IN TEL AVIV the winds have risen, and with them a stormy phone conversation between Gottlieb and Ya'ari.
"All the same, Ya'ari, explain to me again, this time logically, please, what exactly is driving you right now? Why do you keep obsessing over these noises when you know as well as I do that they are not the fault of your design, and certainly not of my manufacturing. You want to waste a day's work, shut down the elevators, dismantle the doors, run up expenses, and all you'll discover is what is obvious to everyone, that the construction company skimped on iron and screwed up the casting, and that they're the only ones who should be butting heads with the tenants."
"You might turn out to be right in the end, but in any case Moran met with your expert, the woman technician…"
"Rolaleh."
"And in her opinion the defects in the shaft are old and apparently existed before we installed the elevators, so that even if we are not formally responsible for them, morally…"
"Morally?" The manufacturer is taken aback. "That's a new one. Where'd that come from?"
"Listen, and don't get angry. Your technicians had a moral responsibility, and so, I admit, did our engineer who supervised the job, to make note of any defects and alert the construction company before installation."
"No, no, you're wrong. More than thirty years we've been working together, but despite the professional experience you've built up, I've been doing this longer. Between your father and me there were always agreements and understandings regarding the limits of our joint responsibility. And even after you took over, we agreed to continue in the same spirit; in other words, to coordinate our position vis-à-vis contractors and construction companies, so they can't pull a divide-and-conquer. How then does morality come into this? In the past we never used such a strange expression, and there is no need to use it in the future either. We spoke of joint legal responsibility and determined what its financial implications would be, and that way our partnership was conducted honorably, and we saved money too. So why not let sleeping dogs lie? The construction company is keeping quiet and not making any claims on us, but only trying to wear us down in a roundabout way, through the head of the tenants' committee. Even if he is a bereaved father, that's no reason to lose our heads."
"A bereaved father? How do you know that?"
"It's not only you that he's hassling, but me too, so I decided to find out just who this guy is and what gets him so riled up, and it turns out he is a bereaved father; his son fell in action a month or two before he moved into the tower. And even though one must treat such people with respect, you also have to remember that they have a different agenda in their heads. Unfortunately, over the various wars, I've had any number of bereaved workers at my plant, and I'm always careful not to get into any confrontation with them. I listen to them politely and nod sadly and promise to consider their request and try to take it into account, and afterward, carefully and delicately, I manage to get around them and do what I need to do. Because if you start to get tangled up with grieving parents, they can drag you a long way."
"You know that also… in our family…"
"Of course. I was at the military funeral."
"You were there, too? I don't remember. I was taking care of my young daughter Nofar. She fainted at the gravesite, and I was so distraught I didn't notice…"
"Yes, I also remember how alarmed your father was; even then he used a cane… How old was she?"
"Nofar? Maybe twelve. Of the four of us, she took her cousin's death the hardest, and I think even now, almost seven years later, she hasn't really got over it."
"That happens sometimes with cousins: they fall madly in love, in secret."
"Could be… who knows the hearts of his own children, even a wife can surprise you… But listen, let's get back to the complaint and agree that we'll devote one workday to it, to keep up our good name, yours and mine, and we'll split the expenses. We'll ride up on the top of the big elevator, scanning the shaft very slowly with a searchlight, and figure out once and for all where the winds are sneaking in and what they're wailing about."
"No, habibi, I strongly object. I learned long ago that a machine is like a human body. You open it up and start poking around, you discover things you'd rather not know. Yes, my technician is very sensitive to sounds and noises, but believe me, she's also a little crazy."
"Crazy?"
"Too sure of herself. And therefore you have to set limits for her. Bottom line, as long as there's no formal complaint, we sit quietly in a corner. And if this man, head of the tenants' committee, hassles you again, tell him, You're right, sir, we are looking into the matter, sir, but it will take a little time, sir, to gently get him off your back. Howling winds aren't wolves who eat people alive. As for morality, my friend, that belongs in the family."
THE CHEFS REMOVE the white hats from their heads and fan them over the cooking pots, to cool the food a bit before it is ladled into containers and placed in the big refrigerator. The meals won't be sent to the excavation site until three. In the meantime Yirmi proposes a short walk to his sister-in-law, to see a very unusual elephant.
"Elephant?" She laughs happily. "Lovely, but why unusual?"
"When you see him you'll understand."
"Why on foot? We can't drive?"
"It won't be a long walk."
"You're sure?"
"I won't take you for any hike your sister couldn't have handled."
She goes up to her room to put on gym shoes, thinks a minute, then also changes into the African dress, figuring that whatever remote corner of Africa they are headed for will be the right place to see whether its bold colors are compatible with her personality. To her surprise, her brother-i n-law recognizes the dress that she bought years ago in the market near the Israeli mission. He had tried to talk his wife into emulating her sister and buying herself such a dress, but Shuli had firmly refused.
"I didn't dare wear it in Israel, because the colors are not only loud, they also clash."
"Pity, because African women of your age know that loud clashing colors only rejuvenate them."
"So now I'll be a rejuvenated African woman," says the visitor lightly as they step outside the farmhouse and into the blinding sun.
"Just a moment," she says, "stop. I'm not prepared for a sun this strong. You forget that I come from a stormy land of rain and wind."
But Yirmi scoffs at the ferocity of the Israeli winter. How stormy can it really be? He takes off his pith helmet and places it on her head — here, this is in honor of the equator — and leads her to a dirt track, easy to walk on. Even as she adjusts to the day's fierce light, she feels the purity of the air.
After a short and pleasant walk, they come upon a stream with black cows grazing on the bank. Yirmi addresses the tall herdsmen with a few words in their own language, and they reply at greater length.
Since her arrival last night, she has not spoken about her family. She has not mentioned Amotz, Moran, or Nofar and has taken special care not to bring up her two darling grandchildren; oddly he too has ignored their existence, hasn't asked after them or taken any interest, as if they had been swallowed by the abyss of his detachment. As they stroll now along the bank of the stream she decides to say something about them, for they have always been dear to him. And he walks at her side, indifferent and silent in his loose khaki clothes, a tall man, his bare skull reddening in the powerful light.
"Excuse me, does this interest you at all?"
"To tell you the truth, not really… but if it's important to you, talk, why not?"