Nofar, my dear,
Grandpa made me come to Jerusalem to take care of an old elevator of some long-ago lover of his. So I thought if I was already here in your sad city, why not have coffee together? But I didn't remember that you're on duty this morning, so it turns out I'm missing you yet again. Moran is still stuck in the army, and Imma, till Sunday in case you've forgotten, is with Yirmi in Africa. Tonight I'm lighting candles at Efrat's. How about joining us? The kids will be happy. And Efrati, too, of course. It'll be less sad that way. So as usual I'm on my cell, waiting for a sign of life from you.
Kisses, Abba
He clears a space on the messy table and leaves the note in a conspicuous place. Then he looks again at the picture of the teenage boy and suddenly realizes that Nofar will not forgive him for invading her deepest privacy. He quickly resolves to erase his presence. He crumples the note and sticks it in his pocket, then goes out to the landlords, seated now in the kitchen with their baby, and when they invite him to join them, Ya'ari abashedly asks that they pretend he was never there. I know her well, he apologizes, she's sensitive about her independence, and it would be hard for her to accept that without warning I broke into her chaos. So please, don't tell her I was here. Don't tell her anything. I didn't leave a note. I'll call her later ... that would be easier for her too. So thanks ... and apologies ... I'm sorry ... I apologize ... And without giving them a chance to regret his leaving, he departs.
Perhaps it is the easterly winds which arose overnight that boost his speeding car on the highway from Jerusalem to the coastal plain. To assuage his loneliness for his absent wife, he will have to settle for his father, whose admirable generosity of spirit has piqued his curiosity. So Ya'ari gets down to business and announces into the speakerphone:
"That's it, Abba, I was over at your lady friend's house."
"So what's going on with her?"
"Your elevator is great, and so's the little girl..."
"Watch it, Amotz, you are too clever by far."
8.
YIRMI RELAXES A bit, smiles and squeezes Daniela's shoulder, as if to heal the sting of his unexpected harangue and allay the anxiety of the old African who alerted him and now stands to one side, watching.
They return to the farm, and the old groundskeeper decides to defuse the family quarrel with a good meal. He fires the baking oven and kneads a big pita bread. Into a pot of boiling water he tosses roots and vegetable peelings, kernels of corn, and cubes of meat. Two other chefs rise from their cots in a nearby pantry and join in his labors. Meanwhile Yirmi, sitting opposite Daniela, is curious to know what drew his sister-in-law so strongly to the elephant that she went to see it a third time. But Daniela is not quite ready to lay bare her feelings to someone who has just scolded her in the presence of strangers, and instead of explaining what drove her to contemplate a spectacular genetic defect in search of primal human heartbreak, she needles her brother-in-law by telling him with childish pride about the hundred dollars she gave to the elephant's owner to remove the bandage.
"A hundred dollars? Are you out of your mind?"
It wasn't on purpose. Even though the money wasn't that much for her, she still has her limits. She'd been sure that all the bills she stuffed into her jacket pocket were small ones, because Amotz always held on to the big bills. It was only when she took out the money that she realized what it was, and by then it was too late; the man snatched it quickly and tucked it in his shorts and immediately complied with her request, and when the elephant crouched before her, its giant eye shed a tear, and then another.
"Tears? An elephant?"
That is what she saw with her own eyes. So how could she tell the owner, Wait, I made a mistake, ever since my sister's death I've been a little scattered, and by accident I gave you a hundred-dollar bill, but ten is enough for you, so give it back, please.
"He would also have been fine with one dollar."
"Who decides that one dollar is enough for him? You? On what basis?" she snaps at her brother-in-law. "Drop it, Yirmi, I actually like the idea that a hundred-dollar bill Amotz put in my purse should pass so naturally into the hands of this man, who might take better care of his elephant from now on."
"Which we will never know, but one thing is certain: you wrought a small revolution in the life of one African man, who will remember you always."
"It's nice to know that at least one man in Africa will think of me till the end of his life. One of these days, you'll be somewhere else."
"How do you know? Anything's possible ... I owe nothing to anyone; I'm free as a bird."
