Ya'ari, unlike his family and friends, was not so ready to condemn the man who hadn't waited for the end of the thirty-day mourning period for his wife, but instead, after sitting shivah for a week, had rushed back to his post as chargé d'affaires of the Israeli economic mission in Tanzania. Half a year after Yirmi's return to East Africa, it was decided in Jerusalem, whether due to budget cuts or other considerations, to eliminate the small office and ease into retirement the widowed diplomat, who apart from a security man and two local employees had no one working with him. In truth, more than once Yirmi himself had joked to relatives and friends about the pointlessness of his little outpost, which sometimes seemed to have been invented especially for him—an overdue bonus for a veteran worker in the administrative wing of the Foreign Ministry whose retirement had been delayed, as provided by law, because he had lost a son in the army. Therefore he accepted without rancor the elimination of his position, though it came so soon after his wife's death. And it was only natural that on his final return from Africa, after giving notice to the tenants renting his Jerusalem apartment, he had allowed himself a little detour, family time with his daughter and her husband, still toiling toward their academic degrees in the United States.
But America did not appeal to the new pensioner, and the visit was cut short. Without consultation—which in any case he owed to no one—or any prior warning, he surprised his relatives and friends by extending for two years his tenants' lease in Jerusalem and returning to Africa, not to his former location but to a place two hundred kilometers southwest of Morogoro, near the Syrian-African Rift, to take a vaguely defined administrative position with an anthropological research team.
Why not? he apologized to his brother- and sister-in-law by phone from Dar es Salaam, en route to the new place. Why hurry back to Israel? Who really needs me there? Not even you. After all, I'm in Jerusalem and you're in Tel Aviv. You're busy with work, your kids, now your grandchildren too, and I'm free as a bird, without a wife or a career. You have no money worries; on the contrary, you worry how to spend your money, and I've got only the mediocre pension of a government worker, because we made over our "friendly fire" stipend to support our perennial doctoral students. Tell me honestly, why should I not take advantage of an unexpected opportunity to save a little money for my old age, before the inevitable collapse of my body or soul? Am I no less entitled than old Ya'ari to be cared for, if not by a Filipino couple, by at least one quiet and devoted Filipino to push my wheelchair in the park? Here in Africa living is cheap, and with the research team I get free room and board, and they'll pay me a decent wage for administrative duties and some minor bookkeeping. And meanwhile from Jerusalem my rent comes in every month, and the tenants even fix the place up at their own expense. Look, they replaced the stained kitchen counter, repaired cracks and ancient holes in the walls, and replastered the entire apartment. They've also promised to dust all the books and rearrange them by subject. So what's the hurry? Is there a chance or danger that the country will run away or disappear? Sometimes it seems you forget that you'll always be a few years younger than I, and you'll still find time to travel to new places, but I won't have many more opportunities to take in foreign experiences like Africa, of which, believe me, I haven't yet had my fill. So, please, to whom do I owe anything here? Would it not be pathetic for a man like me, already pushing seventy, in his first year of bereavement, to start a relationship with some new woman for whom I could have neither desire nor passion? After all, who knows better than you that my wife and I shared a love that was every bit as great as yours?
And therefore, my dears, and Daniela especially, let go of your sense of responsibility and stop worrying. I won't disappear. And if you still feel that you miss me and you can't get over your longing, come for a short visit, although you were here three years ago and nothing has changed since then and there's nothing new to see.
"It's totally his right," was Ya'ari's verdict, though Yirmi's sudden decision continued to unsettle Daniela. "None of us is entitled to judge him."
4.
THE FULL FORCE of her fellow passenger's slumber is now directed her way. All her attempts to shrink into her seat and shake off the young head yearning to lean on her shoulder are futile. This man—maybe he partied last night, counting on a chance to sleep it off on the plane—is now avenging in his sleep the loss of his stolen window and also looking for a bed, not caring if that bed is the shoulder of a woman more than twenty years his senior, with two grandchildren, who will soon enough take out their photos to draw comfort from their sweet faces. Now she understands the weight of the responsibility she took on when electing to travel alone. Her husband's controlling, protective love has spoiled her, anesthetized her own sense of reality. Especially on trips, when he carries her travel documents and navigates unfamiliar roads and shifting conditions, so that in planes and trains and cars and hotels she coasts in a safe bubble while at her side is an alert and attentive person, who always has the correct foreign currency and the necessary information. Nor is there any reason for her to feel grateful for his devotion and concern, for she knows that by her very existence, even when she sleeps, she repays him fully for all his services.
But now she is on her way to Africa with no one to organize the world around her. And the stewardess passes by and notices the insolent sleeper, yet doesn't offer to help, as if this trespasser she'd earlier evicted from the window seat were now under her protection. So Daniela has no alternative but to wake the fellow herself and return him politely but firmly to his territory. The young man curls up a bit and mumbles an apology, though apparently only in his dream, for his eyes immediately close again, and his head droops.
