Friendly Fire

by A. B. Yehoshua

  It's raw and drizzly in Tel Aviv, and Jerusalem will presumably be worse. Ya'ari insists that Francisco wrap his father in a big coat and, over that, the black plastic poncho, with its hood like the ones on his grandchildren's jackets. And after Marco and Pedro load a toolbox, prepared ahead of time, into the ambulance, and the cooler with the plastic containers of food, they take the suitor down in the elevator and wheel him, too, into the familiar blue vehicle that has grown a bit old, like its owner. For a moment Ya'ari deliberates whether to join his father in the ambulance or preserve his freedom and drive his own car. In the end he decides to supervise his father from close by, although he will need to crouch and squeeze in among the silent Filipinos.

  "And what about the surprise?"

  "The surprise is waiting at 9 Rabin Square, next to the Book Worm."

  And the driver is advised accordingly.

  Beside the bookstore, still closed at this hour, cloaked by a veil of fine rain, waits a figure of indeterminate age and gender. Even as it nimbly hops into the ambulance and removes its hat to shake the rain from it, uncovering cropped hair and a slightly wrinkled face, it is still hard to tell whether this person is male or female, young or old.

  But the old man solves the riddle. Say hello to Gottlieb's expert, who today will help us interpret the shakes and howls in Jerusalem. Rochele? Roleleh? Is that the name? May I introduce my son and heir, Amotz.

  "I already met the heir of the heir," the small woman says, smiling as she removes her wet jacket to reveal a blue jumpsuit, "and I hoped he'd be here, too."

  "He is confined by the army for shirking his reserve duty."

  "That doesn't seem to fit him."

  "There are facts that don't fit reality," Ya'ari says, sighing.

  Marco and Pedro gaze appreciatively at the tiny expert. With her subtle mix of boyish body and mature face, despite her blond hair and blue eyes she could be taken for Filipino.

  "Moran told me that you listened together to the winds in Pinsker, and that you think the problem is not with our elevators, but entirely with flaws in the shaft."

  "I don't think," the expert explains patiently, "I'm certain. You have to put the building contractor on the roof of an elevator, give him a powerful searchlight, and take him straight up to his blunder so he can see it and take responsibility."

  "That's exactly what I suggested to Gottlieb," Ya'ari agrees, impressed by the woman's professional confidence. "I said we should light up the shaft. But our firm has no authority to touch the elevators, which are guaranteed by your company, and unfortunately your Gottlieb is stubbornly refusing to take any action, even to prove the responsibility lies elsewhere."

  "But of course," interrupts the expert vigorously. "What does he care? He's stingy over every turn of a screw that doesn't bring him any income. I've known him since childhood; he's sort of my stepfather."

  "Gottlieb is your stepfather?" The elder Ya'ari trembles with astonishment and futilely attempts to edge his wheelchair closer to her. The rain clatters on the roof of the ambulance; the small windows are steamed up.

  "You didn't know? He never gave a hint?"

  "Nothing."

  "It's just like him to conceal our family relationship. My father worked for him in the factory, and after he died, Gottlieb advised my mother to send me off to a kibbutz, to save money and also so he could get close to her. Whenever I came back on holiday, he would go into a funk and disappear from the house, to avoid any responsibilities. I was always abnormal in his opinion, for one thing because I remained short and skinny. At first he disapproved totally of my working in the regional auto repair shop. This didn't fit his view of women. He thought it was more appropriate for me to work in the kitchen or the kibbutz laundry. But when it turned out I had this talent for hearing technical flaws, and I proved it with elevators he was making, he got all excited and invited me to work for him. And yet to this day it's hard for him to admit openly that I'm also a member of the family. I think I frighten him a little."

  "Why?" Ya'ari inquires.

  "What do I know? I think he's a little scared of things that seem irrational to him, mystical stuff. To him it's as if I heard voices, and people like him are afraid that even if they can make good use of it, one day it'll come back to haunt them and they'll lose all their money."