"In which case, both you and the elephant's owner will remember I was here."
"I will? Why is that? All right, Shuli's love for you was always unconditional, even if you were an annoying child and tagged along with her and went into her room without knocking. But to remember? I'm here to forget, not to remember."
"What are you talking about?" she asks with trepidation.
"You know very well. I'm here not only to build up my pension but also to forget him and everyone who reminds me of him."
"Forget Eyali? How is that possible?"
"It's possible ... why not? He is no longer anywhere, and I am still not a Sudanese who believes in winds and spirits."
"Why spirits? Is that the only way to talk about memory?"
"Memory is finished. I milked his death dry. You can't imagine how I investigated this death and everything I learned about it. But my responsibility is over. And if our Eyali—all of ours, yours too, why not? you also loved him very much—if this son happened to come back to life, believe me, I would say to him: My dear boy, bravo, you've managed to return to the world that had no pity for you, that took you by surprise and finished you off with two precise gunshots. But I ask you now, with all my love, please take pity on me and find yourself a different father."
"Are you sick?' she mutters. "A different father?"
"Why not? I'm over seventy now; I don't have many years left. I did my duty, I filled my quota of worry and suffering. At Eyali's bar mitzvah, after he finished reading the Haftorah, the rabbi told me to declare in a clear voice: 'Blessed is He who has released me from punishment for this one's sins,' and I repeated those repellent words against my will, as if the devil had made me do it. But now, after almost twenty years, I realize that bar mitzvah devil wasn't altogether stupid. Now I bow my head and say simply, 'Blessed is he who released me.' If my son wants to be a 'wanted' man again and not the one wanting—by all means, but he should be so kind as to find himself a different father."
"Yirmi," she says, tense and shaken, "what on earth are you talking about?"
"Do you want to poison the meal?"
"The truth liberates, it doesn't poison."
Yirmiyahu regards his sister-in-law with fondness. "If that's the case, if you also came here for the truth, then I'll give you a few new details about that 'friendly fire' that your Amotz saddled me with."
"Leave Amotz alone," she protests impatiently, "he was only trying to console you."
He puts a hand on her arm.
"I don't doubt it, and I have no complaints against him. Amotz is a practical man, after my own heart. But his 'friendly fire' made me crazy in the beginning, because it turned into a project. At any price, by any possible means, I wanted to know who this friend was who unleashed the fire, what his name was, what he looked like, where he came from, who his parents were, his teachers, everything."
"But why was that important to you? What did you want to do to him? What in the end could you do to him? Shuli never told me you were caught up in this."
"Because I never said a word to Shuli. She put an end to our sex life, and I put an end to total honesty."
"And Amotz knew about it?"
"Not Amotz or anyone else."
The black chef places before them two dishes of the meat and vegetable stew.
"This is breakfast or lunch?"
"Both. After you've contributed a hundred dollars in honor of the tears of a
wandering elephant, you deserve a full meal. And don't be put off by the distinctive taste of the meat; it was cooked on a hot fire. And let's not ruin the meal with talk that I know will only upset you."
"Keep talking, I hate eating in silence. I'm listening. I never thought that identifying the soldier who accidentally shot Eyali was of any concern to you. After all, they said he was not to blame."
"Of course he wasn't. The fault was entirely Eyal's. But still I wanted a connection with the one who killed him."
"What kind of connection?"
"A connection."
"And in the end you identified the young man?"
"No, in the end I gave up and stopped trying."
9.
WITH A TREMBLING hand the elderly Ya'ari tries to sketch for his son the inner structure of the hydraulic oil piston that raises and lowers the little elevator, and Hilario runs back and forth between rooms, fetching pages torn from his arithmetic notebook for further attempts. As the father recollects it, the two parts of the piston are screwed together internally, not joined by an exterior flange, whose bolts would rust over the years. That was how he guaranteed sturdiness and reliability for the long term, and ensured that the hydraulic oil would not leak out of unforeseen openings. But not even high-grade steel, the kind produced in Czechoslovakia before World War II, can resist forever the wear and tear of time. Therefore, it will be necessary to locate the joint, separate the two parts, remove the defective bearings and replace them with new ones.
