A. Yehoshua - Friendly Fire - A Duet

She counts the pages remaining. Only twenty-five. Then she skims through them to check the amount of dialogue and the length of the paragraphs. Finally she starts to read, first returning to the last two pages of the previous chapter to reconstruct the context. There is a new tension in the voice of the author, who writes in the first person and identifies completely with the heroine. But it's still hard to decipher the nature of this tension. In any event, the irony and cynicism are muted, and gone are the tiresome descriptions of the landscape, which in previous chapters seemed to have been written more out of literary duty than to serve a narrative or psychological purpose. Apparently something grave is about to happen. Perhaps the author is planning the heroine's suicide. And in fact, why not? A vacuous and clueless young woman might just try to kill herself. Some sort of pain is suddenly apparent between the lines, particularly in places where the text seems most minimalist and unclear. The pages go quickly, and then, for no reason, slow down. For a moment she flips back to the beginning of the book, recalling that there was some hint there that might explain what would happen in the final pages. She feels that the young and pretentious author is gearing up for an absurd twist that readers of her own age and spiritual temperament will happily accept, but not a serious reader like Daniela, who is already rebelling against it. Nevertheless she takes a sip of the cold coffee, and as if hypnotized continues to turn the pages. She is helpless, caught in the novel's spidery web until she reads the last lines, which are blurred by a flood of tears she did not at all expect.

She closes the book and slides it into the outer pocket of her suitcase. After all the effort and the emotion she feels hungry. The length of the flight's delay holds steady on the digital display. The cafeteria becomes even more crowded, and there is no hope that the waiter rushing between tables will notice her now that she has paid him. She remembers that the candy kiosk is not far away, but she has no desire for sweets. On the contrary, they'll just make her feel sick. She remembers the sandwiches prepared by her brother-in-law, who forced her out of concerns real or imagined to miss breakfast. She returned the thermos to Sijjin Kuang but packed the food in her suitcase, and she now takes out a meat sandwich and bites into it, glancing around her.

One of the young yeshiva students has sat down at a nearby table, laid out a cloth napkin, and placed upon it a bottle of mineral water, and now he too takes a bite of a homemade sandwich. He notices her picnic and smiles, as if they have a shared family secret that will permit him soon to approach her. He chews with great deliberation. If he were aware of the animal provenance of the flesh she is consuming, he might not spring from his seat toward her beckoning finger.

The young man is not Israeli but American, and his halting Hebrew is heavily accented. She speaks to him firmly, in the tone that an impatient teacher takes with a student of whom she expects little.

"Do you by chance have a Bible with you?"

"A Bible?" he is shocked. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" she says, laughing. "If you have a Bible in your bag, I'd like to look up something quickly and then give it right back to you."

"A whole Bible?"

"Yes, but in Hebrew."

"The whole Bible I don't have. But maybe you want to see Psalms? I have Psalms."

"Not Tehillim, " she says, imitating his pronunciation. "A complete Bible."

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"It doesn't matter. Do you have one or not?"

"I don't have a complete Bible," he admits in defeat.

"If you don't, well, it's no tragedy."

"But I can give you a prayer book, which has many chapters from the Bible in it."

"No prayer book or chapters," she answers impatiently, because she realizes that she will not easily get rid of the young man whose thin, soulful face is adorned with the first signs of blond beard, and who intends ardently to pursue the religious obligation he has happened to incur in an airport on an African afternoon.

"Okay," he says, after considering a moment. "Wait for me a minute and I'll find you a complete Bible. There's time before the flight to Tel Aviv."

He quickly disappears into the big crowd, perhaps to seek the help of his friend, and about ten minutes later returns and presents her with a big new Bible, apparently purchased just for her — a dual-language Bible, Hebrew and English.

The English version is not the King James, but the Hebrew is the same antique Hebrew she has been looking for. She remembered it as Jeremiah Chapter 42, but she finds what she wanted in Chapter 44. And she reads it silently, her insides ringing, as the American yeshiva boy, his face translucent with piety, stands beside her, fascinated and nervous.

Therefore thus saith the Lord of Hosts, the God of Israel: Behold, I will set My face against you for evil, even to cut off all of Judah. And I will take the remnant of Judah, that have turned their faces to go into the land of Egypt to sojourn there, and they shall all be consumed, in the land of Egypt shall they fall. They shall fall by the sword, and shall be consumed by famine, they shall die, from the smallest even unto the greatest, by the sword and by famine, and they shall be an execration, and a desolation, and a curse, and a mockery. For I will punish them that dwell in the land of Egypt, as I have punished Jerusalem: by the sword, by famine, and by pestilence. And of the remnant of Judah that have come into the land of Egypt to sojourn there, none shall escape or remain to return to the land of Judah, to which they have a desire to return, and dwell there. For none shall return, except a few survivors.

Then all the men who knew that their wives made offerings unto other gods, and all the women who were present, a great assembly, and all the people who dwelt in the land of Egypt, in Pathros, answered Jeremiah, saying: As for the word that thou hast spoken unto us in the name of the Lord, we will not listen to thee. But we will certainly perform every word that is gone forth out of our mouth, to make offerings unto the Queen of Heaven, and to pour out drink-offerings unto her, as we have done, we and our fathers, our kings and our officials, in the cities of Judah, and in the streets of Jerusalem. For then had we plenty of bread, and were well, and suffered no misfortune. But ever since we stopped making offerings unto the Queen of Heaven and pouring out drink-offerings unto her, we have lacked all things, and have been consumed by the sword and by famine.

AMOTZ ALREADY SEES his wife from afar, but Daniela can't yet spot him among the crush of welcomers. Out of habit she heads toward the right-hand exit at that slow, even pace he likes, pulling her little wheeled suitcase behind her. He backs away and circumnavigates the crowd, and for some reason there is a new heaviness in his step. So rare is it for her to be the one away and he the one left behind, that he has an urge to delay their reunion, perhaps so she'll sense that he's not always on call when she wants him.

Surprisingly, she, too, does not stop to wait for him, but keeps walking, apparently absentmindedly, and when he intercepts her from behind, as Moran did to him at the army base, his experienced hands, gripping her hips, can sense the sadness and exhaustion of both her body and her mind. And so, as he brings her head close to him, his lips brush not her mouth but her forehead, just the way she kissed him at the moment of parting, seven days ago.

"Done?" he half asks, half declares.

"Done," she confirms, and her eyes, which gleam at the sight of him, are already surprised. "What's this? In my honor you didn't shave today?"