  Old Ya'ari bursts out laughing and squeezes her hand with affection.

  "But really, how did you get to be such an expert? Moran was also impressed by you."

  "It may surprise you, but my hearing was discovered by way of music."

  "What kind of music, my dear?" asks the old man, apparently enchanted by this childlike woman.

  "Maybe you've heard of the musical celebrations at Kfar Blum, the chamber music festival that Israel Radio puts on every year at the kibbutz? Civilized people come there from all over the country to hear performances of classical music, hoping it will turn them into classy people. The kibbutz is responsible for all the administration, operations, and housing, and it's a good business. And there're a lot of jobs, too. Ticket-takers, ushers, staff to organize the rehearsal rooms, set up chairs and music stands, move pianos, see to the lighting. The public at the festival is invited to attend rehearsals, and those who know best say that this is the peak experience. There are even connoisseurs who don't go to any concerts at all, only to the rehearsals. After the army I began to work in the support staff, and I ended up at a lot of those rehearsals, where I would hear comments about tempo and tone color, the subtleties of vibrato and half-muted crescendi, and mischievous glissandi, and also how not to screech and play out of tune. And really, since Bach fugues and Mozart sonatas have been played for a few hundred years, can anything new be added to them in the social hall of Kfar Blum, except maybe some tiny nuance of interpretation? So I would sit there, fascinated, my ears wide open, and when they showed me how music is written, I discovered that I had not only good hearing but also perfect pitch, meaning that I can not only hear the intervals between notes but also identify every note by name, and even sing music from the page in the right register."

  "Perfect pitch without ever studying music?"

  "Yes, apparently I was born with it. And when I learned that I had hearing like this, I started to listen to sounds at the garage too, to put my sensitive ears to use finding the connection between grating noises and other weird sounds in trucks and tractors and malfunctions in their engines, and it turned out I could hear tiny noises, and if you took care of them in time, you could avoid a whole lot of trouble later. I mean, in this country, until something actually breaks down or falls apart, nobody pays attention or takes preventive measures. Even right now I can hear the automatic transmission in this ambulance scraping when it changes gears, and our driver, when we get to Jerusalem, ought to check the oil in the gearbox so we don't get stuck in the rain on the way back."

  4.

  DANIELA CANNOT REMEMBER the ages of the rock fragments that were laid out beside her dinner plate four days ago, on that unforgettable evening at the dig, but she did grasp the archaeologist's explanation of evolutionary "transmission" and believes that when the time comes she will be able to summarize it for Amotz. Her Ugandan visitor is the only member of the research team who holds a Ph.D., and from the archaeology department of the University of London, no less, and this strengthens his self-confidence and his independence, as he boldly invites himself into the chamber of a foreign lady to make a highly unusual request.

  "I am sorry for the disturbance and invasion of your privacy," apologizes the slender black man, as he seats himself on the stool at the foot of the bed, "but since we know that tomorrow you are returning to your country, and we are returning this evening to our excavations, we have decided to speak with you in private even before getting Jeremy's approval. It is very important to us that you will hear our request first, so you may consider it on your own, before consulting with your brother-in-law. You see that I am not speaking only for myself but also for my friends, who are happy for your sh
ort visit and your very generous interest. But first of all I wish to ask you, is there any chance that you will return to Tanzania or to Africa within the next year?"

  "Return to Africa in the next year?" She smiles. "I don't think so. More likely I will never come back. This is a private visit, sort of a visit of consolation for me and my brother-in-law, and it has fulfilled its purpose. I also don't think my husband will agree to another separation from me. We visited Tanzania together three years ago, when my sister was still alive, and together with her and her husband we went to the nature preserves. If Jeremy decides to stay with you, he will have to come to see us."

  Despite the archaeologist's appreciation of her presence now, Daniela senses that he is pleased that she has no intention of making another trip, as if his request were dependent upon her leaving here forever.

  "By the way, Jeremy also will not be able to stay with us a long time."

  "Why?" she inquires, a bit concerned.

  "Because the research team has a budget for only one more year, and after that we will return to our respective countries. But I believe Jeremy is already looking for another position."

  "Where?" she asks, scowling. "He'd be better off coming back to Israel."

  "But he doesn't think your country has a chance."

  "Nonsense ... don't listen to what he says."

  Dr. Kukiriza is surprised by the sudden storminess of the Israeli woman, which is followed by a long silence. Only slowly does he overcome his hesitancy, and in a gentle voice begins in a roundabout fashion to explain his request. He starts with the plight of the African scientist, who for all his personal boldness and independence is still officially dependent upon the evaluations of the white researcher who controls the official archival record and the state-of-the-art laboratories. There are members of the team who correspond by e-mail with scholars in America and Europe who study the great apes of Africa, and who report to their colleagues what we have discovered here and hope to find in the future, but even if these whites encourage Africans, they cannot confer final scientific verification on their work until they see and feel the actual evidence, and this verification is essential not only for our confidence and feelings of self-worth but also to increase our funding.

  "So why don't you send them what you found? It's so simple."

  "It could be simple," the Ugandan says, "but it is not. Because there is a strict ban upon removing what we find from the country without the permission of the government."

  "Why?"

  "Because these fossils are considered a national treasure."

  "Monkey bones?"

  "Of course, madam." His face darkens and his voice becomes tense. Even the bones of apes millions of years old are a national treasure of the first order, and when a great anthropological museum is built in Tanzania or a neighboring African country, it will include a place of honor for the findings of this research team. In Africa they do not have artistic masterpieces, nor historical memories of ancient battles and wars that changed the face of the earth, nor writers and thinkers whose works have become classics, and yet, humanity originated in Africa, so why should they not take pride in what they have given to the world? If humanity still matters.

  Now she feels embarrassed by what she said in haste and nods with enthusiasm.

  And he continues to explain that when findings are sent outside Africa, there is a need not only for special permission but also for insurance and guarantees that everything will be returned intact, and thus the cost of such a shipment is beyond their ability to pay, not to mention having to navigate the long and complex bureaucratic procedures. There is a concern that if bones like these begin to travel the world, scientists will not come to Africa from far and wide to inspect them closely. In Ethiopia recently, the signature of the president himself was required to ship the jawbone of a chimpanzee for examination in France.

  "It's that bad?"

  "It's that bad." He rises from the stool and begins to pace about the room, lost in thought, as the moment arrives to unveil his question.

  "Are you perhaps familiar with an institute in Israel called Abu Kabir?"

  "Abu Kabir?" She is surprised to hear the well-known name on the lips of the black man. "Of course ... it's our main pathology institute."

  "An Arab institute?"

  "Why, no," she corrects him, "this is an Israeli institute where all are equal, Jews and Arabs, and the Arab name is left over from some village that was maybe there once and destroyed in a war. But it's in Tel Aviv."

  The Ugandan closes his eyes for a moment.

  "Abu Kabir, meaning Father of the Great One: a beautiful, strong name for an institute of pathology."

  "A beautiful name?" She is taken aback. "For us it's a name that arouses great fear. This is where they identify the bodies of victims of terrorist attacks."

  "So it is also explained on the institute's Web site. But apparently because of the many victims you have, Abu Kabir has developed into a very advanced and sophisticated institute, which supports scientific research involving identification from the past as well."

  "That could be," Daniela says, crossing her arms and hugging her shoulders, "but I wouldn't dare go near there, not even to its Web site."

  "And we asked ourselves," says Dr. Kukiriza, ignoring her response, "if we might take advantage of your return tomorrow to send a few findings to Abu Kabir for analysis."

  "What findings?"

  "Bones. Three little bones that weigh next to nothing, no more than twelve centimeters in length."

  "And you want me to bring these to Abu Kabir to pose them a riddle: Who is the deceased?"

  "In our opinion, these are bones of our prehistoric ape, Australopithecus afarensis. You have already had the chance to feel them. They are clean and odorless. Dry bones, but not fragile ones, which will not take up much room in your suitcase. We have already been in e-mail contact with a researcher at Abu Kabir, Professor Perlman, and she has agreed to accept them for testing."

  And now that his wish has finally been expressed, he peers with fiery eyes and heightened expectation at Daniela, who remains uncomprehending.

  "But if, as you say, bones like these are national property, don't I need official approval to take them with me?"

  "Yes," the archaeologist admits candidly, "approval is necessary." But as he has just explained, the process is long and convoluted, and so they were hoping, he and his friends, to circumvent it by her good graces. For who will suspect a middle-aged lady, an ordinary tourist, of smuggling important bones? And who is looking for bones anyway, at the airport? And even if they are discovered, who can tell that they are millions of years old? And who will care? These are animal bones, not human. And even if we assume that someone, in Africa or Israel, insists on a clear answer as to why she has these dry bones, she can say that she innocently picked them up in the wild as a souvenir of Africa, and thought of using them as a paperweight on her desk.

  A smile lights up the woman's face. She already knows her answer, but deliberately withholds it.

  "We, of course, will ask for your brother-in-law's permission, but we first want to know if such a mission is possible from your standpoint."

  "Possible," she answers faintly, "if it is really important to you."

  "It is very important to us."

  "If so," and her voice grows stronger, "don't involve my brother-in-law. Why make him anxious?"

  5.

  THE STORM, WIND and rain preceded them on their mutual journey from the coast to the capital, and made worse the boisterous traffic of downtown Jerusalem. But an ambulance, even a private blue one, is entitled to use the fast lane reserved for buses and to park anywhere it pleases, including on the sidewalk across from the old Knesset building. The old man quickly plucks the hat from his head and removes the plastic poncho, and in his wrinkled black suit, enhanced by the red tie, he wheels himself straight to the stairs, and there surprises his escorts by asking to be allowed to get out of his chair and climb to the top
floor with the help of his cane alone.

  This is not the first time that Ya'ari's father has rejected his wheelchair. Daniela regularly encourages him to do it, even though this unsettles Ya'ari, since it's harder to steer a trembling old man supported only by a cane. This time the old man's decision is firm. He will not appear before his friend as an invalid. The shakes of the illness will in any case be mixed up with the tremors of his excitement, but the wheelchair shames his manhood. Even a mere technician would not dream of showing up in a wheelchair. It is precisely for this purpose that he has asked Francisco to bring along his two short and powerful friends, who now support him by his armpits and from the rear, so that he seems to be floating up the stairs, floor by floor, to the door he knows so well, which still displays the old plaque: DR. DEVORAH BENNETT—PSYCHOANALYST.

  Here, the father surprises his staff again, by insisting that they go back down to the next landing and wait invisibly in the stairwell, for he wants to make his entrance as a man leaning only on his cane. Amotz and Gottlieb's expert join the four Filipinos, and they all crowd into the landing half a story below, positioning themselves where the psychologist will not notice them. And the old man himself, bent over, leaning on his cane, slightly loosens his necktie and rings the doorbell three times—their signal, arranged in years past, that he is not a patient. And the door is opened by the lady of the house, who in his honor has put on a woolen dress and let down her hair, and although she looks shrunken and wrinkled in the morning light, her step is light and her voice lively.

  "Here's the boy," she exclaims, "but where's the wheelchair that came between us? Are you still ashamed of it?"

  The old man is shocked into silence.

  "What's the matter, my dear?" she says, squeezing his shoulder. "I'm the same young woman you left years ago. No need to be alarmed. And you have such a nice cane."

  The old man succumbs to his twofold trembling, and the cane slips from his hand. So as not to collapse on the doorstep, he pitches himself forward and clings for dear life to the fragile old woman, who struggles to keep her balance under the unexpected load, and begins weeping on her shoulder.