And the Sudanese, with a slightly embarrassed smile, explains very briefly the principles of her ancient tribal faith.
"Spirits? Winds?"
"Yes. Sacred spirits in trees and stones."
"And this kind of belief," Daniela inquires cautiously, "does not interfere with the rationality of the medical science that you studied?"
"No belief can interfere with care for the sick," the Sudanese declares. "Least of all animism, since any person may approach the spirits individually and according to his understanding, without any pope or ayatollah to do it for him."
"Marvelous..."
Daniela now wonders how a white person such as her brother-in-law was accepted to join a scientific mission composed only of Africans, all the more because he is neither a scientist nor a doctor and also is a citizen of a country not generally well-liked. But the Sudanese has a simple explanation. To prevent conflicts on sensitive matters among Africans who have joined the mission from all over the continent, it was decided that financial management and supervision of expenses would be placed in the hands of a white man, a foreigner yet an experienced person, someone familiar with the region and its ways. When a white widowed pensioner, a former diplomat in Africa, offered them his experience in administration and finance, and struck the members of the team as a reliable and objective person, immune to outside temptation.
"Temptation? In what sense?"
"Temptation that might prevent him from handling the accounts with honesty and precision. But soon he will explain this to you himself."
A warm summer wind streams through the open window of the car, scented by the thick flora. This is hill country, and the car climbs and descends the lower slopes surrounding Mount Morogoro, which appears periodically and then vanishes from view. The moon that accompanied her flight has disappeared behind the clouds, but its light is reflected by the lush roadside foliage that brushes the sides of the car. Not long ago, following a small road sign, the driver turned off the asphalt onto a dirt road. Although narrow, the road is tightly packed and free of potholes, and the engine maintains its powerful rhythm. But Daniela now has a bit of a problem. The huge sandwich she consumed and the great quantity of tea that accompanied it demand relief. Had she known about those in advance, she would not so blithely have passed up the chance to use the toilet at the airport. No choice now but to ask the kind driver to stop at a spot appropriate for both car and passenger and inquire as to whether there might be some paper handy; otherwise, she will have to open her suitcase.
"You will have to open your suitcase," Sijjin Kuang says, laughing, and slows to a halt.
She cautions the traveler not to try to seek privacy in the bush, where she is likely to arouse the interest of some small creature. You can simply stay on the road; you can see there is no traffic here, and even if a car should happen to pass by, no one will remember you.
But Daniela is uncomfortable being exposed in the moonlight, even in front of this licensed nurse, who in the meantime has shut down the engine and got out to stretch her legs and light up some sort of long pipe, thin and black like its owner. So she goes off to a bend in the road. Even there, despite Sijjin Kuang's warning, she is reluctant to crouch on the road, and blazes herself a trail a few steps into the bush.
Under the whispering branches of an African tree she pulls down her trousers with great emotion. The senior schoolteacher at ease with herself—the wife, veteran mother and grandmother—is visited by the memory of a mortified little girl who at a family outing at the Yarkon River, while basking in the love of aunts and uncles and cousins, suddenly lost control, and whose soaked panties threatened to destroy her happy world. But neither her mother nor her father had been aware of her distress, and her older sister had rushed to shield the crying child and discreetly take her to the riverbank, to a clump of bushes not unlike the one where she squats now, and with kind words wiped away her shame, soothed and consoled her, until she smiled again.
And now, with her pants at her ankles, by the light of a hidden moon whose movement in the sky speckles the surrounding foliage, free of the controlling love of her husband, who could not begin to imagine how far the arrow has flown from the bow drawn at the airport at dawn, she surrenders to the agony of losing a beloved sister, who always knew how to comfort her but had not succeeded in comforting herself. She lingers in her crouch, drinking deeply the grief that floods her, and slowly, slowly consoles herself, stands up, and straightens her clothing, but does not leave the place until she gathers a few stones to hide what she has left behind.
