Friendly Fire

by A. B. Yehoshua

  To distract the children from their parents, the grandpa steers them to the trunk to help him take the sandwiches and vegetables and oranges out of the cooler, and to arrange them all nicely on an old oilcloth. It is Daniela who generally tries to decipher her son's marital frictions, but she's far away in Africa, and he has to maneuver alone through this outbreak of hostilities.

  One evening, in the empty office, in a rare moment of soul-baring, Moran confessed that his wife's good looks were not only a source of pride for him but also a heavy burden. Her beauty makes her more vulnerable to men. She easily arouses the wild fantasies of random passersby. He doesn't always watch her every move, but it sometimes seems to him that her glamour distances them from their closest friends.

  Now she sits, fuming in the car, swathed in the cumbersome old windbreaker that obscures her body completely. On her sour face, devoid of makeup, are a few unsightly blemishes, as if she has deliberately made herself ugly for her husband, to stave off any suspicion or complaint.

  "No, Amotz, I'm not hungry," she says, pushing away the sandwich, "you eat."

  "I'm not hungry either," Moran says, rejecting the same sandwich, "you eat it, Abba."

  Moran's work uniform smells of gun oil—a fundamental Israeli aroma, an ever-present whiff of dread, the smell of one's first contact with the army, of basic training, which forty years cannot erase from one's consciousness. What's this? Ya'ari extends a hand to feel the dense black stubble covering his son's face. That redheaded officer doesn't make you shave before he sits down to play backgammon with you? Moran pulls away from his touch. What about you, he goads his father, you didn't shave this morning either. What, Imma isn't here so you're trying out a sexier style?

  "Sexy?" Ya'ari is insulted.

  "Sexy like Arafat," Efrat says maliciously, looking at her husband.

  The little ones have not had their fill of their father, and they cling to him and climb on him. But Moran is distracted, graceless. His mind is fixed on his wife, but they are both silent now, and the poisonous silence is affecting the children, who provoke each other, wanting attention.

  Nadi is drawn to the smell of meat roasting on a nearby grill, and Ya'ari has to stop him. The Israeli din gains volume. Bluish smoke pollutes the winter air. Meat- and sweets-stuffed recruits improvise a mini-soccer match at the edge of the visiting area, or walk arm-in-arm with their girlfriends within the perimeter set by their commanding officers. Fathers laugh heartily, sharing memories of their own army days, and mothers exchange phone numbers, so they will be able to keep track together of special events during the months of training.

  Yes, reflects Ya'ari, there's anger and bitterness between these two, but also attraction, and in this teeming parking lot they won't be able to defuse their spite and reconcile before parting. He cannot presume to fathom the workings of his son's marital relationship, nor does he intend to try without Daniela. But even Daniela, who does venture into mind-reading, can be mistaken. Could she imagine, for example, that tucked between Baby Mozart and Baby Bach is a videotape of hard-core sex, which these young people watch to get turned on, not relying on their own desire? But he won't tell Daniela about the tape, so as not to upset her.

  He offers the car keys to his son and says, Listen, it's a mob scene here, and you might want some quiet time together, so take yourselves to some nice café in the area, and I'll look after the little ones. When I visited you at the base that night, I thought I saw an old tank the children might enjoy. Is there really an old tank here, or did I just imagine it?

  "I haven't run into any old tanks, but I haven't done much exploring around the camp. If you say you saw an old tank, it must be there. You, Abba, are not capable of hallucinations."

  And he takes the keys from his father. Efrat hesitates, but Moran insists, yes, we deserve a little privacy.

  Nadi is thrilled by the chance to climb on a real tank, but Neta is sorry to be separated from her father. We'll be right back, Moran promises, and we'll bring you something better than the cucumbers and carrots that Imma peeled. And he puts the food back into the cooler.

