Friendly Fire (6 page)

"Why?"

"Because at the site, she can better direct you how to deal with the tenants and prove to them that the noises are not caused by your design and certainly not by my elevators but exclusively by the construction company's lousy job on the shaft and maybe also a mistake of the architect's in the placement of the fire doors in the parking garage. I don't need to hear any howling myself to know that the wind is getting in from the bottom, not from the top, and my technician will diagnose for you exactly what's causing the uproar. So listen, my friend, don't be lazy; tomorrow the weather will improve and the storm will be gone and they won't hear a thing. Take yourself over there and meet her in half an hour, and don't change your mind. Or send your son. She's a rare type, a gifted person, professional, who will relieve you once and for all of the guilt you decided to take upon yourself this morning just so you could pin it on me this afternoon."

"Not guilt, responsibility."

"Then she'll free you from responsibility."

"But what's so special about her?"

"She can pinpoint, just by listening, malfunctions in motors or cables long before they cause serious problems. With such a fine-tuned ear she could conduct a philharmonic orchestra plus a big choir, instead of working with us in the service department..."

"Israeli?"

"Totally Israeli. She was sent as a child to some musical kibbutz in Galilee, where she developed perfect pitch among the tractors and combines and plows."

"How old is she?"

"Thirty, forty, maybe more. But tiny, ageless, athletic ... She can slide herself into any crack ... A fearless little devil."

"All right, I'll find someone to meet her in the parking lot."

"Better if you go yourself..."

"Can't do it. My father's Filipinos are waiting for me with the Hanukkah candles."

"What's going on with your old man?"

"Stable."

"Give him my regards. You know how much I respected and loved him."

"So keep on respecting and loving him, because he's alive and well."

"Obviously, no question ... but still, my dear Ya'ari, on your way, hop over to the winds, and we'll be done with this whole affair."

"No. My workday is over. I got up at three in the morning to take my wife to the airport."

"Where she'd go off to in the middle of winter?"

"To Africa."

"An organized tour?"

"No, she went alone."

"To Africa? By herself? You never told me you had such an adventurous wife."

Ya'ari would like to explain to the elevator manufacturer that his wife would not be there alone. But he holds off. Adventurous? So be it. This lends his wife an aura she never aspired to, and that suddenly appeals to him.

T
HIS TIME SHE
leans her head against the window, as if it were a spouse's shoulder, and keenly watches the moving world below. The aircraft is a propeller plane, new, not large, that cruises with a
steady and pleasant hum through the clear evening sky at low altitude, so that she can see not only the bend of a river and the contour of a small lake but also the lights of houses, and here and there even a campfire. Her pride over not missing the flight has made her uncharacteristically alert and aware. She takes out her passport, checks the accompanying travel documents, and then turns its pages, one after the next, as if it were a small prayer book.

In the adjoining seat is an elderly Englishman, blue-skinned, white-haired and heavyset, already accepting from the stewardess his third glass of Scotch. But he doesn't worry Daniela. The flight will not be long, and the man seems solid and essentially sober, and appears to be looking at her with secret appreciation. Yes, despite her age, she is well aware that she has not lost her feminine charm. If she were to turn to the British gentleman with specific questions in her excellent English, encouraging him to talk about himself, he might well fall in love with her by the time they landed. But instead she turns toward the window, because the expanse of Africa, lighted by the moon, is what now engages her.

T
HE WIND IS
back, says Ya'ari, detaching his son from the computer. Gottlieb is sending his acoustic technician to the Pinsker Tower to figure out the source of the winds and to free us—and mainly him—from responsibility to the tenants. But he insists on one of us joining her and hearing her explanations. I'm in no mood for any more wind, and I'm rushing to light candles with Grandpa, so do me a favor, habibi, go meet her in the parking garage, and we'll put an end to the complaints. It's unacceptable that individual tenants are pestering me on my cell phone.

In the ample living room of his childhood home, positioned in front of the Channel One news, his father sits trembling in a wheelchair; by his side is six-year-old Hilario, the Filipinos' son, whose Hebrew is fluent and accent-free. Hilario has his own little hanukkiah, the eight-branched holiday menorah, made of yellow clay and set with three candles of different colors, which await Ya'ari's arrival along with the three candles in the big, old menorah.