Total silence. As she returns to the dirt road, the Israeli briefly loses her way to the car that holds her suitcase and her travel documents, but she does not lose her nerve, and loudly calls the full name of the nurse: Sijjin Kuang! Sijjin Kuang! Sijjin Kuang! Three times she repeats the name of the tall idol-worshipper. And the animist, who is probably at this very moment seeking the blessing of the wind and trees and stones for the successful continuation of the journey, switches on the headlights and honks, to show the white woman the way back.
21.
LATE IN THE evening, Ya'ari collects the newspaper that was flung onto his doorstep at dawn and turns on the lights in the clean and polished apartment. With amused curiosity he looks for innovations made in his absence. Their veteran housekeeper, whom Daniela respects and even admires, has carte blanche to run their home as she sees fit, which is truly a great liberty, since besides cleaning and cooking she often whimsically rearranges furniture, closets, and bureaus so that the owners, returning home after an evening out, may discover that an armchair has moved to the other side of the living room, underwear and socks have migrated to foreign drawers, and a plant that has forever dwelt peacefully on the porch is now a centerpiece on the dining room table. Some relocations are happily accepted, others rejected and reversed, but out of respect for the housekeeper, never a comment is made.
Today there are no changes at home. Only in the Hanukkah menorah, cleansed of last night's wax, the housekeeper before leaving work has stuck two new candles and the shammash, for tonight's lighting. But Ya'ari has no intention this evening of reciting the blessing alone over more flames, so he adds a fourth candle, for tomorrow night, and moves the menorah to a corner of the kitchen.
From the quantity of food sitting still warm on the kitchen counter, he guesses that the housekeeper has not quite grasped that in the coming week only one person will be eating here. As he samples each dish with his fork, he flips through the TV channels to make sure that no plane has crashed today. His brother-in-law warned him that communication between the base camp of the dig and the wider world had to run first through Dar es Salaam, but Ya'ari was adamant: That may be so, but since I'm sending you a woman who for many years has not traveled abroad by herself and who, since her sister's death, has become even more dreamy and scattered, I must receive a sign of life within twenty-four hours. If not her voice, then yours, and if not yours, at least an e-mail to the office.
22.
JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, they arrive at the base camp of the scientific mission, set upon a colonial farm built at the beginning of the last century. Following Tanzanian independence, the property was confiscated from its European owners and turned into an elite training camp for army officers and public officials favored by the government. But tribal conflicts and violent coups d'etat made it impossible for officers and officials to maintain domestic tranquillity within a single locale, and the place was abandoned and forgotten for many years until two African anthropologists discovered it and approached UNESCO with a request for help in renovating it as a service facility for new excavations.
In the darkness, the outline of the farmhouse seems a ghost of the colonial past. But a light is burning on the ground floor. That is the kitchen, where he is no doubt waiting for you, says Sijjin Kuang to her passenger, who suddenly feels too exhausted to lift her small suitcase. After the Sudanese woman collects a package from the backseat, she leads the visitor toward th
e light.
If Shuli only knew how far Daniela has traveled, alone, to rekindle her memory, she would be pleased, perhaps even proud of her, but surely also apprehensive—as Daniela is now—about her encounter with the widower left behind.
"Here he is." The nurse points to a tall silhouette in the doorway.
Instead of running to his sister-in-law, to embrace her and help wheel her suitcase, Yirmiyahu waits at the entrance for the two women to come to him. Only then does he hug Daniela tight, and fondly pat the shoulder of the black nurse who brought her.
"What happened?" he asks in English, "I thought that you maybe changed your mind and canceled at the last minute."
"Why? Did you want me to change my mind?"
"No, I did not want anything."
He insists on continuing the conversation in English on account of Sijjin Kuang, who stands still as a statue beside him, holding the package in her arms like someone offering a sacrifice. Then, as if feeling sorry for his sister-in-law, who has made this long journey all by herself, he hugs her again and takes the handle of her rolling suitcase. At that moment she senses that his body has a new, pungent smell.