"The sketch isn't worth the effort, Abba," his son says, "I'm sure the inside threads have melted together by now and we won't be able to take the thing apart. The only way is to take the whole mechanism out of the wall and try to install something else that'll work on the same principle."
"But there's no chance we can get ready-made parts that'll be right for my little elevator. We'll have to make a new piston from scratch, just like the old one."
"Turning a new one is a different story. I have no idea who can do it, not to mention the cost."
"Why? I'll ask Gottlieb to make it in his factory. He owes me a lot, and he'll do it for me."
"Don't kid yourself that he'll work for you. And I'm not at all sure that he's capable of turning you a new piston. Everything in his factory is automatic and programmed, and the lathes work according to standard models. Gone are the days of workshops that do custom-made private elevators on the whim of single women."
"He'll make it for me," says the father, ignoring his son's cynical remark. "I know he can do it."
Hilario stands at the ready beside the wheelchair, poised to run into his room and tear out another page for the old man. Francisco sits nearby, listening intently. In the kitchen, amid the steamy aromas of lunch, Kinzie trills a song.
"And we haven't yet discussed the wailing electrical system," Ya'ari continues in a quarrelsome tone, "which is a separate story. I'll be damned if I can figure out where you hid it, Abba, and where it gets its current."
The old man smiles. Why be damned? Where it's hidden he doesn't remember, but because this is not spirit but matter, in the end it will be found. And the elevator gets its power directly from the electric company.
"The electric company?"
Of course. Devorah Bennett's apartment, like the other old apartments in the building, never had three-phase power, and his father was wary of overloading the system, so he found a way to circumvent the apartment's wiring and supply the elevator directly from the electric company. Meaning that all these years the little girl has had a free ride, as if she were a veteran member of the company's workers' committee.
"I see this woman aroused criminal urges in you," Ya'ari jokes. "But if that's the situation, you can forget about me. I'm not going near any wailing and shaking electrical system connected to some unidentified illegitimate source."
"Don't exaggerate ... you told me that Gottlieb has some woman around his plant who's an expert on technical noises, so we'll take her to Jerusalem and together we'll locate the cat and silence it."
"What's this 'we'll take' and 'we'll locate'?"
"I'll go up to Jerusalem, too. Before I die I want to see, one more time, the elevator that goes straight from her bedroom. Did you tell her I'm now in a wheelchair?"
"I gave her a hint."
"Why?"
"So she wouldn't bother you too much. But don't tell me this is a secret you're ashamed of."
"Not any more. But to tell the truth, when I first got sick I was very embarrassed, and because of that I broke off contact. Because you should know that after Mother died, I tried to give myself more freedom, to bring more substance to what I already felt about her. Amotz, to tell you the truth, when I built her the elevator in her bedroom, I really fell in love with that woman. Not one phase but all three. I almost couldn't breathe when I was near her. Afterward I tried to cool this love down. But when Mother died and I was alone, we had a lovely affair, not too intense, age-appropriate. And had it not been for all the psychiatric patients in and out of there all day, I would even have gone to live with her. But then the tremors got worse and also moved to my knees..."
Ya'ari face burns red as he hears his father's confession of love.
The Filipino woman comes out of the kitchen, small and flushed. A pixie in colorful silks, asking the boss in English if he's ready to eat.
"Maybe in a little while," he answers in his own creaky English. "But the chicken schnitzel is right from the pan, just as you like it."
"Eat, Abba. I'm not running away; I'll sit with you."
"But it's unpleasant for you to watch them feeding me."
"Not so bad. It's fine. I'll even join you."
Francisco takes a large napkin and covers the father's chest. He brings a plate with schnitzel and snap peas, cuts the chicken into little pieces, places a fork into the father's trembling hand, and in his own hand holds another fork, with which he feeds the old man.
"You also want schnitzel like Abba?" the Filipino asks Amotz.
"Schnitzel I can get anywhere. I would rather try a dish that your wife makes for you."