She folds up the newspaper and places it for safekeeping in the bag from the duty-free shop, alongside the lipstick and the skin cream that according to the chatty saleswoman would work wonders on her face. Then she extracts from her purse the photo album of her two grandchildren, whom she still swaddles in the adoration of a new grandmother. She lingers a long time on each picture, as if deciphering an esoteric text. Her older granddaughter, age five, is the image of her mother, Daniela's pretty daughter-in-law, but the child's blue eyes radiate innocence and wonder, nothing like her mother's distant, alienated look. She dwells more on photos of her grandson, a restless, agitated two-year-old always shown gripped tight by his father or mother or harnessed into a high chair or stroller. It's too early to tell whom he'll choose to resemble. Although his round face and the slight crease in his eyelids bring vaguely to mind the features of her son, or maybe even her husband, she's not willing to leave it at that. In photo after photo she strains to make out in this grandson signs of resemblance to herself as well. And since the flight is long and she will not, despite her fatigue, let herself doze off beside the border-jumping stranger, she has more than enough time at her disposal to discover what she hopes to find.
5.
THE ELEVATOR BEGINS its slow descent from the thirtieth floor, but stops immediately at the twenty-ninth and opens its doors. A woman clad in spandex and crowned by a headset is startled to find someone coming down from the thirtieth floor at such an early hour. At first she continues to groove on her music while sizing up her fellow traveler with a penetrating gaze, but as the elevator slows down and approaches the garage, she can't hold back and pulls off her earphones.
"Don't tell me the penthouse has been sold," she says peevishly, as if the sale of the luxury apartment, which she naturally craved but could not afford, were a small personal defeat.
"The penthouse?" Ya'ari answers, smiling. "I wouldn't know. I don't live here. I came to check out the complaints about your winds."
"Our winds?" the woman says, brightening. "Maybe you can actually explain to me what's going on here? They promised state-of-the-art construction, a luxury building, we paid a lot of money, and with the first little bit of winter, this insane orchestra starts to run wild—do you hear it?"
"Of course."
They step out on
to the elevator landing. The roaring gets louder. He shrugs and turns to leave, but the athletic tenant won't let him go: "So what are you? A wind expert?"
"Not really, but I was responsible for the planning of these elevators."
"So what went wrong in your calculations?"
"Mine? Why mine? It could have been someone else's. It needs to be checked out."
And Ya'ari gets the feeling that it's not the howling wind that is now bothering the energetic woman, but his very existence. Who is he exactly? And why? So before he breaks off contact and goes looking for his car in the twilit garage, he adds, almost in passing, "Don't worry. We'll find the cause of the winds and get them under control. My engineers will get to the bottom of it." And he nods good-bye.
But the woman persists. She feels entitled to a precise definition of this well-built man of more than sixty whose modish cropped hair is flecked with white. His dark eyes radiate confidence; his windbreaker, unfashionable and threadbare, adds a simple, unaffected touch.
"'My engineers?'" she repeats, in the quarrelsome tone that seems natural to her. "How many do you have altogether?"
"Ten or twelve," he answers quietly. "Depends how you count them." Then he disappears into the shadows of the garage. He glances at his watch. His wife has not even left the territorial waters of Israel and already his free-floating love is attracting strangers.
6.
EVEN THOUGH HER husband is not at her side to safeguard her sleep in this unfamiliar place, her eyelashes drift downward, the photo album falls to her feet, and the engine noise insulates the intimacy of her experience. Then the warm aroma of something freshly baked rouses her, she opens her eyes and sees the young man in the next seat hungrily consuming his breakfast.
"Real desire," she had tossed at her husband almost offhandedly as they were about to part, and it's still not clear to her what she'd had in mind, what compelled her to say it at the last minute. Was it to hurt him for not insisting on coming with her, even though she really had wanted to go alone, or was it to strengthen his longing for her, leaving him with hopes for her return? Yes, he's right. She was responsible for his frustration. He wanted to, he tried, but she, despite her willingness to give him the pleasure he craved, hadn't considered it quite fair for him to be satisfied while her own desire was blocked by anxiety over the trip, and in any case she had never found sex so important, either in her youth or in maturity, and certainly not now, as she ripens into the third phase of her life, yet she knows that her husband's love needs to be requited more often. It's just that she's not always able to focus her energies at the expense of her own desires and the need to be good to herself.
She looks out the window. While she was sleeping the clouds broke into soft cottony tufts, and in the light of day she sees the desert plain kissing the gulf. Is this Africa? From her visit three years before, she remembers the arresting redness of the soil and the Africans wrapped in colorful fabrics walking upon it with barefoot grace. From the window of her brother-in-law's office, adjacent to the apartment where he housed them in violation of the rules—not only to save the cost of a hotel but also so they'd be together the whole time—she once saw her sister, early in the morning, buying milk and cheese from a plump African woman wearing a headdress with a flamboyant green feather. Daniela's heart reaches out now to her sister's slender silhouette, wrapped in an old woolen shawl she remembers from their parents' home.
