Friendly Fire (40 page)

D
ANIELA CANNOT REMEMBER
the ages of the rock fragments that were laid out beside her dinner plate four days ago, on that unforgettable evening at the dig, but she did grasp the archaeologist's explanation of evolutionary "transmission" and believes that when the time comes she will be able to summarize it for Amotz. Her Ugandan visitor is the only member of the research team who holds a Ph.D., and from the archaeology department of the University of London, no less, and this strengthens his self-confidence and his independence, as he boldly invites himself into the chamber of a foreign lady to make a highly unusual request.

"I am sorry for the disturbance and invasion of your privacy," apologizes the slender black man, as he seats himself on the stool at the foot of the bed, "but since we know that tomorrow you are returning to your country, and we are returning this evening to our excavations, we have decided to speak with you in private even before getting Jeremy's approval. It is very important to us that you will hear our request first, so you may consider it on your own, before consulting with your brother-in-law. You see that I am not speaking only for myself but also for my friends, who are happy for your short visit and your very generous interest. But first of all I wish to ask you, is there any chance that you will return to Tanzania or to Africa within the next year?"

"Return to Africa in the next year?" She smiles. "I don't think so. More likely I will never come back. This is a private visit, sort of a visit of consolation for me and my brother-in-law, and it has fulfilled its purpose. I also don't think my husband will agree to
another separation from me. We visited Tanzania together three years ago, when my sister was still alive, and together with her and her husband we went to the nature preserves. If Jeremy decides to stay with you, he will have to come to see us."

Despite the archaeologist's appreciation of her presence now, Daniela senses that he is pleased that she has no intention of making another trip, as if his request were dependent upon her leaving here forever.

"By the way, Jeremy also will not be able to stay with us a long time."

"Why?" she inquires, a bit concerned.

"Because the research team has a budget for only one more year, and after that we will return to our respective countries. But I believe Jeremy is already looking for another position."

"Where?" she asks, scowling. "He'd be better off coming back to Israel."

"But he doesn't think your country has a chance."

"Nonsense ... don't listen to what he says."

Dr. Kukiriza is surprised by the sudden storminess of the Israeli woman, which is followed by a long silence. Only slowly does he overcome his hesitancy, and in a gentle voice begins in a roundabout fashion to explain his request. He starts with the plight of the African scientist, who for all his personal boldness and independence is still officially dependent upon the evaluations of the white researcher who controls the official archival record and the state-of-the-art laboratories. There are members of the team who correspond by e-mail with scholars in America and Europe who study the great apes of Africa, and who report to their colleagues what we have discovered here and hope to find in the future, but even if these whites encourage Africans, they cannot confer final scientific verification on their work until they see and feel the actual evidence, and this verification is essential not only for our confidence and feelings of self-worth but also to increase our funding.

"So why don't you send them what you found? It's so simple."

"It could be simple," the Ugandan says, "but it is not. Because there is a strict ban upon removing what we find from the country without the permission of the government."

"Why?"

"Because these fossils are considered a national treasure."

"Monkey bones?"

"Of course, madam." His face darkens and his voice becomes tense. Even the bones of apes millions of years old are a national treasure of the first order, and when a great anthropological museum is built in Tanzania or a neighboring African country, it will include a place of honor for the findings of this research team. In Africa they do not have artistic masterpieces, nor historical memories of ancient battles and wars that changed the face of the earth, nor writers and thinkers whose works have become classics, and yet, humanity originated in Africa, so why should they not take pride in what they have given to the world? If humanity still matters.

Now she feels embarrassed by what she said in haste and nods with enthusiasm.

And he continues to explain that when findings are sent outside Africa, there is a need not only for special permission but also for insurance and guarantees that everything will be returned intact, and thus the cost of such a shipment is beyond their ability to pay, not to mention having to navigate the long and complex bureaucratic procedures. There is a concern that if bones like these begin to travel the world, scientists will not come to Africa from far and wide to inspect them closely. In Ethiopia recently, the signature of the president himself was required to ship the jawbone of a chimpanzee for examination in France.