"The water is heated," he says, still in English, though he sounds a bit rusty. "But if you wish to drink a glass of tea before bed, let's go into the kitchen."
The three enter a large hall containing an enormous refrigerator and stoves for cooking and baking, and also what looks like an ancient boiler, the kind used to heat water for washing. The huge pots and frying pans, the ladles and spoons, graters and knives, testify to generous cooking for a good many people. A pile of firewood stands in the corner and dozens of empty plastic boxes are arranged on tables. While the newcomer looks around wonderingly, her host relieves the Sudanese nurse of the bundle in her arms, thanks her for her trouble, and bids her good night.
"I asked her to buy you new sheets, so you'll feel safe and sound in your bed."
Daniela blushes. She ought to say "Why? Really, no need," but she can't deny his display of sensitivity. He knows well that in strange lodgings she requires, as her sister did, a pristine bed.
As he sets a kettle on the fire, she studies him. The white hair that she remembers from their last meeting has fallen out, and his bald skull, resembling the fashionably shaved heads of young men, arouses in her a slight anxiety.
"I brought you a bunch of newspapers from Israel."
"Newspapers?"
"Also magazines and supplements. The stewardess collected them on the plane and filled a whole bag, so you can pick what interests you."
An ironic smile crosses his face. His eyes flash with a sudden spark.
"Where are they?"
Despite her fatigue, she bends over the suitcase and extracts the bulging bag. For a moment he seems loath to touch it, as if she were handing him a slimy reptile. Then he grabs it and rushes to the boiler, opens a small door revealing tongues of bluish flame, and without delay shoves the entire bag into the fire and quickly shuts the door.
"Wait," she cries, "stop..."
"This is where they belong," he smiles darkly at the visitor, with a measure of satisfaction.
Her face turns pale. But she keeps her composure, as always.
"Perhaps for you it's where they belong. But before you start burning things, you could warn me."
"Why?"
"Because there was lipstick in there too, which I bought at the airport for my housekeeper."
"Too late," he says quietly, without remorse. "The fire is very hot."
Now she regards him with hostility and resentment. In her parents' house, he was the one who had devoured every old newspaper. But he returns her look with affection.
"Don't be angry. No big deal, just newspapers, which get thrown out anyway. So instead of the trash, I threw them in the fire. You'll compensate your housekeeper with something else. I hope you don't have any more gifts like these in store for me."
"Not a thing," she winces, "that was it. Nothing else. Maybe only ... candles..."
"Candles? Why candles?"
"It's Hanukkah now, did you forget? I was thinking, maybe we could light them this week, together ... It's one of my favorite holidays..."
"It's Hanukkah? I really didn't know. For some time now I've been cut off from the Jewish calendar. Tonight, for instance, how many candles?"
"It started yesterday, so tonight is the second candle."
"Second candle?" he seems amused that his sister-in-law thought to bring Hanukkah candles to Africa. "Where are they? Let's see them."
For a moment she hesitates, but then takes out the box of candles and hands it to him in the odd hope that he might agree to light them here, in the middle of the night, and ease her sudden longing for her husband and children. But again, with the same quick, slightly maniacal movement, he opens the little door and adds the Hanukkah candles to the smoldering Israeli newspapers.
"What's the matter with you?" She stands up angrily, but still maintains her calm, as with a student in her class who has done something idiotic.
"Nothing. Don't get angry, Daniela. I've simply decided to take a rest here from all of that."
"A rest from what?"
"From the whole messy stew, Jewish and Israeli ... Please, don't spoil my rest. After all, you've come to grieve."
"In what way spoil it?" She speaks quietly, without rancor, feeling pity for this big man with the pink bald head.
"You'll find out soon enough what I mean. I want quiet. I don't want to know anything, I want to be disconnected, I don't even want to know the name of the prime minister."
"But you do know."
