Are you coming over tonight to light candles with the kids?"

"Not tonight. In the late afternoon I'll light them with Grandpa. I haven't seen him for two days. From there I'll go home. I slept maybe three hours last night. But we'll have plenty more candles to light before your mother gets back."

Through the big doorway, engineers and draftsmen, technicians and secretaries pour into the office, and their computer screens light up one by one. People warm their hands on coffee mugs and enter Ya'ari's office to say hello and show him sketches. Some years back, Ya'ari lost direct touch with the latest design technologies and the specifications of the elevators planned by his firm, but he can still suggest lines of thinking to his employees and judge the quality of their work.

The sunlight comes and goes and a soft rain continues to fall, but outside the window the branches on his tree are still. The morning's storm has quieted down, and he fears that his son will listen in vain for the moaning of the winds.

The phone rings and the secretary brings the day's mail, but Ya'ari's thoughts are with the beloved passenger. Soon the long layover in Nairobi will begin, and although he is certain she will not break her promise and go into the city, he feels sorry that she'll be sitting alone for six long hours in that crowded and unpleasant restaurant. It would be better if she could find herself a nice quiet corner near the departure gate. In his mind he strides ahead of her through
the airport, recalling its layout to help her find the right spot, someplace not too isolated. And he hopes that her pleasant disposition and friendly smile will engage a fellow passenger who is waiting too. A man or a woman, Israeli or European, even a local African, someone who will watch over the internal logic of her movements.

B
UT SHE HAS
not sought out a small, quiet corner; instead, she has tried to improve her seating arrangement in the big cafeteria. A white-haired man helped her relocate her little table to a more remote corner, and after a waiter set down her sandwich and coffee, she wandered among the tables and found two more chairs, set her rolling suitcase and purse on one of them and put her feet up on the other, to rest them thoroughly and restore her ankles to their normal shape. When she opened her suitcase, she was tempted at first by the bundle of Israeli newspapers, but instead, with a small sigh and few expectations, took out the new novel she had bought at the airport.

And so, amid the racket of cups and dishes, the babble of unintelligible languages, and smells of coffee and roasted meat begins an encounter between an older woman, who is an experienced reader, with a fictional woman of thirty or so who from the first page is prone to self-pity. In a feverish but confusing monologue, she seeks the reader's sympathy for her unspecified plight. But what exactly am I supposed to care about or identify with, complains the traveler, if the author has no sympathy with her own character? Out of respect for the written word she keeps turning pages, while now and then glancing at her ankles, propped on the chair as if on the sofa back home. Eventually she kicks off one shoe and then the other, and contentedly rubs together the soles of her small feet.

The windows of the coffee shop are narrow and filthy, and the light that filters through is insufficient. The noise and smells also inhibit concentration, but she has got used to the small territory she has captured and is settled in for a long wait. True, she could right now be enjoying the hospitality of her former student, whose husband would surely have returned her to the airport on time, but then she'd have to listen to her hostess, thank her, smile, and act impressed. Yes, conversation comes easily to her, nor is it hard for her to accept kindness or even coddling from others. But the distress she would have felt over breaking the promise to her husband would have poisoned the pleasant interlude. When she's with him, she can easily deflect or defy his loving concern, but when she is alone it paralyzes her and makes her feel ashamed.

Never mind, she removes her glasses and wipes them clean, thinking the hours will pass. I have no choice, and neither does Time. Despite the chaos around her, she feels confident, and she is close to the departure gate. She takes out her passport to check her boarding pass, which normally her husband would carry, and after trying to decipher its details uses it to mark the page in her book, returns the passport to her purse, and puts the novel in her suitcase. Then she smiles warmly at a young couple seated nearby, a European man and an African woman playing merrily with a child who is an attractive mix of his parents' genes. After securing their agreement to guard her territory for a few moments, she puts on her shoes and heads purse in hand down a dim corridor toward a kiosk she recalls from the previous layover. It's there still, colorful and well-stocked as before, and the vendor, an older, very black man, fills for her a good-sized bag with sweet and sour hard candies and assorted bars of chocolate. After brief hesitation she also selects, from a bright glass bowl, a candy in the shape of a parrot, glittering with specks of colored sugar and perched on a little branch. She'd coveted it the last time, but Ya'ari had vetoed it as unsanitary. Now, loaded with sweetness, she returns happily to her table and after insisting that not only the boy, who is her own grandson's age, but his parents, too, partake of the candies, she opens her novel to the
bookmarked page and with dignified and guilty passion begins to lick the forbidden candy.

T
HE HOURS PLOD
along, the rain continues to fall, the wind stiffens. Francisco phones and in his gentle English requests Ya'ari's guidance. Despite the storm, his father is insisting on his morning walk.

From time to time Ya'ari is called upon to adjudicate a dispute between his father and the Filipino, and generally he decides in his father's favor, even when the old man's wishes seem eccentric. He has no reason to believe that the disease that in recent years has caused trembling in his father's hands and feet and greatly slowed his gait has also undermined his judgment. True, since the onset of his illness the old man has sunk into depression and his speech has grown halting and spare, but Ya'ari, who has always honored his father, feels that his core remains strong and that despite being cooped up at home he has kept his clear sense of reality.

"It's okay," the son assures Francisco. "Just dress him warmly, put the black poncho on him, and make sure he wears a scarf and hat."

"But Mister Ya'ari, Abba's hat is missing."

"Then find him another. Just don't take him out without one. The last time you forgot, he caught a cold. Attach the canopy I made for the wheelchair and don't walk around the streets. Take him to the playground, so if the rain gets worse you can shelter under the awning by the slides. It's okay if he gets a little wet. The smell of the rain makes him happy. He likes the wind, too."

"You want to say something to Abba?"

"Not right now. Just tell him that in the early evening I will come to light the candles with him."

"Hanukkah candles..."

"Bravo, Francisco. You've got it."

Still preoccupied by his wife's layover, Ya'ari postpones one of his meetings until midafternoon and sets out early to meet his son. But when he sees that the rain has not let up—indeed has intensified—he decides to detour to the playground near his childhood home to watch his father's excursion.

Beyond the windshield wipers, he sees the slight figure of Francisco, all bundled up, slowly pushing his father's wheelchair among the slides and seesaws of the empty playground. The caregiver has indeed wrapped the old man properly in a scarf, covered him with the black poncho, and placed on his head a red beret from Ya'ari's army days.

He waits till the wheelchair has completed its tour and begins to head in their direction. Although his old beret nearly covers his father's eyes, Ya'ari senses and savors the pleasure of this old man who is stronger than wind and rain.

N
EITHER THE AUTHOR
of the novel nor the character she has invented succeeds in arousing Daniela's sympathies. She reads conscientiously, never skipping a line, but still has no sense of the heroine's inner life, not even when, on
[>]
, she pays a belligerent visit to her parents' home, intending to bolster her self-pity by reviving a childhood grudge. Daniela finds the nasty fight artificial and unconvincing. The author doesn't seem to understand that at the heart of family animosities there is a warm intimacy that does not exist among warring strangers. She props her legs up on the suitcase that stands on the floor, since the waiter has swiped one of her chairs for a group of tourists who came flooding in, but when he returns to claim the chair holding her big purse—implying that the old white lady's mere coffee and sandwich do not justify her taking root—she puts on her shoes and wheels her bag toward the departure gate.