Friendly Fire

by A. B. Yehoshua

  "Anything is possible."

  "And besides which, she also says, Devorah Bennett, that there started in the elevator a wail that was never there before, as if a cat in heat were riding in it with her."

  "A cat in heat?"

  "Yes, that is how she describes it."

  "No, Abba, for God's sake, don't talk to me about more wailing noises in elevators."

  4.

  THIS IS EXACTLY the same road, traveled in the opposite direction, and in the light of a broiling summer morning it goes faster, and the visitor may take in all that was hidden on the night she landed here. This time she is not in the front seat but sitting a bit cramped in the back, behind her brother-in-law's bald head, though the driver is the same driver, quiet and precise. Sijjin Kuang this morning has her shoulders and slender arms wrapped in a sunflower-colored shawl that highlights the coal black sheen of her skin. At ten they must be in Morogoro to board a Chinese freight train carrying copper ore to the port of Dar es Salaam, where, as firmly agreed, their first order of business will be to establish a living link between the guest and her husband; only afterward will they attend to the needs of the excavation team. And even though Sijjin Kuang is plainly of different stock from the locals, Daniela is very pleased to be visiting in the company of a black African woman, whose presence affords her a quiet legitimacy.

  Yesterday, visiting the excavation site, she imagined for a moment that perhaps there had developed between the elderly widower and the nurse a bond deeper than their professional one, but this morning her impression has been erased by the profound sadness she sees in this young woman, whose whole family was murdered. She observes that when her brother-in-law's hand or shoulder happen to bump into the driver's as the car rounds a bend or suddenly swerves, the Sudanese shrinks from him, as from some enemy who wished to harm her.

  They drive around Mount Morogoro on a wide red-dirt road, hard as asphalt, that twists through a thick bushy forest that now and then vanishes for no reason and is replaced by a barren hilltop. She asks her brother-in-law, is the earth redder here? I remember your explaining it to Amotz and me last time, but I don't remember what you said.

  "The red color comes from the iron in the soil, which also decreases its fertility."

  "Iron ... I remember now, that's what you told us then too."

  "See, here's proof that I'm a stable person, who doesn't easily change his mind. But if you ask Sijjin Kuang, for example, why the earth of Africa is red, she will flatly tell you it's because of all the blood that has been spilled upon it."

  The driver, hearing her name mentioned, glances back at Daniela.

  "And maybe because of the blood she can't forget, it's also good for you to be with her, because her tragedy is greater than yours. Next to her, you can forget your own."

  Yirmi does not respond at first. Maybe he didn't hear. Maybe he disagrees with what she said. But suddenly he turns around, pulls his sister-in-law's little hand toward him and puts it to his lips in a gesture of gratitude. Sometimes you amaze me with your accuracy, the way you touch, as if casually, the heart of the matter. Of course this woman's tragedy is greater than mine, and I realize that, but that's not the only reason why I like her to drive the car and go on my rounds with me. You will be surprised, but she does not know about our Eyali, because I told her nothing, nor have I told the others, so that no one here will have any emotional purchase on what I myself want to forget. This woman helps me peel off my identity.

  "How?"

  "With all those things you also like about her. She is a genuine animist, a pagan who believes in trees and stones and spirits, not as a confused appendage to some failed abstract religion and not as a cry for help out of weakness and despair, but as a natural act, a whole different faith. And therefore, unlike Christians or Muslims, she has no connection or commitment to Jews, for either good or ill, love or hate. We are not the source she comes from, or a cause for struggle or competition. To her we are simply not relevant, nor does she see herself as relevant to us. To me she is a place where we do not exist in any memories. Not religious, not historical, not mythological. To her I am only a man—admittedly white, but that's a minor detail, because it was blacks, after all, who murdered her family and her tribe. And therefore, without talk or effort, simply as one person to another, she helps me peel away my identity, like the white man, who has peeled off his blackness. Everything that has oppressed me begins to fall off, without argument or debate, so that even if a dear and familiar guest happens to descend on me, that person can't reverse the process."