"It's that bad?"

"It's that bad." He rises from the stool and begins to pace about the room, lost in thought, as the moment arrives to unveil his question.

"Are you perhaps familiar with an institute in Israel called Abu Kabir?"

"Abu Kabir?" She is surprised to hear the well-known name on the lips of the black man. "Of course ... it's our main pathology institute."

"An Arab institute?"

"Why, no," she corrects him, "this is an Israeli institute where all are equal, Jews and Arabs, and the Arab name is left over from some village that was maybe there once and destroyed in a war. But it's in Tel Aviv."

The Ugandan closes his eyes for a moment.

"Abu Kabir, meaning Father of the Great One: a beautiful, strong name for an institute of pathology."

"A beautiful name?" She is taken aback. "For us it's a name that arouses great fear. This is where they identify the bodies of victims of terrorist attacks."

"So it is also explained on the institute's Web site. But apparently because of the many victims you have, Abu Kabir has developed into a very advanced and sophisticated institute, which supports scientific research involving identification from the past as well."

"That could be," Daniela says, crossing her arms and hugging her shoulders, "but I wouldn't dare go near there, not even to its Web site."

"And we asked ourselves," says Dr. Kukiriza, ignoring her response, "if we might take advantage of your return tomorrow to send a few findings to Abu Kabir for analysis."

"What findings?"

"Bones. Three little bones that weigh next to nothing, no more than twelve centimeters in length."

"And you want me to bring these to Abu Kabir to pose them a riddle: Who is the deceased?"

"In our opinion, these are bones of our prehistoric ape,
Australopithecus afarensis.
You have already had the chance to feel them. They are clean and odorless. Dry bones, but not fragile ones,
which will not take up much room in your suitcase. We have already been in e-mail contact with a researcher at Abu Kabir, Professor Perlman, and she has agreed to accept them for testing."

And now that his wish has finally been expressed, he peers with fiery eyes and heightened expectation at Daniela, who remains uncomprehending.

"But if, as you say, bones like these are national property, don't I need official approval to take them with me?"

"Yes," the archaeologist admits candidly, "approval is necessary." But as he has just explained, the process is long and convoluted, and so they were hoping, he and his friends, to circumvent it by her good graces. For who will suspect a middle-aged lady, an ordinary tourist, of smuggling important bones? And who is looking for bones anyway, at the airport? And even if they are discovered, who can tell that they are millions of years old? And who will care? These are animal bones, not human. And even if we assume that someone, in Africa or Israel, insists on a clear answer as to why she has these dry bones, she can say that she innocently picked them up in the wild as a souvenir of Africa, and thought of using them as a paperweight on her desk.

A smile lights up the woman's face. She already knows her answer, but deliberately withholds it.

"We, of course, will ask for your brother-in-law's permission, but we first want to know if such a mission is possible from your standpoint."

"Possible," she answers faintly, "if it is really important to you."

"It is very important to us."

"If so," and her voice grows stronger, "don't involve my brother-in-law. Why make him anxious?"

T
HE STORM, WIND
and rain preceded them on their mutual journey from the coast to the capital, and made worse the boisterous
traffic of downtown Jerusalem. But an ambulance, even a private blue one, is entitled to use the fast lane reserved for buses and to park anywhere it pleases, including on the sidewalk across from the old Knesset building. The old man quickly plucks the hat from his head and removes the plastic poncho, and in his wrinkled black suit, enhanced by the red tie, he wheels himself straight to the stairs, and there surprises his escorts by asking to be allowed to get out of his chair and climb to the top floor with the help of his cane alone.

