"What got you out of bed?" The accountant gathers the pastry crumbs from his pants and swallows them.
With nonchalant pride, Ya'ari tells of Daniela flying off that morning to her brother-in-law in Africa.
"To that consul?"
"Actually just a chargé d'affaires, and now not even that. Half a year after his wife died, they closed the mission for lack of funding and they retired him. But because living is so cheap in Africa, he decided to stay there, and now he does the bookkeeping for some research dig so he can build up his savings for old age. After all, in the Foreign Ministry they would never consider taking someone back out of retirement…"
But the pensioner is oblivious to the boss's subtle jab, so confident is he of his indispensability.
"What are they digging for?" he persists.
Ya'ari doesn't know exactly what his brother-in-law's team is digging for. When his wife gets back in a week, she will tell all.
The accountant eyes his employer a bit suspiciously. He still thinks of Ya'ari as the high school student who would come to the office after class to try out the new electric typewriter.
"You always travel together, so what happened this time? You weren't afraid to let your wife travel alone, never mind to Africa?"
Ya'ari is a little uneasy. The intimate tone bothers him, but since his father keeps his old employee up to date on family matters, he finds himself patiently explaining the reason for the rare separation. Daniela could take advantage of the Hanukkah break at her school, but for him it was hard to get away from the office, this week in particular when decisions needed to be made about changes in the Defense Ministry facility. Besides, it's not clear that Moran will be able to get out of his army reserve duty. Most important, his wife will not be alone there for a minute. Their brother-in-law will be with her and look after her the whole time.
"How old is your brother-in-law? Seventy? Older?"
"Something like that."
It turns out that Ya'ari's father talks about Yirmi now and then, with affection and sadness. But the accountant only met him once, at Ya'ari's wedding.
"At my wedding?" Ya'ari is amazed. "Thirty-seven years ago? You were there?"
Why not? The accountant was invited to the wedding along with other employees of the firm. And from that celebration he remembers the tall man who danced energetically all night with the two sisters…
"Yes, there was a natural joy in him, until the blow came…" Ya'ari mumbles, and goes into his office, which has shrunk during the firm's recent expansion — a process which involved tearing down their floor's inner walls and turning it all into one space. Only Ya'ari did not relinquish his private space, because this is where his father once sat and because he loves the view: a window on the backyard framing a big tree whose branches in recent years have intertwined with an unidentified plant that in springtime produces a riot of red flowers. He considers whether it may not be too early to phone his son and ask him to hop over to the tower on his way to the office and listen to the roaring winds. The fine line between a father's right and an employer's, which was clear between him and his own father, hasn't yet been fully defined between them, and his son has become preoccupied since the birth of the second grandchild, a moody boy who requires special attention and frequent visits to doctors. But because it seems to him that his son, too, has been unsettled by the idea of his mother heading off alone to Africa, he decides to call him now, if only to set his mind at ease.
"Hey, habibi," he says, when his sleepy son picks up, "I hope I didn't wake you. I just wanted to let you know Imma has taken off, but she promised to stay at the Nairobi airport until the connecting flight. So for the time being we can relax and hope the day will go smoothly."
SHORTLY BEFORE THEY land, the stewardess hands her a bag bulging with Israeli newspapers. "Ah," Daniela exclaims, "how nice of you not to forget, but why is the package so heavy? We only have three newspapers."
"I don't know," the stewardess apologizes. "I collected everything. Also the financial supplements and sports, want ads and real estate; I didn't know what you wanted for your Israeli and what you didn't."
"No problem… thank you… I'll find room for it."
And it is her hungry young neighbor who crams the bundle into her suitcase and helps her wheel it to the bus taking the travelers to the terminal. Here, he jokes, I've already paid you back for the meal you gave me. And with laughing eyes she says, you see, it wasn't for nothing that I strengthened you with an extra meal. Then the young man finally allows himself to express interest in the purpose of the trip of this genial older woman, and she tells him about her brother-in-law, who used to be some sort of chargé d'affaires, but doesn't get around to mentioning the death of her sister, because there is someone excitedly pushing toward her from the other end of the bus, calling out: Teacher, I don't believe it, is it you? In Africa?
This large, red-headed woman, no longer young, was her student long ago. For many years she has been living in Nairobi with her husband, a representative of a big construction company, but in all that time she has never forgotten the young teacher of English who managed so enjoyably to instill in her a knowledge of that all-important language. You won't believe it, chatters her former pupil, who looks not much younger than Daniela, I still haven't forgotten King Lear, which you taught us with patience and love. And back then English for us really was a foreign language and wasn't easy. When did you stop teaching? I haven't stopped, Daniela says, smiling wearily. I still teach in the very same school; I'm not quite as old as you think. No, God forbid, says the woman, embarrassed, I didn't mean that, they just say that teaching burns people out fast. But if you still have the energy and passion for Shakespeare, more power to you…
Daniela laughs. No, they removed Shakespeare from the curriculum a long time ago and replaced him with American short stories. But in recent years she hasn't been preparing students for the matriculation exams, but teaching in the lower grades. Lower grades? Why? There were some discipline problems with the older students. With you? Discipline problems? Her old student is amazed. We not only loved you, she says, we were afraid of you. It's true, smiles Daniela, who at times sensed her students' fear. But what can you do? Since my older sister's death I've become a bit slow and introspective, and there are students who take advantage.
Now her old student looks genuinely pained. But it's only temporary, she suggests, trying to console the teacher, who is not asking for consolation. Surely you'll go back to teaching the higher grades. Could be, Daniela replies, rolling her bag from the bus to the terminal. For the moment it suits me. It's easier and less time-consuming to correct the younger ones' exams.
When her former student, who herself has lately become a young grandmother, realizes that Daniela is headed not for passport control but rather toward the dreary transit lounge, where she is to wait more than six hours for her next flight, she urges her to go through the passport line now and spend the layover at her house. She has a nice big house, with a pleasant, quiet living room. True, the house is away from the city center, but she'll make sure her husband sends his driver to get her back to the airport in time.