  "You mean me, of course."

  "For example. But up to now I have no complaints: you are behaving courteously and keeping within bounds."

  5.

  "OKAY, I SURRENDER," Amotz says to his father. "Tomorrow's Friday; I'll try to get up to Jerusalem."

  "But why not go today? You have all this free time now."

  "What free time?"

  "Your wife's not here, and you have no one to take care of or worry about."

  "Don't exaggerate. I have someone left to take care of, and there's always something to worry about. So I'll hop up to Jerusalem tomorrow, not because of the yowling of an imaginary cat in heat but purely for your peace of mind."

  "My peace of mind isn't a good enough reason? So before you go, let me give you a kiss."

  Ya'ari can't remember the last time his father asked to kiss him. He himself, when he comes to visit and finds his father in the wheelchair, sometimes squeezes his trembling hand and lightly kisses, out of obligation, the cheek of the man from whom he has learned so much. But he doesn't recall his father ever once initiating a kiss, not for several dozen years. Now he does, as he lies naked in bed, under two blankets, and Ya'ari has to bend over him as he offers only his forehead to his father's lips.

  "If you find the cat in heat inside her shaft, bring it with you so I can see it," says the father, then closes his eyes and plants a kiss on the forehead of the man of sixty.

  Judging by his father's excitement, it would seem that she was a love of his, Ya'ari muses as he heads south to his office on a gray windless day. The old father even yearned to confess, but his son wouldn't let him, lest it turn out that the woman in Jerusalem had been his lover while his mother was still alive. And even if he were told that the woman only helped his father restore his manhood after his wife's death, Ya'ari has no great desire to meet her, and certainly none to service her ancient, shaking, wailing elevator. In any case it lies beyond his power to heal its afflictions, or even diagnose them. If Moran were in town, he would certainly send him to Jerusalem to satisfy his grandpa. But Moran has sunk into the abyss of the army and has exchanged not one word with him; Ya'ari suspects that his son has begun to enjoy the freedom of his confinement.

  The office is teeming. Those who took yesterday off have come early today to complete their projects. Where's Moran? ask colleagues whose work depends on him. Moran is doing reserve duty, Ya'ari says, avoiding the whole truth. But he said he would ignore the army? So he said it. Not everything he says comes true.

  For a moment Ya'ari considers whether it would be right to ask one of the younger engineers to go to Jerusalem in his place. But anyone sent there would likely feel foolish and helpless when confronted with a prehistoric private elevator, and bear a grudge over the Friday needlessly stolen from him and the imposition of a technician's chore on an engineer.

  He phones the lady in Jerusalem and speaks to her in practical army language: You've won, Mrs. Bennett, I will come to see your elevator tomorrow morning, but I caution you, have no illusions, I am coming only to look, not to repair. So please, don't budge from your house, starting at nine.

  After that, he convenes the weekly staff meeting in his office earlier than usual, to ensure that at the appointed hour of noon both he and his telephone will be free to receive his wife's African voice.

  6.

  AT THIS MOMENT Daniela is not far from Dar es Salaam. She sits in a makeshift passenger compartm
ent in the Chinese freight train, her brother-in-law dozes on the bench beside her, and across from her sits Sijjin Kuang, whose gentle gaze indicates that she gathered—at least from the Hebrew word pagani—that the conversation between the two Israeli relatives had something to do with her. And even though the tragedy of the young Sudanese woman is greater than the disaster that befell the elderly administrator—whose head droops on his chest and appears to be nodding in agreement—the visitor would still like to give her some hint about the fire that needlessly killed the white man's son.

  But Yirmiyahu does not want to tell his driver anything about himself, lest one story lead to another, and one history get tangled with another, until even an idolator could find herself identifying with him. And so, since his sister-in-law has not come here to thwart his wishes, she steers the conversation to injuries and illnesses. Perhaps she can learn from the African nurse's experience about an ancient and proven cure for some malady she has yet to contract.

