A. Yehoshua - Friendly Fire - A Duet

The young North African woman, by turns hot and shivering from the parasite in her blood, is also happy to see the passenger wedged alongside her, and from under the blanket that swaddles her she extends a friendly, fevered hand. Ahalan wa-sahalan, madame, she whispers to the Israeli, it is good that you, too, are with me.

The Land Rover turns south, where the dirt road is so smooth that the murmur of the tires envelops Daniela in drowsiness despite the early morning hour. Since this isn't the right moment to be interviewing the malarial paleontologist about her profession and role in the research program and expecting answers a layman might understand, the healthy passenger prefers to join the sick one in closing her eyes and basking in the pleasant warmth of the sun that keeps them company.

The ride is short, less than an hour, and when the car arrives at its destination, Daniela has the feeling that although the guilty mosquito is no longer alive, the parasite of indolence has nonetheless sneaked into her blood and jumbled her senses. When her brother-in-law opens the rear door, lifts the young Arab woman in his arms, lays her carefully on a stretcher and covers her, and he and an orderly carry her into the building, the Israeli is overtaken by a strange desire that the same be done with her; since there is no one around who can guess what she wants, she stays frozen in place and waits for the helping hand of the driver.

The sanatorium, too, was once a colonial farm, and on the outside its main building is the base camp's twin, but the interior is very different. Here they are not greeted by a huge kitchen with sinks and stoves but rather by a small lobby, with a reception desk of black wood that looks as if it once served as the cocktail bar. Armchairs of black leather sit in a semicircle with their backs to the counter, facing a large window with a view to a horizon so distant that even in the strong noon sunlight it takes on a gray penumbra.

The elevator that never found a home at the headquarters of the scientific team works nicely here, with an ancient and agreeable rumble. When its grille opens, an affable-looking Indian doctor steps out to welcome the malaria patient, who has not come here to die, heaven forbid, but only to get stronger. While the doctor introduces himself to Zohara, Yirmiyahu brings to his sister-in-law's attention the fact that the senior personnel here are not Africans, but Indians who have crossed the ocean. Europeans, especially elderly middle-class Englishmen, have great faith in the ability of Indians to provide superior care, physical and spiritual, to those who wish to be braced and pampered as they prepare for death.

Through the big window a small swimming pool may be seen, and several wild animals stroll about, maintained on the premises so that their beauty and serenity will offer comfort to the patients' souls as their bodies slowly expire. And while a room is made ready for the malaria patient, she is fed clear chicken broth, routinely kept on a burner that sits among the bottles of whiskey and gin.

The Sudanese quietly speaks in Arabic with the sick woman, whose chills have been eased by the hot soup. And Yirmiyahu, settled deeply into a leather armchair, continues to lecture his sister-in-law about the uniqueness of this institution even as she imagines some sleep-inducing parasite wide awake in her own blood.

Although the building appears modest and does not have a great many rooms, it can't be called a clinic, or a simple pension either. It is a sanatorium, a treatment home, giving medical care to both body and mind. And just as the reputations of convalescent facilities in the rest of the world are measured by the beauty of their settings — snowy mountaintops, hidden lakes — here, too, nature is extraordinary, both for its primal quality and for the wild creatures who move through it without fear of human beings.

But the real test of such institutions is the nature and level of the services they offer to the patients who come and remain of their own free will. Make no mistake: this place, despite its modesty and isolation, acquits itself most honorably when it comes to efficiency and the range of services it offers; it also stands out for its low cost. For who comes here? In general, lonely old people, not affluent, who can no longer rely on the endurance of their relatives and friends. Widowers and widows whose children have grown distant, or elderly couples who never had children at all, or had them and lost them in tragic circumstances. People who are drawn to this place are most often those who spent their lives serving others. Here, they can get at a reasonable price reciprocal service to their heart's content: a young man or woman who will sit at their bedside all night long and hold their hand to ward off nightmares; not just someone to tidy up their room but also someone to sing and dance for them on request, or even an old grandmother who will sit in a corner and knit them a scarf, and a black baby crawling at her feet.

At first glance the place will seem quiet to her, Yirmi continues, or even a bit desolate, yet this, too, is one of its virtues. All in all, this is a cloistered place. But half a kilometer away is a small village filled with men and women, teenagers and children, who may be brought in for any task, so that a guest who is able and ready to submit his body and maybe his soul to the ministrations of others may enjoy services that in the past were enjoyed only by noblemen and princes. And precisely because these are servants who for the most part do not understand the guest's language, there is a limit to the intimacy. Yes, for a very modest fee, acceptable in the region, there are people here willing to provide service that would make the care Amotz's father receives from his Filipinos look meager and boring; the villagers are most eager to cater to the whims of the whites, even to be summoned in the middle of the night. It is almost, if you will, a reversion to slavery, but out of free choice.

"And this is acceptable to you?"

"What's wrong with it, if it satisfies both sides?"

She regards the big man in the faded leather chair with hostility.

"And it satisfies you too?"

"It's a possibility. After the excavation team completes its project, maybe it'll be worth my while to come here for treatment… but only on the condition that they upgrade my painkillers."

An Indian chambermaid comes to take the patient up to her room, but the latter is reluctant to go and asks that Sijjin Kuang accompany her. The two Israelis stand up, and the administrator promises Zohara that in ten days they will come back to get her.

"And you, madame?" The Arab woman turns to the Israeli visitor, "You will still be here when I get well?"

"No," says Daniela, "by then I won't be in Africa; my vacation from school ends in two days. And perhaps my students don't miss me so much, but I hope that my husband and children and grandchildren want me back."

"Then come again to Africa, madame," whispers the young woman.

EVEN FROM A distance Neta can see Nadi's triumphant expression as he sails over people's heads, and she cries out, "Abba, Abba, I'm here, too," and gets out of the car, and weaves her way, lithe and nimble, among the grills and coolers. Moran hugs and kisses her lovingly, and since she also claims a place on her father's shoulders, and her brother is unwilling to cede his perch, the confined soldier piles her on too and walks to the car, his father following. Watch it, you'll throw out your back, Ya'ari warns.

Efrat sits in the car talking on her cell phone, not budging even when Moran sets the children down and opens the door. Who are you talking to now? My sister, she answers impatiently, without looking at him. It has to be now? he asks angrily. Yes, now. You haven't talked to her enough? He's livid. But she doesn't respond and turns her back on him. And then he grabs the phone from her hand and says, enough, don't go too far.