  Ya'ari holds his grandchildren's hands tight, and they cross the road with great caution. The children urgently need the toilet, he says grimly to the soldier guarding the gate, and leads them on with determination. Parents' visiting day loosens the disciplinary leash, and many recruits walk around without their berets or weapons; some have even traded in their army boots for civilian shoes. A few assertive mothers have succeeded in penetrating the base to inspect their children's living conditions. Is there an old tank monument here? Ya'ari asks everyone he runs into, but he gets no clear answer. Still he persists. They reach the far edge of the base. Beyond the eucalyptus trees lie the houses of the neighboring town. A raindrop lands on his head, and he looks up at the sky. The clouds are crammed together, yet patches of blue show through here and there. All at once heavy drops begin to fall, and he hurries with the children into a nearby tent.

  The tent is filled with meticulously made beds, which are guarded by an Ethiopian soldier sprawled on one of them. He wears a light battle vest, and the rifle between his legs rocks to the beat of unfamiliar music.

  Ya'ari requests cover until the rain lets up. And Nadi draws close to the guard and fearlessly, yet with deep reverence, strokes the bolt of the rifle.

  "You didn't go out to visit with your folks?"

  No, says this lone recruit, he has no family in Israel. His father died right after they arrived in the country, and his mother, who was supposed to follow them here, remarried and stayed in Addis Ababa.

  Ya'ari is curious to know whether he misses Africa. Mother and Africa, explains the soldier, have become one for him, and he is unable to separate them.

  8.

  SIJJIN KUANG IS slow to return to the sanatorium lobby. The powerful midday sunshine that pours through the window nearly lulls the two relatives to sleep as they sink deeper into the worn leather armchairs, which resemble a pair of hippopotamuses. Behind the reception desk sits an African man, typing into an elderly computer. What amazes Daniela is that for a long time now not a single patient or employee has entered the lobby. Only the tapping of the keys chips away at the great silence. Yirmiyahu closes his eyes and drifts off, and Daniela can now study his face from up close and see what has changed in this man she has known for so many years. Is this the first time you've been here? she asks him when for a moment his eyes open, very red, and he tells her no, he has been here a number of times, bringing diggers who had been felled by malaria. And they got well here? No way of knowing; we lost contact with them. Their tribesmen were in a hurry to get them out of here and replace them with others. UNESCO doesn't insure the health of diggers.

  He yawns and stretches, places his hand on his forehead and says, I think I also have a bit of fever. She puts one hand against his forehead and the other to her own and says, I think I'm the one with fever, not you. But tell me why is there no one here, no patients or workers? Yirmiyahu shrugs. Maybe they're eating now, maybe sleeping. Do you suppose, she asks further, that there's a cafeteria here where I can find something sweet?

  An ironic smile lights the man's eyes.

  "No, Daniela," he says, yawning, "I don't believe there's a kiosk here for you."

  "You're sure, or you only believe?"

  "I am sure that I don't believe."

  The elevator whirrs and starts to rise, and when it comes back down it brings with it the aristocratic Sudanese driver, who asks the white man to help her calm down Zohara al-Ukbi, who is refusing to stay here. On the way to her room they had passed the rooms of terminal patients, and the young Arab woman had a panic attack and demanded to be returned to the farm.

  Yirmiyahu sighs, rises from his chair and follows the nurse. Daniela, who guesses that reassuring Zohara will take some time, approaches the desk clerk to ask if he has anything sweet, she feels a bitter taste in her mouth. The African apologizes that he has nothing to offer the white woman, but when he finishes on th
e computer he will try to find something. She looks at the documents he is inputting, and asks if he has any reading material, perhaps a brochure, maybe something with pictures? No, this institution has no need for public relations, and the paperwork piled up here consists of medical reports about illnesses and treatments, now being recorded on the hard drive for future generations. Then he remembers that one of the patients who died here left behind a book in English that might possibly interest the visitor; he will go upstairs for it at once, but it might be only a prayer book.

  A prayer book is not exactly what his bored guest is yearning for—but if it is in English, she will give it a chance.