  Now through the window a few houses can be seen, then streets. Here is a city. And, for a tiny moment, a sliver of smooth sea with a gliding sailboat.

  Yirmi, again alert and energetic, confidently leads the two women along streets he clearly knows well, between vegetable stalls and buckets of fish and sacks of coal. "If possible," Daniela says, "let's start by calling Israel. We promised Amotz, and I know he's waiting with his hand on the phone."

  "If we promised, we will deliver." Yirmi calms her with a smile. "From the time I met him, forty years ago, I knew it's dangerous to make him wait."

  He guides them into a darkened shack, a public telecommunications center, filled with a jumble of wires plugged into elderly computers and antique phones, that brings to mind a spider's web. The proprietor, a beefy woman named Zaineb, greets them happily and seats the tourist by a telephone with a well-worn dial.

  "I have learned from experience that from here you speak frugally and clearly," Yirmi says self-righteously, "since every month I call America to report to Elinor that I am surviving, and to hear how many words she has added to her dissertation. Write down for Zaineb the exact number, with the codes for Israel and Tel Aviv, and you will be able to put your loved one at ease. We shall wait patiently outside."

  "You don't want to say a few words?"

  "Only if you don't overdo your conversation. Look, don't be so sure that I don't think about him too sometimes."

  The connection from the spider web is made efficiently, and is actually clear and strong. And in Tel Aviv the office receptionist is happy to hear the voice of the boss's wife in Africa, though she is a bit surprised by the early hour. There's a staff meeting going on in his office, but not to worry, she'll pull him out of there right away. Just don't hang up.

  "Why do you say I'm early? We arranged to talk today at twelve."

  "But it's now eleven," the secretary chides. "You seem to have an hour's difference in your favor."

  "In my favor?" Daniela says, laughing, "in what sense?" But the secretary has already gone to fetch her husband.

  7.

  STANDING BY THE receptionist's desk, using her telephone in front of other people and maybe being overheard, was not the way he had wanted to conduct the much anticipated conversation with his wife. But is it proper to cut short the meeting and dismiss everyone from his office, just so he can complain about his troubles without an audience? Given no choice, he grabs the receiver and retreats to a corner, stretching the phone cord as far as he can, and tries to speak confidentially. His tone comes out sounding both accusatory and defensive.

  "That's right," he says, "I got the times wrong. I was sure you were on the same longitude, and all of a sudden Africa is not only southwest but also east of us. So everything I imagined you doing on your trip you had finished an hour before."

  "It's only an hour's difference. But if it's hard for you to talk now, I'll try again later."

  "No, absolutely not. I'll just talk quietly, because there are people here. Can you hear me?"

  "Perfectly. First of all, tell me about the children."

  "Just a minute, the children can wait. You tell me what's happening. First of all, how was the trip?"

  "The flight to Nairobi was nice, but to spend six hours in the airport just for your peace of mind, that was cruel. And I ended up almost missing the connecting flight anyway."

  "Missing it? How was that possible?"

  "My boarding pass disappeared in the novel."

  "Novel?"

  "The book I bought at the airport."

  "But I warned you beforehand to keep everything with your passport, and I put it there myself. So how did it wander into the novel?"

  "Never mind, I found it."

  "Watch out. You can afford to dream only when I'm with you. And how was the second flight? I worried the whole time that on an internal flight in Africa you'd have a small, shabby plane."

  "It was a small plane, but clean and nice and not shabby at all, and they even served unlimited whiskey."

  He laughs. "Not to you, I hope. And where is it, this farm of Yirmi's? Is it far from the airport?"

  "Not very. But the road is mostly dirt and a bit complicated, part of it through a forest. Fortunately, the pagan who drove me—"

  "Pagan?"

  "A charming young Sudanese woman, an idol worshipper ... a tragic figure, I'll tell you all about her..."

  "Idol worshipper? What idols?"

  "No, not now. I'll tell you everything later. How are the children?"