When his father's illness worsened, Daniela insisted that they bring in not one Filipino caretaker but two, a married couple who would add to caregiving the stable and secure embrace of a small family. It's a big house, she said, there's room for everyone, and for a little extra money we'll buy peace of mind for all of us.

Is the house actually big? Ya'ari has been asking himself lately, when he comes to visit his father and sees how the living area has shrunk, what with the stroller and playpen, the bassinet in the kitchen, and the rack for drying laundry. The couple, Francisco and Kinzie, who themselves look like teenagers, a few months ago became the parents of a daughter, who requires her own substantial space, and then there's little Hilario, born in Southeast Asia, who occupies Ya'ari's childhood room and who, having graduated from the local kindergarten that Ya'ari himself attended as a boy, is a pupil in the first grade, devoted and studious. He sits now at the ready beside the trembling grandfather, an unlit candle in his hand and a kippa on his head, waiting for Ya'ari to give him permission to recite the blessings and light the menorah.

"Don't overdo it..." says Ya'ari, reaching to remove the skullcap from the little Filipino's head.

But Ya'ari's father stops him, what do you care? He's not hurting anybody with his kippa. He has a new teacher now, who came over from a religious school, and she gives the kids a little religion, more than the zero you got.

Ya'ari has already grown accustomed to his father knowing every detail of Hilario's life, more than he ever knew about Ya'ari or his brother when they were children. And no wonder: his father's English is minimal, so he speaks with his two caregivers through their firstborn son and along the way learns about the world of his young translator.

"Fine," sighs Ya'ari in English. "I'm exhausted, so first of all let's finish with the candles."

The old man motions to Francisco to turn off the lights so the flickering flames will delight the boy. And then Hilario lights the shammash, the candle in his hand that lends its fire to all the others, and in a whisper, but without a single mistake, he chants the two traditional blessings, while touching the friendly fire to the candles in his little clay hanukkiah. When he is done, he offers the shammash to Ya'ari, but Ya'ari gestures for him to continue, and the child, his face aglow with excitement, stands on tiptoe and repeats the blessings, while with an unsteady hand he ignites the shammash and candles in the grandfather's menorah. Afterward he turns to his mother, who sits in a corner with her infant in her arms, and gets her permission to sing a Hanukkah song. To Ya'ari's relief it is not "Maoz Tsur," which he loathes, but rather an old Hanukkah song whose melody is modest and pleasing to the ear, and since Francisco and Kinzie do not know the words nor even the tune, Ya'ari has no choice but to back the boy up with some humming of his own.

When the ceremony is over, the father wants to know if Daniela has arrived safely at Yirmiyahu's place. Two days ago she came to say good-bye and told him at length about the purpose of her trip, and although the father listened intently and kept nodding his head, not merely from his illness but in approval of her wish to return and recover the grief and pain that had begun to fade, he was uneasy for his beloved daughter-in-law traveling to East Africa alone.

Ya'ari looks at his watch. As far as he knows, there is no time difference between Israel and East Africa, so if everything is all right she is in midair and due to land in one hour.

"But Yirmiyahu is no longer an ambassador there..." the father recalls.

"He never was an ambassador, just a chargé d'affaires in a small economic mission, which closed down after Shuli died."

By the soft light of the six flames Ya'ari can see that his father's eyes are blazing. A flush spreads over his cheeks, the tremor in his body worsens, and his hands shake uncontrollably. His gaze drifts away from his son and into a corner of the room. Ya'ari turns his head and sees that the Filipino woman is taking advantage of the darkness to nurse the baby. Despite the natural duskiness of her skin, the darkness of the room does not conceal her naked bosom; the flickering fire of the Hanukkah candles reveals the sweet shapely splendor of a young woman's breast, which apparently stirs the soul of the old man.

Francisco should be warned, thinks Ya'ari, not to let his wife expose herself like that in front of his father. Because she dresses him and feeds him, it would be bad to afflict him unduly with a longing for her flesh.

