A. Yehoshua - Friendly Fire - A Duet

"What? You are also a pagan?" Daniela blurts; her impertinence surprises her as much as anyone.

"I wish I could be," says the young black man, sighing. "It is too late for me. I was born a Muslim, and for me to return to paganism, the rules of the bank would also have to be changed."

And he bows slightly to her and goes to invite the dozing African into his office.

"Do you have more errands?" she asks her brother-in-law impatiently, "or can you show me now where it all began?"

"I do have a few more," he says calmly, "but they're all in the right direction."

YA'ARI DOES NOT require words of love and affection from his wife. It's enough that he has clearly heard her sane voice and his brother-in-law's jesting one. Her last-minute interest in the outcome of the Pinsker Tower controversy also warmed his heart. It's hardly a sign of absentmindedness that from so far away she remembers what troubles him in his daily work. True, she has always known how to surprise him with her unexpected interest in some office problem he happened to mention offhandedly. And because technical matters themselves are foreign to her and beyond her ken, she has made it her business to uncover the hidden sensitivities of employees and clients in order to support her husband in his deliberations and even give him a little advice. When he told her rather flippantly about the complaints regarding the building on Pinsker Street, for some reason she was intrigued and wanted to hear for herself the howling of the winds that had crept into the elevators her husband designed. But so far her free time had never coincided with a typical windstorm.

He returns to his office. The meeting has continued without him, but it has deteriorated from the technical problems of adding a fifth elevator to an argument about how much the redesign would cost. The chief engineer has just named a substantial figure, and the younger ones all object: until we figure out exactly how to squeeze it in, it's impossible to set a price. But the chief engineer is speaking from financial, not technical, experience. If you don't give a government ministry a big number up front and lock it down with their budget department, at the end of the job instead of a check they'll present you with a book of the prime minister's speeches, autographed with a warm personal message.

Ya'ari interrupts them with a geographical question:

"The African continent is west of Israel, or east?"

"The African continent? What does that mean? West, in general."

Ya'ari laughs. "What does 'in general' mean?"

Now the engineers sense that the boss wants to trip them up with a trick question, so they concentrate and try to imagine a map of the world.

"Both east and west," says one young man finally. "It's a big enough continent for both directions."

Ya'ari explains how his brief absence involved Israel lagging behind his wife in Africa. He chuckles as he admits, to the amazement of his engineers, that despite the distance he was sure that they were at the same longitude, but apparently not. Then he quickly returns the conversation to technical matters, but is careful not to drop any hints about the nighttime sketch folded in his pocket.

At noon he invites his secretary to have lunch with him to clear up a few things forgotten yesterday. The clear skies and calm air enable the waiter to ask an unseasonable question: Inside or out? Outside, decides Ya'ari, that's a fine idea. Although the secretary feels chilly and would have preferred the warmth inside, she cannot refuse the challenge of the open air, for in winter a sunny day has added value. But she has to leave on her jacket with the fake fur collar, making it hard for her to maneuver between her fork and the pen she uses to write down his instructions.

The weather is getting warmer, and with the calming of the winds his cell phone relaxes, too. The bereaved tenant in the tower is silent, the old woman in Jerusalem has fallen silent, and Gottlieb has also broken off contact. Ya'ari returns to work, looks affectionately at his employees, their faces glowing with digitized wisdom, and enters his office and opens the window. Around the beloved tree are scattered branches and twigs torn off by the recent storms, but this natural pruning has not detracted from its charm. Soon enough, the unknown vine that has colonized it will produce its spectacular red blossoms.

Can it be that Daniela is right? Did Moran actually fear his reserve duty, was his dismissive attitude meant to mask his fears? Ya'ari has never seen any sign of cowardice in his son. Moran, like his cousin Eyal, served in a combat unit, and even took on an extra year as an officer. Yet Daniela often reads their children's minds better than he does. But still, fear? Now? With the territories at the moment on a low flame? Can't a father with two children, whose family has already paid its debt to the homeland, ask for a little consideration?

He phones Efrat's cell, and to his utter astonishment it is picked up at once, but the voice is his granddaughter's.

"Neta, darling, where are you? Not at school?"

"Today's a holiday, Grandpa. Nadi also has off today."

"So where are you two now?"

"Home."

"Home? Great. That's the best place. You're playing?"

"No. On TV right now there's a show for kids."

"TV? What would you do without TV?"

"Nothing."

"Sweetie, give me Imma."

"Imma went out."

"Went out without her phone? How can that be?"

"It can be because she forgot it."

"And who's with you? Grandma?"

"No. A girl is looking after us."

"A girl? Whose girl? Which girl?"

"A girl."

"Who is this girl? What's her name?"

"She didn't say."

"Neta, sweetheart, give me this girl."

"But she's watching TV now."

"That doesn't matter. Tell her your grandpa wants to tell her something important."

The receiver is handed to the girl amid the shouting of children on television.

"Who are you, young lady?"

Her name is Michal, babysitter of the moment, all of ten years old, who lives in the next building.

"And what's going on there, Michal?"

"Nothing."

Ya'ari is furious at his daughter-in-law—

IN DAR ES SALAAM the rain is soft and languid, and upon leaving the bank Yirmiyahu buys his sister-in-law an umbrella and hires a barefoot porter with a large straw basket belted to his back to carry their purchases through the market.

"It's really so important to you to see this place?" he asks again. "It's just a place in the market, next to some stall. There's nothing special about it."

But the guest is determined to stand on the very spot where death began to grip her sister. For this is also why she made the long trip from Israel.

He holds her arm and guides her carefully between the puddles as he leads her to a tool shed, where after checking a list he loads the porter's basket with small spades, soil strainers, batteries of various sizes, flashlights, and kerosene lamps. He tops off his order with some steel knives, which are also stashed in the basket. Then they walk among fruit and vegetable stalls until they reach the meat and fish market. There, in a small square where a net, torn in places, is spread out, two Indians wait for the white administrator, who pays them for last month's shipment of fish and hands them a new order.

"On that morning, did she take her walk on the beach?"

Yirmiyahu shrugs. "Who knows? I hope so with all my heart, because she so much loved her walks on the beach, and from the time you walked there together it was also bound up with a shared memory. There were days after you returned to Israel that she didn't feel like walking there alone."

"Because I wasn't here?" Daniela's voice quavers, and this knowledge of her sister's sorrow finally awakens her own.