Her heart beating fast, Daniela pushes into the crowd. They are indifferent to her presence now; they are riveted by the creature who is desperately shaking his enormous head, trying to shed the bandage. Daniela shudders at the elephant's suffering, as if he were a member of her family. She makes her way to his owner, who stands stubborn and determined before the rebellious beast, holding his chain, ready to take to the road, and she unzips her sister's pocket and takes out a bill and offers it to the owner in front of the entire crowd, on condition that he remove the bandage and again show her the unique eye.
The man, who doubtless recalls and recognizes the white woman, seems amazed and excited by the offer. For the money in her hand — and only now does she realize her mistake — is a hundred-dollar bill; and although he has worked hard to tie the bandage, he cannot pass up a donation of a single dollar, much less a hundred, offered him with such decisiveness and likely to change his life. He therefore hurries to fasten the chain to the tree stump, to command the elephant to kneel and even lie down completely before the magnanimous, demanding woman. He searches behind the ear, which is flapping like a fan, and finds the knot, and undoes and removes the colorful cloth, to the delight of all assembled.
And within the welling yellow-green blueness that peers at her with longing, moisture slowly condenses into a tear, and after the first flows another, and the tears of the mute animal, who may also be expressing thanks, melt the tourist's heart, as if this moment finally fulfills the wish she has brought to Africa on the holiday of Hanukkah.
"HELP FROM WHOM?" Ya'ari is perplexed.
"From a partner, for example, if he were here," Mrs. Bennett says, smiling, and Ya'ari appreciates her sprightly humor.
"But why the bedroom?"
"Because only here, in that corner, did your father feel confident we wouldn't run into a water pipe in the wall, or telephone wires, or electricity. He was sure that if he went from here into the roof, he wouldn't endanger or ruin anything."
Ya'ari hesitates a bit before cautiously entering the tiny car. Indeed, a sophisticated engineering feat, almost devilishly clever, was accomplished here in the 1950s. His father had succeeded in fitting into a corner of the bedroom a hydraulic elevator with an oil-driven piston attached sideways to the wall, with a small hand-shaped fork lifting the elevator cab along two guide rails seven meters in height, up through a dark little nook to an exit on the roof.
But the psychoanalyst, perhaps with his father's help, has not left the elevator naked, a mere technological marvel. She has devoted some effort to beautifying its interior, as well as the shaft encasing it, so that both would blend naturally into the apartment. Two sides of the elevator car are paneled in dark oak, and lest a passenger forget his face en route, however briefly, a small mirror has been affixed to one side. But the third side has been left exposed to the piston attached to the shaft, which is essentially a natural extension of the wall of the room and has therefore been plastered and even decorated, with a picture of a dignified European gentleman.
"You brought your Freud in here too?" He can't help teasing the elderly psychologist.
"That is not Freud. Here I have placed Jung."
"Who's that?"
"If you sit down afterward for a cup of tea, I'll tell you all about him."
Ya'ari glances genially at his interlocutor, then carefully closes the iron grille and presses the up button. First there is only a faint but protracted humming, indicating a problem with the flow of electricity, then suddenly the elevator shakes violently, lurches and screeches as if fighting off a hostile foreign invader, and finally, for no apparent reason, calms down and surrenders, and with a strange and heartrending wail begins to crawl slowly upward, allowing Ya'ari to see that the entire open wall along the shaft is neatly plastered and hung with paintings, landscapes executed by an amateur.
The shaking and shuddering grow worse toward the end of the little trip, as if a powerful hidden hand is restraining the elevator from climbing beyond the roof. Finally it stops, but the wailing continues for several seconds more, ending at last on a sort of death rattle. To Ya'ari's ears these are not the howls of a cat in heat, as Dr. Bennett described them to his father, but the keening of a jackal, like the ones that prowled in the night when he was a boy.
The clean winter sunlight of Jerusalem dazzles him as he emerges onto the large flat roof, streaked with ancient tar. Paunchy old water tanks surround a shiny satellite dish, and the cables from the dish sprawl in every direction. In the eastern corner stands a white table, chairs chained to its legs so that a spirited wind will not send them flying.
His father claimed that the tenant was able to look out on the walls of the Old City during the years of Jerusalem divided, but now, in the unified-divided capital, the Ottoman era has disappeared behind forests of antennas and ranges of water tanks. Only the towers of the Augusta Victoria hospital and the Russian church can be seen standing tall on the crest of the Mount of Olives. He turns to the west, toward Beit Frumin, former home of the Knesset, and looks fondly at the old three-story building. A hidden elevator, he laughs to himself, that rises secretly to the opposite roof from the bedroom of a single woman, might have tempted someone to pick off a pesky political rival as he innocently arrived to attend the plenum.
The iron trapdoor over the ladder flies open and hits the roof with a loud clang. Armed in sunglasses and a straw hat, Mrs. Bennett, having climbed up by the ladder attached to the wall, rebukes the elevator engineer for not taking care to close the grille, so that she could summon the cab for herself.
"Oh. Sorry, but I thought you were afraid to ride in it."
"Why? What danger is there in a little shaking? Besides, your father also set me up an emergency switch that releases the hydraulic pressure and allows the elevator to go down by itself."
"I didn't notice it." He smiles sympathetically at the old girl who stands there all wrinkled and gaily speaks of "hydraulic pressure.""I see that my father really did think of everything here."
"Your father is a true friend, a friend for life. If he were a bit healthier, he would surely be here instead of you."
"No doubt."
"So what do you think of my elevator? Why is it in pain?"
Ya'ari shrugs, his gaze still fixed on the old Knesset.
"Tell me," he ignores her question, "were you already living here when the demonstrators threw rocks at the Knesset because of the reparation payments?"
"Certainly. I sometimes felt like throwing a rock at that Knesset, but not because of the reparations, which I got, too. For different reasons."
"Such as?"
"There was no shortage of reasons. But the sun out here is too strong for history. Let's go back down."
Despite the water tanks and the aggregation of antennas, it's pleasant on this old-time Jerusalem roof. The Judean desert purifies and brightens the air.
"You go down in the elevator, and I'll use the ladder."
"Why? Let's ride down together. Your father set it up so the elevator could hold two people."
And really, why not try to squeeze into the tiny elevator with her, to check out what two riders would feel like?
She gets in first and shrinks into a corner, and he enters next and presses against her with his back and leans over to push the down button. And again, from the depths, comes a faint buzzing, and the elevator shudders furiously, and with Mrs. Bennett pressed against him smelling pleasantly of soap, the yowling begins, and after a slow descent a mighty hand halts the car with a vengeance, as if to thwart a premeditated desire to break into the apartment downstairs.