The photo album of her grandchildren has made its way while she slept to the feet of her neighbor, who is now unwittingly stepping on it. She politely asks him to pick it up; he apologizes, saying that he hadn't noticed. The stewardess, who is already clearing away empty trays, asks whether she would still like her breakfast, and after a moment's uncertainty she decides not to decline. But when she removes the aluminum cover from the main course and tastes the first bite, she feels a wave of nausea, like the ones she felt so many years ago at the beginnings of her pregnancies. Her husband is always ready and eager to finish off her leftovers, indeed expecting that his wife will always leave him something of hers, and so even when she wants to clean her plate, she restrains herself and leaves him something symbolic, as a concrete expression of her fidelity. But now there is no one to rescue her from this repellent meal. And she senses the gaze that lingers on her abandoned knife and fork. Would it be a gesture of friendship to offer a total stranger food she has already tasted? After all, if she were younger, perhaps a young man would try to get to know her over such a meal. She offers him the tray politely and cordially. The young man hesitates and blushes. He seems like a well-brought-up fellow who does not eat from the plate of strangers.
"Why not eat it yourself? It's excellent..."
"Please take it." And giving him no time for second thoughts, with a sure motherly hand she calmly shoves the tray his way before the stewardess can pounce and remove it to her cart.
The young passenger grins with embarrassment, but the hunger of youth gets the best of him, and with sheepish care he wipes with a napkin the fork that has lately been in her mouth and plunges the knife into the omelet. She nods encouragingly, but does not want to commit herself to a chat occasioned by the odd kindness she has forced on him, and she therefore gathers up the newspaper that blankets her feet and begins to flip from pictures to text.
7.
THE MAIN ENTRANCE to the design firm is unlocked. Someone has arrived before him. His seventy-five-year-old accountant, who worked with his father for many years, is drinking coffee and enjoying a croissant, his face illuminated by the glow of the news he reads on the computer screen. A year ago, Ya'ari brought him out of retirement and back to active duty to assist in the expansion of the business and compliance with new tax regulations. The expensioner, unwilling to give up his afternoon nap, comes early to the office and disappears before twelve. Ya'ari is not sure that his productivity warrants the handsome salary he earns on top of his pension, but because the man remains loyal to Ya'ari's invalid father and now and then goes to play chess with him and keep him abreast of goings-on at the office, it's convenient to have him on the staff.
"What got you out of bed?" The accountant gathers the pastry crumbs from his pants and swallows them.
With nonchalant pride, Ya'ari tells of Daniela flying off that morning to her brother-in-law in Africa.
"To that consul?"
"Actually just a chargé d'affaires, and now not even that. Half a year after his wife died, they closed the mission for lack of funding and they retired him. But because living is so cheap in Africa, he decided to stay there, and now he does the bookkeeping for some research dig so he can build up his savings for old age. After all, in the Foreign Ministry they would never consider taking someone back out of retirement..."
But the pensioner is oblivious to the boss's subtle jab, so confident is he of his indispensability.
"What are they digging for?" he persists.
Ya'ari doesn't know exactly what his brother-in-law's team is digging for. When his wife gets back in a week, she will tell all.
The accountant eyes his employer a bit suspiciously. He still thinks of Ya'ari as the high school student who would come to the office after class to try out the new electric typewriter.
"You always travel together, so what happened this time? You weren't afraid to let your wife travel alone, never mind to Africa?"
Ya'ari is a little uneasy. The intimate tone bothers him, but since his father keeps his old employee up to date on family matters, he finds himself patiently explaining the reason for the rare separation. Daniela could take advantage of the Hanukkah break at her school, but for him it was hard to get away from the office, this week in particular when decisions needed to be made about changes in the Defense Ministry facility. Besides, it's not clear that Moran will be able to get out of his army reserve duty. Most important, his wife will not be alone there for a minute. Their brother-in-law will be with her and look after her the whole time.
"How old is your brother-in-law? Sevent
y? Older?"
"Something like that."
It turns out that Ya'ari's father talks about Yirmi now and then, with affection and sadness. But the accountant only met him once, at Ya'ari's wedding.
"At my wedding?" Ya'ari is amazed. "Thirty-seven years ago? You were there?"
Why not? The accountant was invited to the wedding along with other employees of the firm. And from that celebration he remembers the tall man who danced energetically all night with the two sisters...
"Yes, there was a natural joy in him, until the blow came..." Ya'ari mumbles, and goes into his office, which has shrunk during the firm's recent expansion—a process which involved tearing down their floor's inner walls and turning it all into one space. Only Ya'ari did not relinquish his private space, because this is where his father once sat and because he loves the view: a window on the backyard framing a big tree whose branches in recent years have intertwined with an unidentified plant that in springtime produces a riot of red flowers. He considers whether it may not be too early to phone his son and ask him to hop over to the tower on his way to the office and listen to the roaring winds. The fine line between a father's right and an employer's, which was clear between him and his own father, hasn't yet been fully defined between them, and his son has become preoccupied since the birth of the second grandchild, a moody boy who requires special attention and frequent visits to doctors. But because it seems to him that his son, too, has been unsettled by the idea of his mother heading off alone to Africa, he decides to call him now, if only to set his mind at ease.
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