  "Leave the children aside for a minute. Yirmi forgot you and didn't come to the airport?"

  "No, no, it's a long story. I'll tell you all about it. He's the one who sent her; she's the nurse of the research team."

  "And what about him?"

  "Stranger than ever. But also pleased with himself. I brought him a package of Israeli papers from the plane and he burned them all."

  "Burned them? Good for him. Why should he read Israeli papers in Africa? Where's the fun in that?"

  "The Hanukkah candles I brought, he threw them in the fire too."

  "What, he has a campfire burning there?"

  "The fire of the water boiler."

  "But why the candles?"

  "No reason. He's looking for ways to disengage himself. From Israel. From the Jews. From everything."

  "Disengage? Why not? A great idea. I wish I could do that sometimes. But why detach himself in Africa? There are nicer places in the world to get detached."

  "Not now, Amotz. He's right outside. We'll talk about everything next week. But tell me what's going on with the children."

  "Nofar came home yesterday with an older friend to light candles."

  "Very good."

  "But she only stayed a little while."

  "That's not important. What's important is she came."

  "But here's the big news, listen carefully: the army didn't give up on Moran. They caught him and put him in confinement."

  "Actual confinement?"

  "The real thing, confined to base for a week or so. But he's in Israel, not the West Bank, with the adjutant corps. I haven't got through to him yet, because they confiscated his cell phone, but he's in touch with Efrat occasionally. And yesterday I replaced you and picked up the children from preschool and waited with them at a café till Yael was able to take them. Tomorrow's Friday, and I'll light candles with them then."

  "It's good that her mother always volunteers to help."

  "The mother is okay, but the daughter of the mother keeps running around on empty. A training course up north, then a seminar down south. She drives me crazy."

  "Go crazy quietly and keep it to yourself; be careful not to make any remarks. It's not your business to educate her. Let Moran take care of her."

  "But Moran is a prisoner. An officer in the IDF. Imagine the disgrace."

  "Leave him alone too. Don't reprimand him. For a long time I've had the feeling that he's afraid of his reserve duty."

  "Afraid? Moran? Where'd you get that id
ea? Moran was never a coward, certainly not in the army. He just felt like blowing them off, and he's like you: he is sure that the whole world revolves around him."

  "And I'm sure the whole world revolves around me?"

  "More or less."

  "Where'd you get that idea?"

  "Not now. I'm not alone either. This is my secretary's phone. But where's Yirmi? Is he with you? In any case, I want to say a word to him."

  "What word?"

  "That he should keep an eye on you."

  "Don't you dare."

  8.

  YIRMIYAHU IS WAITING in an alley with Sijjin Kuang, whose tall aristocratic figure alongside the awkward old white man's has attracted the curiosity of people in the marketplace. From time to time he glances inside at his sister-in-law, who sits smiling and content in the depths of the communications hut, surrounded by young Africans riveted to computer screens, as she, in a girlish pose he finds charming, presses the worn-out phone receiver against her short-cropped head, crosses her legs, and plays with the hem of her dress, exposing her shapely calves.

  Even if the phone call here is cheap compared with other places in the city, it is going on longer than he expected, and the warm chattiness of his relatives is beginning to make him impatient. They've only been apart for two days, they'll be back together in three, and they still insist on such a long conversation. He remembers that even as a girl she would tie up her parents' phone for long periods, chatting and laughing, without thinking about the cost—or other people. And the daily calls between her and her sister in the years before Eyal fell would sometimes go on for more than an hour. It was his death that cut them short, those calls. Her son's death shrank and compressed Shuli's world. She lost her patience for the stories of strangers and family members alike; even so close a sister interested her less.

  Now Daniela is waving for him to come in and join her. Amotz wants to say a few words to you too, and maybe in any case we should hang up, she suggests, and let Amotz call us back from Israel. No, that's impossible, Yirmiyahu says. The owner doesn't like it when her income is undercut like that, so she doesn't give out her phone number. He takes the receiver, and without saying hello he teases his brother-in-law.