  Meanwhile she tries to make herself more comfortable. She turns around the hippo relinquished by Yirmiyahu and joins it to her own, takes off her shoes and socks, and sinks her bare feet in the rough cracked hide of the other herbivorous creature. She closes her eyes and allows the noonday sun to caress her through the unshaded window. The tapping on the keyboard stops, and she hears the rustle of papers and the glide of a closing drawer and the moving of a chair. Now that she is all alone, a sweet drowsiness overtakes her, as in the car at night beside her husband, when he accelerates on the highway. And when the rumble of the elevator intrudes into her twilight consciousness, she is disappointed that her brother-in-law has already returned to rouse her from her well-arranged cocoon and tell her they are heading back. But the gravelly voice speaking to her now in fluent well-enunciated English belongs neither to Yirmiyahu nor the desk clerk. As in a dream, she sees an old man approach her, clad only in a white bathrobe, and extend a cordial hand. To her astonishment she recognizes the elderly Englishman who sat beside her on the flight from Nairobi to Morogoro. He had boasted to her that he was the owner of a small estate, and here he is but one of its residents. He has just learned that a white lady had arrived from the base camp of the excavations for the prehistoric ape, and immediately guessing who it must be, has hurried down to tell her, with unabashed candor, that their brief encounter on the plane has been very much on his mind.

  9.

  "BUT GRANDPA, IT'S not raining anymore," Neta says, pulling at Ya'ari's fingers while he is deep in discussion with the lone soldier about the scenery in Ethiopia. The soldier talks with joy of the landscapes of his childhood, and it is so pleasant to chat with this older man that he is willing to open the rifle bolt for his enthralled grandson and explain to him, using a live round, how the pin hits the primer to ignite the gunpowder in the cartridge, which propels the lead bullet to its target. Boom-boom they kill and then give a kiss, Nadi summarizes the shooting process with great satisfaction. And after fondling the bullet with his little hands, turning it over and over, he spirits it slyly into the pocket of his coat, but Ya'ari quickly snatches it from the "little killer." Yes, we must hurry, it's getting late, and again he grabs his grandchildren's hands, but before they leave he remembers to ask the lone recruit whether in fact there is on the base an old tank.

  And indeed, Moran was right. Ya'ari is not inclined to hallucination, neither by day nor by night. Behind the sheds of the base command stands a Syrian tank from the Yom Kippur War, set up as a memorial to past heroism. The Ethiopian goes outside and explains how to get there, and then, on a sudden whim, he leans over and kisses the children. Nadi hangs on him with affection, but Neta is alarmed. Come, children, let's see this tank, says Ya'ari to the dismay of his granddaughter, who has had more than enough of this military tour and wants very much to return to her parents, having sensed the tension between them. But Nadi's manly spirit pleases Ya'ari, and he wants to satisfy the boy's military curiosity, and so, as they stand before the tank, an obsolete Soviet model whose camouflage paint was designed for the basalt terrain of the Golan Heights, he complies with his grandson's request to lift him on top of the turret.

  "Just for a minute, Neta darling, we're only going to peek and see what's inside this tank, and then right away we'll go back to Imma and Abba. You don't want to see what's inside?"

  But Neta, standing tiny and tense alongside the corroded caterpillar tracks, wants no contact at all with the tank, which even after rusting in place for more than thirty years is terrifying. The darkening sky compounds her distress. But Ya'ari will not give in and lifts her little brother onto the hull, then goes up to join him, and from there, carefully and with considerable effort, climbs with the child onto the bulky turret. The hatch, he is pleased to discover, can be opened.

  It is dark inside, and Ya'ari, who served in the infantry, is no expert on the innards of tanks. A cursory look tells him that the Soviet army had not been greatly concerned about the comfort of the individual soldier, only about the thickness of the steel protecting him. He can make out the olive-drab color of the steering bar, two large copper artillery shell casings, and what looks like the disintegrating vest of a tank soldier—dead these thirty years, no doubt—is lying in a corner. Nadi wants very much to crawl in and touch the steering bar, but Ya'ari is afraid he'll have trouble getting him out. As a compromise, he holds him upside-down, and in a reverse childbirth motion lowers his big head into the dark hole. Lower, Grandpa, the child pleads, while his head seems to float in the darkness, I see a dead man. That's it, no more, Ya'ari says, frightened by his grandson's wild imagination. You've seen enough. Now let's get out of here fast, before an officer comes and yells at us. No, Nadi says, stiffening his body. There's no officer, you're silly.