"I don't, and don't tell me. I don't want to know, just as you don't know the name of the prime minister here in Tanzania, or in China. Spare me all that. Come to think of it, maybe it's too bad I didn't insist that Amotz come with you. I'm afraid you'll get bored here with me on such a long visit."
Now, for the first time, she is offended.
"I won't be bored, don't worry about me. And the visit isn't long, and if it gets hard for you having me here, I'll cut it short and leave earlier. Do what you need to do. I brought a book with me too, and don't you dare throw it in any fire."
"If the book is for you, I won't touch it."
"The nurse you sent to get me warned me ... By the way, is she really still a pagan?"
"Why still?"
"You mean, she believes in spirits?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing wrong. A very impressive young woman ... aristocratic..."
"You can't remember, but before the state was established, on street corners in Jerusalem there stood Sudanese like her, very tall and black, wrapped in robes, roasting these wonderful, delicious peanuts on little burners, and selling them in cones made of newspaper. But that was before you were born."
"Before I was born..."
"Her whole family was murdered in the civil war in southern Sudan, and she grew up to be a woman of great tenderness and humanity."
"Yes. And she said that you didn't come to meet me because you were afraid to run into Israelis. Why would there be Israelis on the plane?"
"On every plane between two points in the world there is at least one Israeli."
"I was the only one on the plane that brought me here."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"And a Jew?"
"A Jew?"
"Maybe there was a Jew on the plane?"
"How would I know?"
"Then imagine that I didn't want to run into him either."
"That bad?"
"That bad."
"Why? You're angry at—"
"No, not angry at all, but I am asking for a rest. I'm seventy years old, and I'm allowed to disconnect a bit, and if it's not a final break, then it's a temporary one, or let's call it a time out. Simply a time out from my people, Jews in general and Israelis in particular."
"And from me too?"
"From you?" He regards his sister-in-law
with fondness, pours boiling water into her teacup, puts a flaming match to the cigarette she clenches between her lips, absolutely her last one of the day. "With you I have no choice, you'll always be my Little Sister, as I told you when you were ten. And if you came all the way to Africa to remember Shuli and mourn her with me, it's your right, since I know better than anyone how much you loved her and how much she loved you. That's all. I am warning you, grieve, but do not preach."
Third Candle
1.
IN THE MIDDLE of the night, Tel Aviv brightens for an hour or so, and the moon, freed of its gray blanket, rolls the husband from his wife's abandoned territory back to his own side of the bed and from there, after a slight hesitation, lifts him to his feet as well. Yes, Yirmiyahu cautioned him not to expect any electronic sign of life until the next day, but still he wanders, one more time, among the television channels, so that—with the collusion of a mild sleeping pill—he will be able to fall asleep again, reassured that no plane has crashed or been hijacked; and in the meantime, till his bloodstream carries the pill's chemical message to his brain, he tries, with a few quick strokes on the pad of graph paper he keeps by the bed, to work out a scheme whereby the secret fifth elevator could not only be independently controlled but also have perpendicular doors, so that it could be squeezed into the southwest corner of the shaft without stealing much space from the four elevators already designed. Just a preliminary sketch, inspired by a design flickering in his memory, maybe from some old magazine. And as he long ago taught himself to do, so as not to disturb his wife's sleep, he works under a small reading lamp that blends its light with the miserly moonbeams. Despite his excitement over the idea and his faith in the sketch that embodies it, he adds a small note to the bottom of the page: Moran, check if this is realistic!
2.
IN THE CLEAR summer night south of the equator, the very same moon, rich and profligate, does not disturb the sleep of the woman whose natural serenity has pleasantly blended into the bed provided by her host, fitted with new linens. From many years' experience, Yirmiyahu knew that Daniela, like her sister, would not sleep well between old sheets washed in a dubious laundry. Even though he did not invite her to visit, he made sure she got new sheets and witnessed their packaging being removed. That was how the sisters would pamper each other, and the death of Shuli has not freed her husband from her obligation to the other, on top of his own obligation to let her have his room and bed.
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