AS SOON AS they return to the farm, Daniela, exhausted from the journey to Dar es Salaam and the walk down her sister's via dolorosa, excuses herself to her brother-in-law and the nurse, takes what remains of the sweets, and goes up to her room. With uncharacteristic speed she strips off the dress that she can now no longer wear on this trip, takes a long shower, and decides to forgo the candies, whose aftertaste and excessive sweetness she finds repellent, and to go to bed hungry. She does not touch the novel lying beside her bed, opting instead to turn out the light immediately, find the right position, and fall into a deep sleep.
The next morning she wakes early. When five A.M. dawns on her wristwatch, she knows her night is over; she has no magic up her sleeve to eke out any extra sleep. For half an hour she stays curled up in the darkness with her eyes open, taking mental inventory of all her family members in their familiar beds, but finds it hard to imagine the sleeping arrangements of the military prisoner. In the end, hunger forces her to rise in the hesitating dawn, if only for a cup of coffee and a slice of bread.
In principle she could speed up time by returning to her novel. If the editor only made it clearer on the back cover that some sort of rewarding surprise awaited the reader, maybe anticipation would lend her some patience. But her hunch is that there will be no real dramatic twist in the plot or acquisition of self-knowledge on the part of the main character. The most she can expect is a change in her own understanding of the intention or genre of this novel. Which is ultimately not much of a reversal and depends upon the willingness of the reader. But this novel is not broad or deep enough for the effort.
No, she has no desire to go back to the novel. But if she had Friday's Ha'aretz spread open in her hands, she could use that to satisfy her hunger and keep lying in bed. Unlike her husband, she knows how to glean from its various columns new signs of human compassion in the world.
But until she gets back to Israel she will not have a newspaper. So she dresses in the clothes she wore on the airplane and makes her way down the dark stairway to the vast kitchen. I'm already a little bit of the landlady here, she thinks to herself, amused. But in the kitchen a small light is on. The old groundskeeper who yesterday helped her locate coffee and sugar stands up straight as she enters. Was it his idea to wait for her, following her previous failure to find the coffee and sugar on her own, or is he here on the secret orders of her host?
But she's glad of his company, and warmly takes his hand in both of hers and squeezes it firmly. In lieu of her husband, she has at her disposal a shriveled old man who has already boiled the water and placed a plate and cup and silverware on the table along with jars of coffee and sugar, and now removes the grayish milk from the fridge. Maybe in the meantime he has learned to pronounce the English name of the animal that produced it, so that the white woman can consent to lighten her coffee.
Even if most of the sights and details of this visit to Africa fade with the passage of time, she knows she will never forget till her dying day the old wizened African who serves her like a husband, in a huge kitchen before dawn.
MUCH AS YA'ARI would like to delay his mission of mercy to Jerusalem, which will almost certainly come to naught, the drive goes quickly. All wheeling and dealing in the capital sloughs off on the weekend to the coastal plain. Jerusalem on the eve of the Sabbath becomes a provincial town, not locked shut, exactly, but nearly abandoned and therefore very easy to get into. It's not even nine in the morning and already he is parking his car on a small street near the old Knesset building.
Sometimes design jobs in Jerusalem come Ya'ari's way, though no longer in the city center, but rather in the suburbs, primarily the newer office parks. His visit to the area near the old Knesset, now the headquarters of the Rabbinical Court, is almost a tourist excursion, and he takes a moment to enter the building and examine a small exhibition of black-and-white photos of days long gone but not forgotten. Although he never lived in Jerusalem, and in the '50s and '60s there was no television to inflict the city's politicians on the public, he still remembers well the newsreels screened in the movie theaters. The prime minister and his cabinet would walk around simply and naturally, without the trappings of power or burly security men, in the middle of King George V Street where he is walking now, and only two policemen were needed to direct the traffic around them.
But why wallow in nostalgia for the good old days? Wasn't this same modest, innocent Knesset building pelted with stones and bottles during the stormy debate whether to accept German reparations for the Holocaust? It's better not to romanticize the purity of the past; better to concentrate on the present. He locates his destination, then steps into a pleasant café at the corner and orders a fresh croissant and a large coffee. This way he can excuse himself at the outset from whatever refreshments Mrs. Bennett might offer and be able to make a quick getaway from her home. Not only does he not want to be regarded by anyone as a technician of old elevators, he is also particularly reluctant to meet a woman who meant something to his father; maybe he loved her, even if today she is just a girl of eighty-one.
But for all his efforts, he hasn't turned the clock very far forward. When at last he climbs the stairs to the fourth floor, it is still only 9:20, so he lingers on every landing, checking the names of the tenants. On the top floor, beside an iron ladder that ascends to the roof, there is a single door, with a name on it in Hebrew and English: Dr. Devorah Bennett, Psychoanalyst. He doesn't ring the bell but instead knocks lightly, to test her hearing.
A conversation is apparently going on inside, since the tenant's voice is loudly audible. Nonetheless she is aware of his tap on the door and opens it. There she is, an elderly light-haired woman, shrunken and wrinkled but also nimble and elfin and cheerful, who holds a phone in her hand and keeps talking: Yes, it's your son. Punctual, like his father.
Ya'ari's mood sours at once: clearly this old girl was a good-looking woman in her day, and if she was never actually his father's lover, she was surely the object of his lust. The only question is whether all this happened before or after the death of his mother.
"It's your father on the phone," she says, gracefully waving the receiver. "He called to see if you had arrived. Would you care to speak with him?"
"No," retorts Ya'ari, "I'll report to him after my visit."
"No, Yulik," she shouts into the phone, pressing it close to her ear, "your son has decided to speak with you only after the house call, so good-bye for now, my dear, and don't bother us any more." She gently replaces the phone receiver and extends to Ya'ari a liver-spotted hand.
"Thank you for agreeing to come and see me after all. Don't worry, I know you're only an engineer and not a technician, but if you give me a diagnosis, it'll be possible for me to look for a cure. Your father said he isn't going for his walk in the park today but is staying by the phone, so if you want to ask him something during the inspection, he's ready."
"I have nothing to ask him," Ya'ari interrupts, "and by the way, did you know that my father is confined to a wheelchair and takes his walk with a Filipino who pushes him?"