But the moment is unsuitable for warnings, especially in front of the boy, who is fascinated by the flames, so Ya'ari shifts the wheelchair slightly, depriving his father of the sight of his caregiver's bare breast, and also casually attempts to distract him with a description of the winds whistling in the elevator shaft of the Pinsker Tower, which sucks them in from the outside world in a way that remains mysterious.

T
HE MOMENT OF
arrival is announced, and the stewardess rises to distribute candies to the passengers. But the Englishman, gulping the last of his Scotch, declines to ruin the taste of good whiskey with the sourball he is offered, so with sheepish generosity he offers his to the silent lady traveler beside him. And in the few minutes remaining before they land, she is willing not only to accept the candy but also to ask him about the climate and scenery awaiting her on the ground.

It turns out that the elderly Englishman adores the Morogoro nature preserve and even owns a small farm there. Because of his fondness for the wildlife, he returns here every year, as it is absolutely clear to him that the animals miss him, too; but he has never heard of an anthropological dig in the area. To tell the truth, he has no interest in such excavations; indeed, it seems to him a bit strange that such a pleasant and elegant woman as herself is about to join up with bone-hunters searching for prehistoric monkey men, given that the spectacular natural world of the here and now veritably teems with mystery. Therefore, as the wheels of the aircraft touch down on the runway, she feels compelled to correct the misguided impression he has formed of the nature of her journey and to reveal its true purpose. And the Englishman, whose melancholy grew after the empty glass was taken from him, empathizes greatly with her tale of loss and wishes to add a tear of his own over the dear, dead sister and the soldier who was so needlessly killed. He even seems prepared, time permitting, to fall in love with her, and before unbuckling his seat belt he hands the Israeli woman a business card with the name and address of his estate: perhaps she might like to come and visit. Daniela accepts the card, as she did the candy, and faithful to her husband's order to keep everything together, she tucks it in beside the medical insurance papers in the passport envelope, because now, as she descends in darkness the gangway of the plane, she is conscious not only of the time and distance she has covered but also of the erosion of her capacity to carry on alone, so she wheels her suitcase in the faltering footsteps of the inebriated Englishman, who is swiftly installed in a wheelchair by two brawny Africans so he may make a more dignified exit from the tiny airport.

Even after she exits passport control and is surrounded by porters and greeters, Daniela keeps her eye on the wheelchair, since at first glance she notices that among the dozens of black faces crowding behind the fence and in front of it too, there is no familiar-looking white one. But a sense of her own worth protects her from any worry or fear; only a strange smile alights on her lips. She is entirely certain that even if the visit she has imposed on her
brother-in-law is not much to his liking, he would never think of not coming to welcome the woman who in her childhood had been integral to his courtship of her sister and had championed their love with her whole young heart. And he, for his part, would always call her Little Sister and help her with her homework in arithmetic and geometry, and would be dispatched late at night to fetch her in her father's car from youth-group activities or school parties.

Even as her strange smile begins to compete with a look of mild panic, there arises from the middle of the crowd a little sign, with her name and flight number in a familiar hand.

It is not Yirmiyahu waving the sign, however, but a noble emissary, black as night, very tall and erect. A red scarf is wrapped about her neck, and she wears the white gown of a doctor or nurse. And when Daniela signals that she is the sought-after passenger, the emissary hurries toward her through the throng of greeters, who judging by their great number must be mainly curious onlookers who come each evening to this rural airport in case the plane might need their assistance in taking off or landing.

The thin, very tall woman bends toward Mrs. Ya'ari and in simple, correct English, albeit of indeterminate accent, introduces herself: Sijjin Kuang, Sudanese, a nurse attached to the anthropological research team. That afternoon, she brought a patient to the local hospital, and was asked to stay around till evening to pick up a guest from Israel. Naturally, after such a long wait, she is in a hurry to get back. The distance to the base camp of the excavations is not great, thirty miles, but half of that is on dirt roads. She is pleased to learn that the visitor has no luggage apart from her small suitcase, and advises her to use the rest room, since the road ahead will not offer proper facilities. But Daniela, eager to get going, says without a second thought, thank you, I'm all set.