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.
17.
THE 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.
18.
THE 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.
In the parking lot a dust-covered vehicle is waiting, with shovels and hoes and earth-strainers strewn inside. The nurse is also the driver. Before she starts the engine, she hands the visitor a bag, containing a thermos and a large sandwich, food for the journey sent by the brother-in-law, whose absence remains unexplained.
Daniela wearily removes the thick wrapper (which appears to be a page torn from an old encyclopedia), revealing a sort of giant pita, brown and thick, with sliced egg inside, layered with strips of eggplant fried with onion.
Sijjin Kuang maneuvers deftly between the cars scattered in the parking lot, at the same time studying the passenger, who gazes with amazement at the enormous sandwich.
"Jeremy said you would love it..."
Daniela's eyes sparkle. Yes, he's right. She and her sister always loved eggplant, maybe because this was the first vegetable that their mother, a finicky immigrant, had learned to cook in the Land of Israel. Despite the hunger rumbling inside her since she skipped the meal on her first flight, and which the sandwich and sweets at the airport had failed to quiet, she offers to share her pita with the Sudanese woman, who declines, no, this is meant only for you—a peace offering from a person who was afraid to come to the airport himself.
"Afraid?"
"That there would be with you other passengers from your country."
"Israelis?"
"Yes, Israelis."
"What is there to fear from them?"
"I don't know. Perhaps I am mistaken," the nurse corrects herself, "but I think he does not want to meet anyone from his country right now, not to see them, not to feel them, not even from afar."
"Not even from afar?" Daniela repeats with astonishment and pain the words of the Sudanese woman, who for all her thinness and delicacy displays great expertise in speeding the heavy vehicle down the dark road. "In what sense? By the way, on my plane there was not a single other Israeli."
"He could not know that in advance," the driver says with a smile, while her upright head threatens to bang into the roof of the car.
The guest nods slowly in agreement and adds not a word. In truth, she has come from so far away not merely to summon pain and memory but also to understand what is going on with her brother-in-law. And now this messenger may offer a first clue. She unscrews the cap of the thermos, carefully pours in the warm tea, and offers it to the nurse, who repeats and explains in good English, it is all for you, Mrs. Ya'ari, I have eaten and had something to drink, it is best for me to concentrate on driving, since the roads here are sometimes misleading.
The sweet tea refreshes Daniela, who pours herself a second cup and a third. Afterward she begins to bite carefully into the fragrant sandwich, and after swallowing the last crumb with great contentment, she receives permission and indeed encouragement from the Sudanese to enhance the good taste with a soothing cigarette, the last of the five or six she smokes every day. Only then, as the tobacco ash flickers in the darkness, does she turn to Sijjin Kuang and begins a polite and cautious interrogation.
19
ON HIS WAY home in the wind and rain, gray-faced from an exhausting day, the father phones his son to hear the technician's diagnosis of the winds in the tower. And who is this expert, anyway, whom Gottlieb showers with praise?
Moran sounds amused and excited. "No, Gottlieb's not exaggerating. You missed out on a magician and juggler. Right out of the circus."
"How old is she, anyway?"
"Hard to tell. She's a kind of child-woman, who at first glance looks twenty, but by the time I left she seemed over forty. The face of a child, huge eyes, nimble and a bit hyper. She worked for years in the regional auto garage at Kfar Blum, up north..."
"Whatever," Ya'ari says with a yawn. "What's the verdict with the winds?"
"Wait a minute. Listen, she has incredible hearing. First, imagine this, as soon as we start going up in the middle elevator, she can already tell that we replaced the original seal with a different one. You remember?"
"Moran, I remember nothing. I got up at three A.M. and lit candles with Grandpa, and I'm wiped out. Give me the bottom line. How are the winds getting in?"
"She claims that the shaft is cracked and pocked with holes in more than one place, which produces an unusual acoustic effect, like the sound from the holes of a flute or clarinet. She recommends that at three in the morning we shut down all the elevators and ride on top of one of them to locate the exact spot of the penetration."
"Forget it. Flute or clarinet, what does it have to do with us? The defect, just as I thought, is in the shaft, so we're not responsible. The tenants need to go to the construction company."
"I'm not sure you're entirely right, Abba. Gottlieb was obligated to check the shaft carefully before installing anything and so were we as the designers."
"Now listen, Moran. The shaft is not our responsibility. Period. Cracks and holes can develop even after the installation is finished."
"She claims, according to the sounds, that these are old defects."
"She claims ... she says ... habibi, calm down. This little girl is not God around here. Anyway, we'll talk tomorrow at the office."
"And Imma, did you hear from her?"
"According to my calculations, she's still in the air,
unless I'm wrong."
20.
HE IS WRONG. It's remarkable that a practical man like him is unaware that East Africa is one hour ahead of Israel, meaning that the beloved traveler is no longer in the air, but on the ground, on a dark and desolate mountain road—though her fate is in the capable hands of an intelligent driver, whom she is briskly quizzing about her life story.
In the bloody civil war of southern Sudan, Sijjin Kuang's relatives and many other members of her tribe were slaughtered because their skin color was blacker than that of their murderers. She, alone among her entire family, was saved. Her rescuer was a United Nations observer, a Norwegian, tall like her, who arranged for her rehabilitation and education in his country on the condition that when she received her nursing degree she would return to serve in a field hospital on the Sudan-Kenya border, where she could take care of the wounded of her tribe. But the hospital was never established, and while going around Nairobi looking for other work, she learned that UNESCO was funding an anthropological expedition made up solely of African scientists, whose goal was to discover, using their own research methods, the missing link between ape and man. She applied to the director of the mission, a Tanzanian named Seloha Abu, offering her services as nurse to the team.
"You are a Christian, of course," says Daniela, who is highly impressed by her personality and the details of her story. But Sijjin Kuang is neither Christian nor Muslim but rather an animist, as supporters call them, or mushrikun, as their opponents call them, or, in cultural-scientific terms, simply pagan.
"Pagan?" The Israeli is overwhelmed by such intimate contact, in the dark, with an idol worshipper. "Really? In what sense? This is so interesting ... because for us, pagans are only in legends..."
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