A. Yehoshua - Friendly Fire - A Duet

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.

SINCE 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."

"Maybe take it again?"

"I already took it twice, it was exactly the same."

"Okay, I'm on my way."

"Should I telephone Doctor Zaslanski?"

"Have pity on him and wait a little while. The poor man is eighty years old, so let him sleep."

According to Ya'ari's instructions, any rise in his father's temperature up to thirty-eight degrees Celsius the Filipinos are to attend to themselves; if it's more than that, they should call in Ya'ari and the old man's personal physician, his childhood friend Doctor Zaslanski.

Ya'ari washes his hands and looks longingly at the bed he abandoned in the middle of the night. He feels a truly strong desire to curl up in the white down quilt.