Friendly Fire

by A. B. Yehoshua

  The man, who doubtless recalls and recognizes the white woman, seems amazed and excited by the offer. For the money in her hand—and only now does she realize her mistake—is a hundred-dollar bill; and although he has worked hard to tie the bandage, he cannot pass up a donation of a single dollar, much less a hundred, offered him with such decisiveness and likely to change his life. He therefore hurries to fasten the chain to the tree stump, to command the elephant to kneel and even lie down completely before the magnanimous, demanding woman. He searches behind the ear, which is flapping like a fan, and finds the knot, and undoes and removes the colorful cloth, to the delight of all assembled.

  And within the welling yellow-green blueness that peers at her with longing, moisture slowly condenses into a tear, and after the first flows another, and the tears of the mute animal, who may also be expressing thanks, melt the tourist's heart, as if this moment finally fulfills the wish she has brought to Africa on the holiday of Hanukkah.

  5.

  "HELP FROM WHOM?" Ya'ari is perplexed.

  "From a partner, for example, if he were here," Mrs. Bennett says, smiling, and Ya'ari appreciates her sprightly humor.

  "But why the bedroom?"

  "Because only here, in that corner, did your father feel confident we wouldn't run into a water pipe in the wall, or telephone wires, or electricity. He was sure that if he went from here into the roof, he wouldn't endanger or ruin anything."

  Ya'ari hesitates a bit before cautiously entering the tiny car. Indeed, a sophisticated engineering feat, almost devilishly clever, was accomplished here in the 1950s. His father had succeeded in fitting into a corner of the bedroom a hydraulic elevator with an oil-driven piston attached sideways to the wall, with a small hand-shaped fork lifting the elevator cab along two guide rails seven meters in height, up through a dark little nook to an exit on the roof.

  But the psychoanalyst, perhaps with his father's help, has not left the elevator naked, a mere technological marvel. She has devoted some effort to beautifying its interior, as well as the shaft encasing it, so that both would blend naturally into the apartment. Two sides of the elevator car are paneled in dark oak, and lest a passenger forget his face en route, however briefly, a small mirror has been affixed to one side. But the third side has been left exposed to the piston attached to the shaft, which is essentially a natural extension of the wall of the room and has therefore been plastered and even decorated, with a picture of a dignified European gentleman.

  "You brought your Freud in here too?" He can't help teasing the elderly psychologist.

  "That is not Freud. Here I have placed Jung."

  "Who's that?"

  "If you sit down afterward for a cup of tea, I'll tell you all about him."

  Ya'ari glances genially at his interlocutor, then carefully closes the iron grille and presses the up button. First there is only a faint but protracted humming, indicating a problem with the flow of electricity, then suddenly the elevator shakes violently, lurches and screeches as if fighting off a hostile foreign invader, and finally, for no apparent reason, calms down and surrenders, and with a strange and heartrending wail begins to crawl slowly upward, allowing Ya'ari to see that the entire open wall along the shaft is neatly plastered and hung with paintings, landscapes executed by an amateur.

  The shaking and shuddering grow worse toward the end of the little trip, as if a powerful hidden hand is restraining the elevator from climbing beyond the roof. Finally it stops, but the wailing continues for several seconds more, ending at last on a sort of death rattle. To Ya'ari's ears these are not the howls of a cat in heat, as Dr. Bennett described them to his father, but the keening of a jackal, like the ones that prowled in the night when he was a boy.

  The clean winter sunlight of Jerusalem dazzles him as he emerges onto the large flat roof, streaked with ancient tar. Paunchy old water tanks surround a shiny satellite dish, and the cables from the dish sprawl in every direction. In the eastern corner stands a white table, chairs chained to its legs so that a spirited wind will not send them flying.

  His father claimed that the tenant was able to look out on the walls of the Old City during the years of Jerusalem divided, but now, in the unified-divided capital, the Ottoman era has disappeared behind forests of antennas and ranges of water tanks. Only the towers of the Augusta Victoria hospital and the Russian church can be seen standing tall on the crest of the Mount of Olives. He turns to the west, toward Beit Frumin, former home of the Knesset, and looks fondly at the old three-story building. A hidden elevator, he laughs to himself, that rises secretly to the opposite roof from the bedroom of a single woman, might have tempted someone to pick off a pesky political rival as he innocently arrived to attend the plenum.

  The iron trapdoor over the ladder flies open and hits the roof with a loud clang. Armed in sunglasses and a straw hat, Mrs. Bennett, having climbed up by the ladder attached to the wall, rebukes the elevator engineer for not taking care to close the grille, so that she could summon the cab for herself.

  "Oh. Sorry, but I thought you were afraid to ride in it."

  "Why? What danger is there in a little shaking? Besides, your father also set me up an emergency switch that releases the hydraulic pressure and allows the elevator to go down by itself."

  "I didn't notice it." He smiles sympathetically at the old girl who stands there all wrinkled and gaily speaks of "hydraulic pressure.""I see that my father really did think of everything here."

  "Your father is a true friend, a friend for life. If he were a bit healthier, he would surely be here instead of you."

  "No doubt."

  "So what do you think of my elevator? Why is it in pain?"

