"All right, I'll find someone to meet her in the parking lot."
"Better if you go yourself…"
"Can't do it. My father's Filipinos are waiting for me with the Hanukkah candles."
"What's going on with your old man?"
"Stable."
"Give him my regards. You know how much I respected and loved him."
"So keep on respecting and loving him, because he's alive and well."
"Obviously, no question… but still, my dear Ya'ari, on your way, hop over to the winds, and we'll be done with this whole affair."
"No. My workday is over. I got up at three in the morning to take my wife to the airport."
"Where she'd go off to in the middle of winter?"
"To Africa."
"An organized tour?"
"No, she went alone."
"To Africa? By herself? You never told me you had such an adventurous wife."
Ya'ari would like to explain to the elevator manufacturer that his wife would not be there alone. But he holds off. Adventurous? So be it. This lends his wife an aura she never aspired to, and that suddenly appeals to him.
THIS TIME SHE leans her head against the window, as if it were a spouse's shoulder, and keenly watches the moving world below. The aircraft is a propeller plane, new, not large, that cruises with a steady and pleasant hum through the clear evening sky at low altitude, so that she can see not only the bend of a river and the contour of a small lake but also the lights of houses, and here and there even a campfire. Her pride over not missing the flight has made her uncharacteristically alert and aware. She takes out her passport, checks the accompanying travel documents, and then turns its pages, one after the next, as if it were a small prayer book.
In the adjoining seat is an elderly Englishman, blue-skinned, white-haired and heavyset, already accepting from the stewardess his third glass of Scotch. But he doesn't worry Daniela. The flight will not be long, and the man seems solid and essentially sober, and appears to be looking at her with secret appreciation. Yes, despite her age, she is well aware that she has not lost her feminine charm. If she were to turn to the British gentleman with specific questions in her excellent English, encouraging him to talk about himself, he might well fall in love with her by the time they landed. But instead she turns toward the window, because the expanse of Africa, lighted by the moon, is what now engages her.
THE WIND IS back, says Ya'ari, detaching his son from the computer. Gottlieb is sending his acoustic technician to the Pinsker Tower to figure out the source of the winds and to free us — and mainly him — from responsibility to the tenants. But he insists on one of us joining her and hearing her explanations. I'm in no mood for any more wind, and I'm rushing to light candles with Grandpa, so do me a favor, habibi, go meet her in the parking garage, and we'll put an end to the complaints. It's unacceptable that individual tenants are pestering me on my cell phone.
In the ample living room of his childhood home, positioned in front of the Channel One news, his father sits trembling in a wheelchair; by his side is six-year-old Hilario, the Filipinos' son, whose Hebrew is fluent and accent-free. Hilario has his own little hanukkiah, the eight-branched holiday menorah, made of yellow clay and set with three candles of different colors, which await Ya'ari's arrival along with the three candles in the big, old menorah.
When his father's illness worsened, Daniela insisted that they bring in not one Filipino caretaker but two, a married couple who would add to caregiving the stable and secure embrace of a small family. It's a big house, she said, there's room for everyone, and for a little extra money we'll buy peace of mind for all of us.
Is the house actually big? Ya'ari has been asking himself lately, when he comes to visit his father and sees how the living area has shrunk, what with the stroller and playpen, the bassinet in the kitchen, and the rack for drying laundry. The couple, Francisco and Kinzie, who themselves look like teenagers, a few months ago became the parents of a daughter, who requires her own substantial space, and then there's little Hilario, born in Southeast Asia, who occupies Ya'ari's childhood room and who, having graduated from the local kindergarten that Ya'ari himself attended as a boy, is a pupil in the first grade, devoted and studious. He sits now at the ready beside the trembling grandfather, an unlit candle in his hand and a kippa on his head, waiting for Ya'ari to give him permission to recite the blessings and light the menorah.
"Don't overdo it…" says Ya'ari, reaching to remove the skullcap from the little Filipino's head.
But Ya'ari's father stops him, what do you care? He's not hurting anybody with his kippa. He has a new teacher now, who came over from a religious school, and she gives the kids a little religion, more than the zero you got.
Ya'ari has already grown accustomed to his father knowing every detail of Hilario's life, more than he ever knew about Ya'ari or his brother when they were children. And no wonder: his father's English is minimal, so he speaks with his two caregivers through their firstborn son and along the way learns about the world of his young translator.
"Fine," sighs Ya'ari in English. "I'm exhausted, so first of all let's finish with the candles."
The old man motions to Francisco to turn off the lights so the flickering flames will delight the boy. And then Hilario lights the shammash, the candle in his hand that lends its fire to all the others, and in a whisper, but without a single mistake, he chants the two traditional blessings, while touching the friendly fire to the candles in his little clay hanukkiah. When he is done, he offers the shammash to Ya'ari, but Ya'ari gestures for him to continue, and the child, his face aglow with excitement, stands on tiptoe and repeats the blessings, while with an unsteady hand he ignites the shammash and candles in the grandfather's menorah. Afterward he turns to his mother, who sits in a corner with her infant in her arms, and gets her permission to sing a Hanukkah song. To Ya'ari's relief it is not "Maoz Tsur," which he loathes, but rather an old Hanukkah song whose melody is modest and pleasing to the ear, and since Francisco and Kinzie do not know the words nor even the tune, Ya'ari has no choice but to back the boy up with some humming of his own.
When the ceremony is over, the father wants to know if Daniela has arrived safely at Yirmiyahu's place. Two days ago she came to say good-bye and told him at length about the purpose of her trip, and although the father listened intently and kept nodding his head, not merely from his illness but in approval of her wish to return and recover the grief and pain that had begun to fade, he was uneasy for his beloved daughter-in-law traveling to East Africa alone.
Ya'ari looks at his watch. As far as he knows, there is no time difference between Israel and East Africa, so if everything is all right she is in midair and due to land in one hour.
"But Yirmiyahu is no longer an ambassador there…" the father recalls.
"He never was an ambassador, just a chargé d'affaires in a small economic mission, which closed down after Shuli died."
By the soft light of the six flames Ya'ari can see that his father's eyes are blazing. A flush spreads over his cheeks, the tremor in his body worsens, and his hands shake uncontrollably. His gaze drifts away from his son and into a corner of the room. Ya'ari turns his head and sees that the Filipino woman is taking advantage of the darkness to nurse the baby. Despite the natural duskiness of her skin, the darkness of the room does not conceal her naked bosom; the flickering fire of the Hanukkah candles reveals the sweet shapely splendor of a young woman's breast, which apparently stirs the soul of the old man.
Francisco should be warned, thinks Ya'ari, not to let his wife expose herself like that in front of his father. Because she dresses him and feeds him, it would be bad to afflict him unduly with a longing for her flesh.