The Filipino woman is pleased by the compliment, and in a yellow plastic bowl, the same bowl from which Amotz as a child ate his oatmeal, serves him hot soup, rich with seafood.
"You eat shellfish?" The father is surprised.
"What can you do? From childhood you taught me to eat everything that's put in front of me."
Francisco feeds the trembling old man, wiping his lips, now and then collecting from the napkin peas that fell from his mouth and returning them to their destination. Amotz does not shrink from the painful sight, but feels his heart go out to his father as he struggles to maintain his dignity. Therefore, when the old man begins to ask gingerly about the owner of the elevator and wants a detailed description of the lady and her room, he suggests that his father invite the little girl for a visit and promises that he himself will drive her down and back.
But the old man does not want Devorah Bennett to visit him at home and see him in his miserable wheelchair. Surely not before he has proven his ability to stand behind the lifetime guarantee that he gave her.
"Let's talk to Gottlieb," he urges his son.
"Gottlieb won't do any good here. Gottlieb has already lost his love for the profession and thinks only about money."
"Very good." The old man perks up. "If he thinks only about money, then threaten that you won't order the new Defense Ministry elevators from him. I'm sure he'll hurry to make you anything you ask."
"Threaten him?" Ya'ari is taken aback. "Go that far?"
"Yes, Amotz. If you promise a woman something for a lifetime, you have to keep the promise."
10.
"BELIEVE ME," YIRMIYAHU continues, "it wasn't easy to give up trying to identify the soldier who fired the fatal bullet. It was very important for me to meet him face to face. At first I tried to clarify it in a direct and open fashion, and found myself up against a stone wall among the members of the unit. Then I tried ro
undabout methods. But even though I was very clever and went so far as to visit the site and calculate possible lines of fire, I was left without a positive identification."
"Why?"
"Why? Because they were all terrified and did everything in their power to prevent it. They were afraid I was planning some sort of reprimand, an accusation, or a lawsuit. Or even that I would go outside the law, stalk the killer in some sick way. That happens sometimes, and it might have happened with me too. There was no way I could persuade them that I was actually acting out of concern for the shooter, who, although it was indisputably Eyali's own fault, might carry around a psychic wound that would infect his entire life. I wanted to be capable of calming the boy, telling him, habibi, I am the father, and I confirm your innocence. You are exonerated not only by your commanding officers but also by the parents of the boy you accidentally killed. For your good, we will keep in touch. If, in the course of your life, anxiety or guilt rise inside you over the friendly fire you aimed at a comrade who miscalculated the time of day, you can always come visit me, and I will help you ease the guilt and lighten the anxiety."
"Strange..."
"It is strange, but it's also the truth. I became obsessed with wanting to hold the finger that squeezed the trigger, as if it were the last finger that touched Eyali's soul. Yes, Daniela, in those first months I thought in terms of spirit and soul, until I abandoned all that foolishness."
On her plate remain pieces of the meat, of which she is suspicious. One of the cooks hums a cheerful African song to himself, accentuating its tempo by drumming briskly on a pot, now and then stealing a glance at the two white people. Both of them are tired, she for no apparent reason, maybe because she's so far from her husband, but Yirmiyahu definitely deserves a rest—a few hours after their return from Dar es Salaam, something justified an urgent nighttime ride out to the dig. But the rapt attention of his empathetic sister-in-law fuels his fevered confession.
"Theoretically, identifying the shooter should not have been difficult. Because this wasn't anonymous fire, coming from artillery or a helicopter, where all the sophisticated hardware can show for certain are the intended targets, not the actual hits. No, this is a simple story, almost a fable, of gunfire among friends, a small group of elite soldiers, eight all told, including the commander of the ambush: a likable officer named Micha, who because of what happened became almost like a member of our family. He also had been at university, a law graduate, and he sent Eyal to the rooftop of a local family as a lookout, in case the 'wanted man' eluded the trap they had set for him. And it wasn't one ambush, but two, north and south, each fifty or sixty meters away from the building. So it was all clear and simple. Do you remember any of what was said at the time?"
Friendly Fire Page 20