  Ya'ari shrugs, his gaze still fixed on the old Knesset.

  "Tell me," he ignores her question, "were you already living here when the demonstrators threw rocks at the Knesset because of the reparation payments?"

  "Certainly. I sometimes felt like throwing a rock at that Knesset, but not because of the reparations, which I got, too. For different reasons."

  "Such as?"

  "There was no shortage of reasons. But the sun out here is too strong for history. Let's go back down."

  Despite the water tanks and the aggregation of antennas, it's pleasant on this old-time Jerusalem roof. The Judean desert purifies and brightens the air.

  "You go down in the elevator, and I'll use the ladder."

  "Why? Let's ride down together. Your father set it up so the elevator could hold two people."

  And really, why not try to squeeze into the tiny elevator with her, to check out what two riders would feel like?

  She gets in first and shrinks into a corner, and he enters next and presses against her with his back and leans over to push the down button. And again, from the depths, comes a faint buzzing, and the elevator shudders furiously, and with Mrs. Bennett pressed against him smelling pleasantly of soap, the yowling begins, and after a slow descent a mighty hand halts the car with a vengeance, as if to thwart a premeditated desire to break into the apartment downstairs.

  He opens the metal grille and retreats into the corner so she can get out first.

  "You heard that? So what do you say?"

  Ya'ari shrugs and asks her in what year, exactly, his father installed the elevator.

  "In fifty-four."

  "And you're certain my father brought me along?"

  "I remember you. A boy of seven."

  "Eight..."

  "Just a little tyke, sitting here in the corner watching his father with such admiration. Well, so how old are you now?"

  "Not hard to figure out."

  "Still a little boy."

  "Careful, that's what my father calls you, a little girl..."

  "Which is very gratifying and sweet. You can't imagine how nice it is of him to call me a girl."

  "And my mother, you knew her?" he blurts out testily.

  "Of course. A strong woman. Straightforward. She, too, would come to visit me sometimes with your father
. Once we even took her in the elevator."

  "Strange," he mutters with quiet indignation, "they never told me about you."

  "Apparently I was some sort of secret of theirs," she says, and drops her wrinkled eyelid in a wink.

  Ya'ari feels dizzy. He closes his eyes for a moment and tries to revisit his moonlight epiphany. As if she can sense his inner turmoil, Devorah Bennett asks again carefully, somewhat concerned: So what do you say? Can it be fixed?

  And he recovers and delivers a quick diagnosis.

  "The vibration seems to come from the piston that produces the oil pressure. It will have to be dismantled and checked. But how do you take apart a weird creature like this? Perhaps my father will have an idea. Though finding spare parts will be impossible. The only way is to have them custom-made, and that is definitely not simple."

  "But possible."

  "Maybe."

  "And the yowling?"

  "Maybe there's a little cat hiding in there after all?" Now he winks.

  "No," she says, smiling kindly, "there is no cat and never was."

  "So there's no choice: we'll have to bring in an expert with a sensitive ear to tell us the source of this weeping and wailing. Otherwise we'll have to start dismantling old parts of the electrical system, which will crumble in our hands and we'll never be able to put them back together."

  "So we have a big production here," she sighs.

  "So it would seem. Meanwhile, give me a tape measure, if you own such a thing."

  6.

  AND AFTERWARD THE elephant stands up and goes on its way, but without the bandage on its eye. In appreciation of the animal that has suddenly enriched him, the owner spares it the onus of the bandage, rolls up the colorful cloth, and ties it to the pack already loaded onto the elephant's back. Then, without further delay, as if afraid that someone might want to share in his newfound wealth, he puts on dark glasses, takes the chain in his hands and pulls the elephant after him. The animal, too, is clearly happy to get moving and make tracks in the open plain after being tied up for many days in a claustrophobic shed. Some local youths run after them, keeping up for a considerable distance before turning around and walking slowly back to the village.

  The equatorial sun beats down on the hatless head of the Israeli; it's time to return to the farm. Witnessing the speedy departure of the animal owner and his removal of the elephant's bandage, the Africans have apparently decided that this older woman—visiting for the third time, and this time alone—must possess power and influence, and they therefore accompany her on her way back.

  Thus surrounded, the English teacher feels as if she were on a class trip—at the magnetic center, on a brilliant morning, of a parade of youths, and men and women too. For a moment she is frightened, but she is careful not to speed up, lest this be interpreted as running away. She passes by the river, where some gray cows are drinking, and as she climbs the next hill, she notices the shady path that she missed, the same path she took with Yirmiyahu on that first day. The entourage is still at her heels when Yirmiyahu grabs her by the hand.

  "You can't wander around here by yourself," he says angrily.

  "Why?" she says, smiling with relief. "Don't tell me it's dangerous here."

  "Not dangerous, and the people here aren't violent, but all the same, do not go out again by yourself."

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing is the matter, and nothing will be," he snaps, "even so you are not to go wandering around by yourself."

  And the youths who escorted her, and have halted a few paces back, feel the anger of the tall, bald, peeled man, and their eyes glitter with inquisitive anxiety, waiting to see if the muzungu man will raise a hand against the benevolent woman. She suddenly feels humiliated but maintains her composure.

