Her name is Michal, babysitter of the moment, all of ten years old, who lives in the next building.
"And what's going on there, Michal?"
"Nothing."
Ya'ari is furious at his daughter-in-law—
IN DAR ES SALAAM the rain is soft and languid, and upon leaving the bank Yirmiyahu buys his sister-in-law an umbrella and hires a barefoot porter with a large straw basket belted to his back to carry their purchases through the market.
"It's really so important to you to see this place?" he asks again. "It's just a place in the market, next to some stall. There's nothing special about it."
But the guest is determined to stand on the very spot where death began to grip her sister. For this is also why she made the long trip from Israel.
He holds her arm and guides her carefully between the puddles as he leads her to a tool shed, where after checking a list he loads the porter's basket with small spades, soil strainers, batteries of various sizes, flashlights, and kerosene lamps. He tops off his order with some steel knives, which are also stashed in the basket. Then they walk among fruit and vegetable stalls until they reach the meat and fish market. There, in a small square where a net, torn in places, is spread out, two Indians wait for the white administrator, who pays them for last month's shipment of fish and hands them a new order.
"On that morning, did she take her walk on the beach?"
Yirmiyahu shrugs. "Who knows? I hope so with all my heart, because she so much loved her walks on the beach, and from the time you walked there together it was also bound up with a shared memory. There were days after you returned to Israel that she didn't feel like walking there alone."
"Because I wasn't here?" Daniela's voice quavers, and this knowledge of her sister's sorrow finally awakens her own.
They enter an open area of clothing stalls, hung with dresses and robes and colorful shirts and stacked with rolls of Indian fabric, and as if from the center of the earth there appears beside them another porter; Yirmi loads his basket with army blankets that on cold nights will warm the bones of the scientists. The Israeli visitor, wedged between passersby of various races, is struck by a clear recognition of the place. She stood exactly here on her previous visit. Shuli took her and Amotz to this very stall. She looks up at the rope stretched lengthwise above her head and sees hanging on it a dress that is the twin of her own. This is the spot, she says to herself, this is the spot, and in her memory arises an image of Shuli, firm and decisive, rejecting Amotz's aggressive suggestion that she buy herself a dress to match Daniela's as an occasional substitute for her mourning clothes.
The administrator of the scientific team piles coins and small bills onto the African's open palms, and then takes his leave from him with a hearty embrace. But before he can go to another stall, Daniela tugs at his shirt.
"Am I right that this is the place where she stopped and first felt dizzy?"
For a moment he is amazed, and studies his sister-in-law with affection.
"More or less. Not far from here. You see that big rock? She sat down on it. And this man, the one I just bought the blankets from, noticed her distress from far away, and she managed to send him to alert me. But when I got there, she was already gone. She had lost consciousness, and four people picked her up and began to run with her to the hospital. But where did you get the idea this was the place?"
"Because we were with her here on the last visit," Daniela cries, "here is where we bought the dress I'm wearing now, and Amotz pleaded with her to buy the same one…"
And she points to the dress dangling above them.
"No," he says decisively, "don't start looking for mysticism that isn't here. That doesn't become you. This is no place in particular. This is simply a stop along the way to the diplomatic office; she passed by here every day. And don't get too worked up about your dress either. Dresses like these, if you look closely, are hanging on every corner."
The visitor shakes her head. Her heart is pounding.
"And where is the hospital they took her to?"
"They didn't make it to the hospital. Along the way they took her to an infirmary, sort of a small public clinic."
"Please, Yirmi, take me to that clinic."
"But it's already a bit late. The train leaves in an hour, and I thought we'd get something to eat."
"I don't care about food. Take me to the clinic."
"But why? It's just a clinic. Why does it matter to you?"
"Because that's why I came all the way from Israel."
NOW FUMING, YA'ARI backs up the file he was working on in a futile attempt to calm down, exits the program, and turns off the computer. He closes the window, puts on his jacket, and says to the secretary, I have to go to my grandchildren. If someone needs me, I'm on my cell. He drives to his son's building in the north of the city, and this time does not hesitate to commandeer the apartment's vacant parking spot. He doesn't bother to ring the bell; he uses his own key, enters a dark apartment, and calls out cheerfully: Children, look who's here.
On the floor in front of the television sit his grandson and granddaughter. The short, pudgy girl between them must be that ten-year-old babysitter, who does not however lack initiative and ingenuity, since she has located the electric switch that shuts the blinds, darkening the living room and enhancing, as at a movie theater, the illusory reality of the characters prancing on the screen. Neta and Nadi gape for a moment at their energetic grandpa, but they are drained and lethargic from long hours of staring at that addictive machine and do not rise to greet him.
The first thing he does is lower the volume on the TV. Then he raises the blinds and restores the daylight, and only afterward begins his interrogation of the babysitter, as if she were to blame simply for being there.
"Has their mother called?"
"No."
"And their grandma?"
"No."
"So who has called?"
"Just you."
But Nadi jumps up and says, "Not right, also Abba talked to us."
"Abba called?"
"Yes." The babysitter remembers now. "After you called."
"And what did he say?"
"He was looking for Imma," Neta says helpfully. "He said that the army is still keeping him, and Imma should send him warm clothes."
"Underpants," Nadi adds, "Abba needs underpants. And also undershirts."
"And that's it?"
"That's it," says Neta.
"No," her little brother corrects her, "he also kissed his telephone."
Now Ya'ari's anger has cooled, and he allows the babysitter to turn up the roar of some forest animals who at the moment are dancing merrily with the program's host. Then he goes to the fridge to see what's in it before asking whether anyone is hungry. They are all hungry, especially the chubby babysitter. He eagerly volunteers to remedy this, and, swiftly prepares little sandwiches, garnishing them, as he has learned from his wife, with graceful curls of cucumber, and serves them to the entranced children on the floor. Then he makes a bigger sandwich for himself and strolls with it around the apartment.
Because he sees Moran every day at the office and Daniela prefers to look after the grandchildren in her own home, he does not often visit the home of his son and daughter-in-law. Now, in their absence, he takes the opportunity to get to know it better. First he explores the living room, checking out the CDs and videos, then moves to the children's room, to have a look at their drawings and games, and from there he heads into the bedroom and finds the double bed very messy, looking as if on the previous night two people slept there, not one. He examines his son's clothing and finds that unlike the conjugal bed, the clothes in the closet have merited orderly arrangement. Trousers and shirts are hung up, sweaters are neatly folded and stacked on the shelves, and in the underwear drawers nestle carefully sorted briefs and undershirts.