  Ya'ari has noticed that Nadi sometimes speaks disrespectfully to his father and mother, but till now has watched his tongue with his grandfather. He pulls the child up sharply and clambers down with him. Nadi, that's it. You've seen enough. And on top of that, you can say "silly" to your friends in nursery school, but not to your grandpa who loves you so much. The child falls silent, lowers his gaze, then purses his lips and looks venomously into his grandfather's face. Neta, too, is on the verge of tears, tugging impatiently at his hand, and from the sky drops begin to fall. If she starts whimpering now, her brother will immediately join in, and it will not be to his glory to return two bawling children to their parents.

  He puts the teddybear hoods over their heads, and covers his own, to his grandchildren's delight, with a sheet of graph paper he finds in his pocket.

  When they reach the front gate Ya'ari is amazed to discover that the chaotic civilian world has been utterly erased, as by magic, from the consciousness of the army recruits. The picnic ground is deserted; all the cars have vanished, with no trace of paper napkins or empty mineral water bottles. Also absent is the car he lent his son, and now he remembers that he left his cell phone in it, plugged into the speakerphone socket.

  Greenish lightning slashes the sky, followed by shattering thunder. The terrified children cling to his body, the soaking graph paper dribbles on his head. Without thinking twice about hurting his back, he lifts both his grandchildren in his arms and dashes for the guardhouse. A tall soldier in full battle garb looks at them severely. The amiable Ethiopian has been replaced by a Russian recruit who scowls at the three civilians who have sought refuge with him. Is he too a lone soldier, whose mother has remained in Russia? Ya'ari does not ask; nor does he need to. There is a woven basket in the corner, filled with food.

  "Imma, Imma'leh, where are you; Abba, Abba'leh, where are you?" Neta's lament is not a hostile, confrontational complaint but rather a thin, heartrending wail of justified anxiety. Ya'ari sweeps up his granddaughter, her wispy body feeling immeasurably lighter than that of her little brother, and holds her close to his chest. Now the keening pierces him to the marrow—Imma, Imma'leh, where are you; Abba, Abba'leh, where are you, and the more he tries to soothe her, the more he can feel the panic flowing from her into him: There really is no reason to suspect engine trouble in his new car, so the only remaining possibility is an accident.

  In the rain-soaked guard post, beside the tall Russian who keeps angrily brushing away the little hand reaching for his submachine gun, his practical engineer's mind churns through the outcomes of all possible si
tuations, from a simple flat tire to a car-mangling wreck. Damn it, he berates himself, damn it, you're standing here with two little children who are counting on you, and you have no right to show any sign of desperation. And even if Daniela is not at your side when you hear the terrible news, you will not run away to Africa or any other continent, but by your very sanity, your practicality and sense of responsibility, you will vanquish the chaos that swells all around you.

  In his imagination scenes of horrible catastrophe mingle cru elly with practical considerations. How he will have to ask Daniela to quit teaching to devote herself to the grandchildren; how Moran's apartment will have to be rented out, and for how much; how his firm's lawyer will examine the life-insurance policy; and who will argue in court over the extent of the damages. He makes a mental note of which architect could best add a wing to their house for the children, and considers how he might persuade Nofar to become their legal guardian after he and Daniela have passed away.

  A cold wind blows through his wet hair. His knees are shaking. Fear torments him, and the precise solutions he elaborates in his mind offer no comfort. The eyes of the Russian soldier are fastened on the pudgy little hand that keeps pretending to stroke, with consummate delicacy, the submachine gun propped on a stand. And the soft moaning drones on.

  Imma, Imma'leh, where are you? Abba, Abba'leh, where are you?

  "They'll be right back, Neta, you'll see, I promise. They haven't forgotten us."

  And, in fact, a few minutes later, there is a flash of light and a honking sound, and Moran, who has found his family's hideout, quickly crosses the road, enters the guardhouse and sweeps up his children and hurries all three into the warm bosom of the car.

  "I'm sorry, Abba, I'm sorry. We lost track of time."

  Moran and Efrat's heads are both wet, and his daughter-i n-law's big jacket is spotted with mud and bits of leaves. Ya'ari fixes his eyes on the young woman sitting in the front seat next to her husband and avoiding his gaze, even refraining from touching her two children squeezed beside him in the back, as though her turbulent soul is not yet ready for them.