  "I'm not wandering around ... I'm taking a walk."

  "Then don't take a walk either."

  "Why?"

  "Why, why, why ... because that's what I am asking of you and that's what I am saying." By now he is shouting with impatience. "You came without Amotz, and you won't go around anywhere alone. You know that Amotz would never allow you to wander around here by yourself..."

  She continues to argue, though she doesn't know why.

  "You are not Amotz, and you have no authority over me. And why are you so angry? Unlike Shuli, I really don't enjoy being alone. I always feel good in the company of people, and I thought you would be available most of the time, but this morning you disappeared."

  "In general I don't have much work, but if sometimes I get busier, like last night, it only helps me."

  Helps you how? she would like to protest, flaunting her pain at the old, bald man whose white clothes dazzle her eyes in the sunlight. To erase Shuli, and Eyali too? But she bites her tongue.

  7.

  AFTER JOTTING DOWN the tiny elevator's dimensions on a slip of paper, Ya'ari bids farewell to Devorah Bennett without making any definite promises. The continuing absence of his wife increases his hunger for his children. It was only two days ago that Nofar lit Hanukkah candles with him, but the presence of the weird friend she brought precluded any chance—and perhaps by design—of a more personal conversation. Since I already ended up on a Friday in Jerusalem, Ya'ari figures as he walks past the old Knesset building, why hurry back? So before he gets into the car, he calls his daughter's cell phone, only to discover it's been turned off. In other words, she's at the hospital. When she's on duty, she always turns the device off entirely, so as not to disturb the calibrations of any sensitive electronic apparatus. But instead of giving up and simply calling to leave a message with her landlord, he decides to write her a note this time; after all, this is a rare chance to have a peek at his daughter's rented room, which he hasn't seen since he helped her move to Jerusalem, when she made the final decision to defer her army duty by doing national service at the hospital.

  He is gratified that the landlords, a married couple, both medical residents at the hospital where Nofar works, remember and recognize her father, whose appearance and body language remind them of her. They welcome him warmly, while wondering how he could have forgotten that on Friday mornings Nofar is always on duty and her phone is turned off. Ya'ari assures them that he knew all that, but since he happened to be in Jerusalem today he is taking the opportunity to have a look at the room his daughter has been living in for nearly a year, and perhaps to leave her a note. Might that be possible? From the time he helped her move, he hasn't had a chance to see how she has settled in.

  As he enters his daughter's rented room, he has a few misgivings. He knows that Nofar will not be happy about this invasion, even if he only leaves a little note. She would not want him to see—though it is exactly what he expected to see—the chaos of clothes, beddings, books and papers, leftover food, and wilted flowers: an elemental disorder, created almost on principle, which for some reason does not at all trouble the young landlords, who stand now in the doorway singing their tenant's praises.

  Surprised and touched, Ya'ari nods in agreement. Yes, he knows the merits of his daughter, who may resemble him externally but on the inside is very much like her mother. That is to say, she is a person whose boundaries are clear and firm, which is why she can live amid total disarray. The two get a good laugh from this charming explanation, which they can now use to justify the mess in their own quarters. And Ya'ari is grateful to the young couple who've taken his daughter under their wing, and interrogates them a bit about themselves, their schedules at the hospital, the nature of their specializations, and from there moves to medicine itself, what's new and what's passé, and since the conversation is free-flowing and frank, he permits himself a question he would like them to keep confidential. Doesn't Nofar seem to them anguished and lonely? Lonely, no, definitely not, the two declare as one, for in the evenings, when she is off duty, sometimes a friend will come, different ones, it's true, to take her to a movie or a pub. But unhappy? That could be. It's as if—the landlady hesitates—as if, despite her youth, she has
already lost something irreplaceable.

  Ya'ari looks at the photo hanging over Nofar's bed, Eyal as a teenager—a picture he hadn't known existed—and mumbles something about the source of his family's melancholy. But there's no need for any explanation, because the landlords have already heard about the tragedy in detail. Nofar talks again and again about the friendly fire—those are the words she uses. Now, the couple inquire of the father, How is it that such a story is so deeply embedded in her? How old was she at the time, anyway? Because it seems to them that she gets a bit confused about dates.

  Very young, says the father, eleven and a half, in the middle of sixth grade. The age difference between her and her cousin was substantial, almost thirteen years. Eyal studied medicine at university under army auspices, but afterward she did not serve at the hospital, instead insisting on combat duty. If he were still alive, he would now be a doctor like you. But the age difference, Ya'ari adds with a bitter smile, did not prevent Nofar from imagining that not only was she in love with her cousin but also that he was in love with her. Maybe he sent off signals that we were unaware of but which made a strong impression on her, and possibly because of this, she remains stalled.

  From the landlords' expression, the father senses he may have said too much. Because they love and respect their unhappy boarder, it's wrong for him to explain to them things that Nofar herself has not yet worked out. Now anxious to make a clean getaway, he checks his watch and looks for a piece of paper, but even such a minor thing as that is not easy to find in her room. He locates a prescription pad from the hospital, tears out a page and writes: