Friendly Fire (48 page)

Ya'ari trains his light between the separation bars, at the counterweight pinning the leg, and sees the outline of the body and the red woolen scarf. The quiet sobbing of the woman mingled with the lamentation of the wind rattles him. What do you feel, Rachel? Tell me. He tries to get her to answer, but she only keeps murmuring,
Abba'leh, Abba'leh.

Finally the outer door on the thirteenth floor is opened, and Nimer, who arrived by the stairs, out of breath, decides first thing to get the lawyer out of there. With a monkeylike agility that belies his age, he lowers himself over the elevator track, orders the attorney to grab hold of his hand, and with one strong pull drags him up the side of the shaft and hauls him onto the floor of the building. Gottlieb told me to get you out too, he says to Ya'ari. No, says
Ya'ari adamantly, I'm not moving from here until we rescue her. I'm part of this.

Gottlieb, meanwhile, has reactivated the big central elevator and loaded into it the technician's toolbox, and is now sailing upward on its roof like the helmsman of a great ship, coming to a halt near the twelfth floor at a spot allowing access to the trapped woman.

Only now, in the reassuring presence of her stepfather and employer, does she end her cries of pain to respond to his questions.

"What happened, Rolaleh?" he says, attempting a joke, "you decided to take a nighttime stroll on the walls of the shaft?"

"I fell, Gottlieb, and my leg got caught."

"This is what happens, Rachel, when you take the Ya'ari family's winds too seriously."

"My leg hurts, really badly."

"We'll free it up right away and get you out of here; just don't move."

"I'm afraid my leg is gone."

"Gone where, by itself?" he continues in the same jocular tone. "It's not going anywhere without you. And you can rest easy, because I took out not one but two insurance policies on you, and any minute Nimer will get into the big elevator to take off a side panel and free up your foot. Don't worry, you'll still be able to dance at the wedding."

"Whose wedding, Gottlieb, what are you talking about?"

"Yours, of course."

"There won't be any wedding."

"Yes, there will, and even I'll dance."

"So you are suddenly a dancer?"

"Only at your wedding."

Nimer in the meantime has walked down two flights of stairs, opened the door of the cab and slid into the big elevator with Gottlieb waiting on the roof. Acting on instructions shouted by his employer, he swiftly opens up the side to get to the trapped expert. From above, lit by the beam of Ya'ari's flashlight, the technician
emerging from the elevator looks like a prehistoric man at the entrance to his cave, as he signals to Ya'ari to inch his elevator up a bit to free the counterweight, then pulls in the delicate creature still wrapped in her red wool scarf. And the manufacturer brings the elevator down safely.

In the lobby, anxious and agitated, wait not only the engineer of the construction company and the lawyer and the head of the residents' committee and the night watchman but also a few curious tenants, who woke from the noise and came to witness the excitement. The expert, her foot bleeding, is laid down on a blanket provided by the guard. Ya'ari has meanwhile come down in the left-hand elevator and returned it to automatic control, and within minutes three of the four elevators are again functioning, and the groaning of the winds returns in full force.

Since Gottlieb has no faith in the efficiency of public rescue services, he declines to call an ambulance, and carries the childlike figure of the wounded woman in his arms to his big car, to drive her to a nearby emergency room.

"Just don't tell me I'm to blame for her fall," the lawyer says defensively to Ya'ari.

"You're not to blame for her fall," Ya'ari answers with disdain, "but you are to blame for not believing what was shown to you."

"So what happens now?" Kidron asks Ya'ari, his face pale.

"What happens is what I told you. The design and manufacture are in order, but the construction company is at fault, so now you can finally leave me alone."

A
FEW SECONDS
after being snatched from her sleep, Daniela realizes that she is hearing the actual voices of two Africans, a boy and a woman, who have entered the adjoining room. She is wearing her brassiere and blouse; she remembers putting them on again
moments after her brother-in-law fled the room in panic. Only the windbreaker still lies on the floor, and she shakes it out and wraps it around her before cautiously opening the door between the two rooms. An African boy is lying on the treatment table, and an older woman stands by his side, apparently his mother.

She smiles her silent thanks at the pair for waking her up. Now she can slip back into her room, so that Sijjin Kuang can wake her there.

But when she leaves the infirmary into bright morning light and steps onto the wet glistening grass, she sees from a distance the stately figure of the Sudanese, who is coming to rouse her after not finding her in her room.

"They are waiting for you there," Daniela says, red-faced, to the nurse, who is too discreet to interrogate her as to how and why she spent the night at the infirmary, and simply reminds her that they are short of time.

With a pang of conscience she enters the kitchen. Morning activity is at full tilt, and all signs of the festive meal have been removed. Yirmi is sitting in his shabby khaki suit at one of the small tables, bargaining in sign language with a tall Masai warrior in a red robe who has brought him a sheep and a lamb. He waves warmly at his sister-in-law. You have to hurry, Daniela, he calls to her, the rain last night damaged the dirt road.

She quickly climbs the stairs to the room she left the night before, and viewing the disorderly sheets she gets the feeling that some stranger was in the room and even in her bed, but she has no time now for fantasies and delusions. She must depart properly from a room that was after all quite adequate, return it in good order to its regular occupant. After washing her face and closing her suitcase, she folds the bedding, taking care to do so meticulously. Then she scrubs the sink and toilet, so as not to leave any unpleasantness behind. For a moment she considers getting someone to carry her bag down, but knows she is capable of wheeling it down the stairs herself.

You are late, Yirmi tells her as he rushes her as though she were a schoolgirl. In his look, in the tone of his voice, there are no signs that he is troubled or bears her any grudge. Instead, there's a new friendliness, mixed with compassion for the visitor who is returning to a dangerous place. She is surprised to discover that the hurried pace he firmly imposes on her leaves her no time to eat breakfast calmly in her usual spot nor even to say a proper goodbye to the old African groundskeeper. Yirmiyahu has prepared for her trip—just as on the night she arrived—a bag of sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. This is for you, he says, handing them over with a smile, just don't be late, and don't get lost on the way back. I promised Amotz I'd get you home on time. And he carries her small suitcase to the Land Rover.

Sijjin Kuang is already seated at the wheel, and in the seat beside her is the African boy from the infirmary, who needs the space for his bandaged leg. Yirmi sets the suitcase in the backseat and gestures for her to sit where she has been accustomed. For a moment she feels insulted by the speed at which she is being dispatched and by the backseat allotted her.

But all of a sudden her brother-in-law hugs her tight. All things considered, thank you for the visit. You didn't only torment me, you also made me happy. And if I at least convinced you that you two don't have to worry about me, then your visit accomplished something positive.

"Not to worry?" she whispers with disappointment.

"No," he says firmly, "worry about each other in Israel, which is a natural place for perpetual worry. And if you are nonetheless seized by worry for me, too, then send Amotz over; for him, I won't have to prepare any speeches, because you'll have told him everything. Only he should come without newspapers or candles, and we'll tour the area."

And he strokes her head gently and helps her get into the vehicle.

In a quick clean break the Sudanese driver exits the farm, and since the African boy has taken from Daniela the seat to which her age entitles her, she finds herself yet again the companion of boxes. But her frustration over the backseat is not just technical. The Israeli visitor had planned to talk to Sijjin Kuang on their last ride together, to discuss the future of the Israeli administrator, whom three days ago she had called, in a blunt and startling fashion, spoiled.

But how to talk from the backseat amid deafening engine noise? In the end, she must sit and watch the back of an African boy who has an infection spreading under his bandages. With any luck, a clinic will be found that can save his leg.

The road winds about the forest that the two women rode through on the first night. Then the trees looked dark and bristly, but by day, washed by the rain, they are endearingly green and peaceful, and she is gripped with sadness over her silent ride and missed opportunity. She reaches for the driver's thin shoulder, leaning forward: please, may we stop here for a minute?

Sijjin Kuang agrees reluctantly and stops near a barren patch in the forest and shuts off the engine, so that Daniela can get out and stretch after her unsettled night. The boy is also pleased, and he hops on his good leg between the trees and cuts himself a branch with a knife. Only Sijjin Kuang stays by the car. She lifts the hood and checks the oil, then adds a little water to the radiator. Suddenly Daniela is flooded with admiration for the serious young black woman, and she returns to the car and says straight out, Sijjin Kuang, I had a dream about you.

The Sudanese nurse looks frightened. Perhaps according to her faith, a white person's dream about a black person has some evil power? But Daniela is quick to calm her. It was a good dream; I saw you with us in Jerusalem, seeking love and finding it.

Sijjin Kuang is shocked. She shuts the hood of the car with a loud clang and wipes her hands with a towel, and with a wise smile
she asks the dreaming woman, "You are sending me all the way to Jerusalem to find love?"

"If it is love," Daniela answers softly, "then why not?"

"And Jeremy, your brother-in-law—have you convinced him to return to Jerusalem?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"That it is good for him to stay here."

The African boy hops back to the car with the big branch in his hand. But Sijjin Kuang doesn't let him bring it into the car, and reluctantly he throws it away.

S
INCE THE TECHNICIAN
was so skillful in the rescue operation, Ya'ari stays with him until he finishes reattaching the opened side of the big elevator. But putting things together is harder than taking things apart, and Gottlieb's absence slows the process down. Ya'ari himself is not familiar with the fine details of the elevator that his firm designed and cannot offer advice. The night watchman is not much of a conversationalist. So little remains for Ya'ari to do but doze in Gottlieb's armchair near the watchman's table, exuding silent solidarity with the middle-aged technician.

The first rays of dawn, which illuminate the oversize glass doors of the tower's lobby, also open the eyes of Ya'ari, who sees the technician replacing the last of the tools in his box and locking it. The elevator designer rises heavily from his chair to return the cab to group control, but the worker has beaten him to it. And the elevator lifts off at once to the early-rising tenant on the thirtieth floor. Come, Rafi, Ya'ari says with affection, I'll take you home. No need, the man says. I'll wait for the first bus. But Ya'ari insists and drives him along the seacoast to a neighborhood in the south of the city, a place where people get up early, not far from Abu Kabir. The technician, silent all the way there, invites Ya'ari as a gesture of
gratitude to come up to his apartment for a morning cup of coffee, and Ya'ari, who can't decide whether to go home to make up for lost sleep or go on to the office, accepts, in part to examine the worker's apartment and decide whether there was anything to that word
hybrid,
or if it was said only in jest.

The clean two-room flat is furnished in good taste. In the front room are shelves with books, mainly in Russian. There is nothing Middle Eastern about the upholstery of the sofa or the art reproductions hanging on the wall. But the coffee prepared by the host is clearly Arab in aroma and taste. A young pregnant woman, who has woken up in the other room and now brings soft ring-shaped rolls to go with the coffee made by her mate, contributes no further clue.

Ya'ari questions the man about Gottlieb's qualities as an employer, and to his surprise finds that the technician appreciates him. Admittedly the wages he pays are mediocre compared with salaries paid by others, but because he is always present on the factory floor and circulates among the workers, he adds drama and tension to the work, and so the time passes more quickly.

"So what is your name, really," Ya'ari wants to know before leaving, "Nimer or Rafi?"

The technician grins. "That depends on who is asking."

"When I asked you, you said Rafi, so what does that say about me?"

"True," the man admits, "I said Rafi, but now that we've worked together all night, Nimer is okay too."

His cell phone rings: the voice of Moran, who was let go half an hour ago and is on his way back to Tel Aviv. His first question: is his mother back yet? Not until the evening, his father answers matter-of-factly, but after you change clothes and kiss your wife and children, please go to the office and take the reins. I'm going home to sleep, and you've done enough loafing. And he summarizes for his son the events of the Night of the Winds.

When he gets to his home in the suburbs, his eyes barely open enough to see the tree in the front yard, the cell phone rings again, this time Francisco, reporting that his father is running a fever.

"How high?"

"Thirty-eight point five."