Mrs. Bennett wasn't told about the wheelchair, but she'd guessed, having known for years about the Parkinson's disease, and she was very cross with the man who was ashamed of his illness and stopped visiting her, because what was there to be ashamed of? To tremble is human too.
Ya'ari studies her. "He visited you, in recent years?"
"Of course. After your mother's death, we were more than friends… so far as our age permitted. But sit, please, drink a cup of tea, so you'll have strength to listen to the yowling of my elevator. It's all ready; it won't take much of your time."
On a table in the living room, beside a menorah prepared for the evening with five candles, are waiting two shiny white cups, a sugar bowl, packets of Sweet 'n' Low, teabags of various types, and little saucers of cookies and chocolate squares. Dominating this array is a vase stuffed with flowers.
"Thank you, I already had mine at that nice café next to the Knesset."
"So you didn't count on me," she says, without complaint. "A shame that you didn't hear from your father how good I am at pampering. It's my loss, as they say these days. But at least sweeten your bitterness a little with a piece of chocolate."
A little smile crosses Ya'ari's lips. He nibbles a chocolate square and looks around, but sees no trace of an elevator.
"You are obviously looking for the elevator. Please, come with me."
She leads him into the corridor of the apartment, which, it turns out, is not at all small. The clutter that typically accumulates in old people's apartments is not oppressive here. The ancient furniture is polished, and the upholstery shows no signs of wear or neglect. On the hooks on the backs of the doors, coats hang in orderly fashion. He follows her, looking at the whitish flaxen hair braided and bunched at the nape. They walk past her consultation room, where photos of Sigmund Freud in youth and age peek out from shelves stuffed with journals and books, then the bathroom and kitchen, and finally her bedroom, in the center of which stands a big double bed covered by a spread decorated with flowers and peacocks and scattered with many silk pillows.
There is still no sign of an elevator. Now she goes over to a large closet and opens wide two of its doors, as reverently as if it were the Holy Ark of the synagogue. But instead of a curtain, she slides aside a thin metal grille, revealing, at last, the elevator — small, narrow, and the incarnation of his nocturnal vision of that fifth elevator in the corner. Inside the car are three buttons: green for up, blue for down, red for help in an emergency.
WHILE SHE DRINKS her coffee, Daniela offers her pack of cigarettes to the elderly African, who is watching her from across the table. The man accepts a cigarette, selects a small branch from the stack of firewood, opens the door of the stove and pokes it in, and before lighting his own brings the flame to the cigarette between her lips.
His name is Richard. There is no way to tell whether this is his original name or a name given to him in the days when he worked at a local English farm. It has been many years now since he used much English, and he remembers only bits of the language — fossilized remains whose meaning he can still reconstruct. When spoken to, he tilts his head with great attention, as if to encourage the speaker to rattle off more and more words, until one comes up that will enable him to figure out the rest.
She likes this old man, and since the morning is young and Yirmiyahu and Sijjin Kuang haven't yet arrived, she is willing to chatter to him indefinitely, without expecting him to understand much or reply. She just wants him to feel that she respects him and is grateful for his help, and she also believes that among all the words she generously heaps upon him, eventually there will be one that registers. And that word must have arrived, she thinks, when suddenly he rises from his seat and leads her up to the first floor and opens the door of the room temporarily occupied by her brother-in-law. It isn't large, and the bed inside is narrow and disheveled. For some reason Daniela is relieved that there is no second bed, unmade or otherwise, even though she really doesn't care and has no right to worry about something no longer significant. The groundskeeper quietly limps over to the bed and straightens the sheets, and she is drawn to the little window, which looks out on the dirt road she took to the village of the sadly wise elephant. The rain of the night before has cleansed the world and sweetened the morning light, and before the sun gets too strong she can take a walk and not sit around idly waiting for her brother-in-law to show up.
But is she allowed to walk alone? Why not? She remembers the tranquil road very well and has no intention of going too far. For a moment she considers asking Richard to escort her, but really, why impose upon him and also on herself? She hurries up to her room before the sun can get stronger, takes her sister's windbreaker, gets some dollar bills and sticks them in a pocket — money Amotz put in her purse for emergencies — and returns to the ground floor, hoping the old man will witness her departure. But he has already vanished, gone as silently as he came.
The air is fresh, the road a bit muddy. Not overdoing it, she climbs the hill slowly, feeling liberated but a bit fearful too. Now and then she looks behind her, but no one is there. Even when she reaches the top there is no one to be seen. She does not think about animals. Everything here is open and exposed; if some animal is hiding nearby, it must be small and harmless.
As she descends the slope the farm disappears from view. But she recalls the road clearly and feels serenely confident that she'll find her way back. Two young women at the river are busy with laundry. When Daniela draws nearer she notices that their breasts are bare, so she bows her head in a gesture of respect and gives a friendly smile. She greets them in simple English and also points behind her, toward the farm hidden behind the hill, in order to explain to them where she belongs and where she will return. But the two young women seem unconcerned by the presence of the older white woman. They laugh and splash each other. Their breasts are perfectly formed, smooth and solid. Thatches of youthful pubic hair are visible between their long legs. One of them says something to her friend, and suddenly they point toward the village, and each cups a hand over her eye as both try in vain to find the right word to spur the lone tourist to keep walking. "Elephant," they finally exclaim. "Elephant!" they shout, delighted to have lit upon the word.
Daniela confirms that she gets their message. Indeed, she tells them, she has already twice visited this elephant, once at night. But the girls don't understand her, and encourage her to continue up the next slope. Daniela laughs and tells them, "If you say so, I'll keep walking," and she looks back and sees the elderly grounds-keeper standing on the first hilltop. Apparently someone is looking after her and taking care of her, as always. And so she presses bravely on to a third visit with the melancholy elephant.
But as she draws near, she can't spot the shed: the elephant must have moved on to display his wonders somewhere else. She advances further and sees she has arrived just in time to say goodbye. The shed has been dismantled, but the elephant himself is still chained to the tree stump, and his energetic and experienced owner is struggling to cover his prized asset, that blue cyclops eye, with a colorful bandage, apparently to protect it from the dust of the road and perhaps from the evil eye of demons. The elephant rebels, flopping his head from side to side, projecting his trunk skyward and protesting with a strange roar, which the surrounding Africans mimic with joyous laughter.
Finally some onlookers volunteer to help the owner subdue the huge animal, and the bandage is bound tight behind the opposite ear. Though it seems unlikely that these Africans have seen the cartoon elephant her grandchildren love on TV — an elephant suffering from a toothache who comes to the rabbit for a cure — they laugh gleefully nonetheless at the sight of the great animal tied in a bandage.