What happened with the army this time? Why have they suddenly become so heavy-handed? Next to the bed a PDA is blinking. He easily locates the number of his son's army unit, and after a second's hesitation, he calls it. The young female soldier who answers knows of Lieutenant Ya'ari and even has an idea of where he may be confined. For although the soldiers have already been sent to man checkpoints in Samaria, the adjutant officers of the reserve battalion remain inside the 1967 border at the training camp near Karkur.
"Karkur?" Ya'ari closes his eyes a moment and conjures a map of Israel. "Karkur? That's not so far away."
"What can you do?" grumbles the clerk. "Everything is close by in this country."
Ya'ari returns to the living room and finds that the babysitter has again shut out the daylight, the better to bond with the TV. The jungle animals have completed their dance, and now a sharp-tongued human is conducting a heart-to-heart conversation with a group of boys and girls on the subject of proper parenting. His granddaughter, Neta, still a bit young to pass judgment on her parents, has repaired to her room to begin a drawing. Nadi, meanwhile, is sleeping soundly on the floor, and the young babysitter is not strong enough to lift him onto the sofa. Ya'ari hurries to gather the slumbering toddler in his arms, marveling at how heavy the boy is, as if something extra were hidden inside him. Wanting him to sleep soundly, he passes by the children's room and Neta's artistic activity and carries him to his parents' unmade bed. With loving compassion he removes the child's shoes and covers him with their blanket. Then, observing the high forehead and strong, almost cruel line of the child's jaw, he asks himself: This boy, who does he remind me of?
"How much do you get an hour?" he asks the young babysitter, whose eyes are still fixed on the screen, when he goes back into the living room.
He then learns that she is not the original babysitter: that's her older sister, who collects the salary and pays her a portion as subcontractor.
"Subcontractor?" says Ya'ari, laughing.
"That's what she says I am."
"What's your sister's name?"
"Yuval."
"You should know that Yuval is exploiting you."
The babysitter is stunned; glittering tears appear in her calflike eyes.
"I was only joking…" the grandfather says. "It's certainly not your fault." He feels the need to console the chubby girl but is careful not to stroke her. Enough, it's time for him to get out of here. But the menorah displayed on top of the television bothers him. It is blotched with drops of wax, and the stumps of two of last night's candles are still stuck in it, as if a natural or man-made wind had prevented their peaceable extinction. He extracts the bits of candle, takes the menorah to the sink, puts it under hot water from the tap, and then scrapes off the wax drippings with a knife. Before returning the menorah to the television he sticks in four white candles plus a blue shammash for the evening's lighting.
If Nadi were awake, it would be possible, although it's still daytime, to light candles with his grandchildren and even sing a brief song with them. He smiles at the babysitter, but the girl has not forgiven him for insulting her big sister. So what is he doing here, damn it? He takes hold of himself, and an urge to exert control snaps him into quick action. In the kitchen he finds a large clean garbage bag and tiptoes with it into the bedroom. Nadi is still sleeping soundly. He carefully opens the closet and stuffs two pairs of pants into the bag, along with a heavy sweater and a light one, adding handfuls of underpants and undershirts, as if this were not a confined soldier but a long-term prisoner. Afterward he writes on a slip of paper his cell phone number and that of Grandma Yael and gives them to the girl.
She looks at the phone numbers.
"Yael is your wife?"
"No, Yael is the other grandma. My wife is in Africa."
And when he goes to say goodbye to his granddaughter, she clings to him, why are you going? Stay, Grandpa, but he kisses her with finality. I have to bring Abba warm clothes so he won't be cold, but Imma will be back soon.
He slings the trash bag over his shoulder and leaves the apartment and doesn't ring for the elevator but rather stamps quickly down the stairs out into a twilight world and a gorgeous winter sky, blue and orange and white.
UNWILLINGLY, DRIVEN BY his sister-in-law's firm demand, Yirmi signals for the two porters to follow him, and under a colorless sky, into a cold wind and a light rain that prickles their faces marches their small and singular procession, led by a white man, old and bald though tall and fit, clutching the arm of a middle-aged white woman shielding herself with an umbrella, and a short distance behind tread two barefoot porters with baskets on their backs; as the four pass the building of the former Israeli diplomatic mission, now occupied by a Chinese tobacco company, they are suddenly joined, as out of thin air, by the stately nurse Sijjin Kuang, also attended by a barefoot porter with a straw basket affixed to his shoulders. Now all six walk together along a street of whitewashed houses and up to the door of the clinic. The entrance is clogged with patients and their companions, but Yirmiyahu, in the strength of his whiteness, leads the procession past them into the building, where without asking either doctor or nurse he confidently navigates his way to a sickroom with five beds, and points to a bed by the window: the last stop on Shuli's rapid departure from this world.
And now in her sister's bed there lies a young man, a Tanzanian who looks with alarm at the white man and woman who stand before him staring, and at the Sudanese woman who towers behind them, and Daniela, unable to contain the emotions that emerge as powerfully and gloriously as she had hoped, approaches the bed and takes the hand of the young patient and squeezes it in friendship, adding a few words of encouragement in English. And the African, although he may not comprehend their meaning, understands their kind and consoling tone, for he takes the liberty, this young man, of stroking that friendly white hand. And the caress of the delicate black fingers of a sick young man, beside the window through which her sister's soul left this world, justifies absolutely the long journey she has made from Israel to this place.
Now the three porters, who with their baskets still on their backs also followed the imperious white man into the room, make way for the doctor and nurse, arrived in haste to demand the reason for this unprecedented invasion. Yirmiyahu introduces himself, and his sister-in-law and explains. They nod with understanding and sympathy, and because they are new to the infirmary, they call for a veteran doctor, who remembers well the white woman who died here the year before. And although he has nothing to say about the treatment they never had a chance to begin or the respirator that was late to arrive, he can at least testify that she passed away quickly and without undue suffering, lying in the bed by the window.
WITHOUT CHECKING THE map for the Karkur exit, Ya'ari heads north on the coastal highway, working his way into a three-lane crawl of thick end-of-day traffic. The air has grown milder, and Ya'ari does not hesitate to roll down the passenger window, hoping to inhale the aroma of well-watered fields and maybe a hint of distant orchards. At this hour the light is at its best, and in the Israeli sky, so boring and monotonous most days of the year, a small drama is unfolding. The setting sun, blazing itself a westward path through the crest of puffy clouds moving in from the sea, sculpts snowy peaks and antediluvian beasts, and ignites the fiery beard of a hoary giant.
In a hundred hours, more or less, he will pick up his wife at the airport. Some of these hours will melt away while he sleeps or works, but at times he will be gripped by longing, mainly for her attentive ear. If his love could take control of time, she would return home sooner. At this moment, however, her absence is an advantage. Ya'ari has no doubt that his wife would have sternly forbidden this sort of expedition. Moran is nearly thirty years old, and his father does not need to show up in his quarters to humiliate him with a bundle of undershirts and jockey shorts. His wife, that Efrat, should be attending to his underwear, instead of her endless training courses.