This is not the first time that Ya'ari's father has rejected his wheelchair. Daniela regularly encourages him to do it, even though this unsettles Ya'ari, since it's harder to steer a trembling old man supported only by a cane. This time the old man's decision is firm. He will not appear before his friend as an invalid. The shakes of the illness will in any case be mixed up with the tremors of his excitement, but the wheelchair shames his manhood. Even a mere technician would not dream of showing up in a wheelchair. It is precisely for this purpose that he has asked Francisco to bring along his two short and powerful friends, who now support him by his armpits and from the rear, so that he seems to be floating up the stairs, floor by floor, to the door he knows so well, which still displays the old plaque:
DR. DEVORAH BENNETT—PSYCHOANALYST.

Here, the father surprises his staff again, by insisting that they go back down to the next landing and wait invisibly in the stairwell, for he wants to make his entrance as a man leaning only on his cane. Amotz and Gottlieb's expert join the four Filipinos, and they all crowd into the landing half a story below, positioning themselves where the psychologist will not notice them. And the old man himself, bent over, leaning on his cane, slightly loosens his necktie and rings the doorbell three times—their signal, arranged in years past, that he is not a patient. And the door is opened by the lady of the house, who in his honor has put on a woolen dress and let down her hair, and although she looks shrunken and wrinkled in the morning light, her step is light and her voice lively.

"Here's the boy," she exclaims, "but where's the wheelchair that came between us? Are you still ashamed of it?"

The old man is shocked into silence.

"What's the matter, my dear?" she says, squeezing his shoulder. "I'm the same young woman you left years ago. No need to be alarmed. And you have such a nice cane."

The old man succumbs to his twofold trembling, and the cane slips from his hand. So as not to collapse on the doorstep, he pitches himself forward and clings for dear life to the fragile old woman, who struggles to keep her balance under the unexpected load, and begins weeping on her shoulder.

From the staircase Ya'ari hears his father sobbing, perhaps for the first time in his life. Little Hilario looks up at him with perplexed concern, as if curious to know why he doesn't run over to help. But Ya'ari freezes. He sees his father's weeping as a great volcanic blast of liberation. I will do him wrong, he says to himself, if I go up now and embarrass him. He looks at the Filipinos sitting quietly on the stairs, half-listening, perhaps pining for their homeland. Only in the big bright eyes of the expert flickers a little smile, as if in the cries and whimpers she can make out hidden melodies.

Summoning all her strength, Devorah Bennett pulls the old man into the apartment and leaves the door open, which is a sign for Ya'ari and crew to enter the apartment cautiously. His father has already been taken into her treatment room, and is apparently propped in her chair, since she is saying very loudly, as if his hearing were also impaired: See, now you're the therapist and I'm your patient.

Ya'ari seats the Filipinos around the dining table, which is elegantly arrayed with expensive refreshments. As one already familiar with the apartment, he directs the expert toward the bedroom. In the hallway he puts a hushing finger to his lips as they tiptoe past the treatment room, but his father is on the alert and notices them. For the moment I'm only letting her hear the noises; I'm not dismantling anything, Ya'ari tells him, as he leads the small woman to the miracle of the tiny elevator.

"So," he says, looking into her wide blue eyes, "I bet you've never seen a contraption like this."

She smiles with amusement. This is something impressive. He pulls open the grille and escorts her into the tiny cage, which seems made to order for a nymph like her, with her cropped hair and nearly flat chest and aroma of freshly mown grass. Show me your stuff, he challenges her, pressing the up button, and the elevator begins to groan and shake and wrestle with itself, but before the expert can voice an opinion he puts a finger to her lips, Wait, he says, there's another surprise for you. And then, during the slow ascent, the wailing of the cat in heat begins to waft into the tiny space. The expert's mouth is agape with laughter. She looks around to find the electrical connections, but the walls are blank. She then reaches over and removes the picture of Jung, revealing a primitive electrical box, and as she does so the hungry yowling grows louder. The expert has already produced a small voltage tester from her jumpsuit pocket, but Ya'ari stops her. No, he will not let her near the wiring until they disconnect the current that comes from the electric company.