But the real test of such institutions is the nature and level of the services they offer to the patients who come and remain of their own free will. Make no mistake: this place, despite its modesty and isolation, acquits itself most honorably when it comes to efficiency and the range of services it offers; it also stands out for its low cost. For who comes here? In general, lonely old people, not affluent, who can no longer rely on the endurance of their relatives and friends. Widowers and widows whose children have grown distant, or elderly couples who never had children at all, or had them and lost them in tragic circumstances. People who are drawn to this place are most often those who spent their lives serving others. Here, they can get at a reasonable price reciprocal service to their heart's content: a young man or woman who will sit at their bedside all night long and hold their hand to ward off nightmares; not just someone to tidy up their room but also someone to sing and dance for them on request, or even an old grandmother who will sit in a corner and knit them a scarf, and a black baby crawling at her feet.
At first glance the place will seem quiet to her, Yirmi continues, or even a bit desolate, yet this, too, is one of its virtues. All in all, this is a cloistered place. But half a kilometer away is a small village filled with men and women, teenagers and children, who may be brought in for any task, so that a guest who is able and ready to submit his body and maybe his soul to the ministrations of others may enjoy services that in the past were enjoyed only by noblemen and princes. And precisely because these are servants who for the most part do not understand the guest's language, there is a limit to the intimacy. Yes, for a very modest fee, acceptable in the region, there are people here willing to provide service that would make the care Amotz's father receives from his Filipinos look meager and boring; the villagers are most eager to cater to the whims of the whites, even to be summoned in the middle of the night. It is almost, if you will, a reversion to slavery, but out of free choice.
"And this is acceptable to you?"
"What's wrong with it, if it satisfies both sides?"
She regards the big man in the faded leather chair with hostility.
"And it satisfies you too?"
"It's a possibility. After the excavation team completes its project, maybe it'll be worth my while to come here for treatment… but only on the condition that they upgrade my painkillers."
An Indian chambermaid comes to take the patient up to her room, but the latter is reluctant to go and asks that Sijjin Kuang accompany her. The two Israelis stand up, and the administrator promises Zohara that in ten days they will come back to get her.
"And you, madame?" The Arab woman turns to the Israeli visitor, "You will still be here when I get well?"
"No," says Daniela, "by then I won't be in Africa; my vacation from school ends in two days. And perhaps my students don't miss me so much, but I hope that my husband and children and grandchildren want me back."
"Then come again to Africa, madame," whispers the young woman.
EVEN FROM A distance Neta can see Nadi's triumphant expression as he sails over people's heads, and she cries out, "Abba, Abba, I'm here, too," and gets out of the car, and weaves her way, lithe and nimble, among the grills and coolers. Moran hugs and kisses her lovingly, and since she also claims a place on her father's shoulders, and her brother is unwilling to cede his perch, the confined soldier piles her on too and walks to the car, his father following. Watch it, you'll throw out your back, Ya'ari warns.
Efrat sits in the car talking on her cell phone, not budging even when Moran sets the children down and opens the door. Who are you talking to now? My sister, she answers impatiently, without looking at him. It has to be now? he asks angrily. Yes, now. You haven't talked to her enough? He's livid. But she doesn't respond and turns her back on him. And then he grabs the phone from her hand and says, enough, don't go too far.
To distract the children from their parents, the grandpa steers them to the trunk to help him take the sandwiches and vegetables and oranges out of the cooler, and to arrange them all nicely on an old oilcloth. It is Daniela who generally tries to decipher her son's marital frictions, but she's far away in Africa, and he has to maneuver alone through this outbreak of hostilities.
One evening, in the empty office, in a rare moment of soul-baring, Moran confessed that his wife's good looks were not only a source of pride for him but also a heavy burden. Her beauty makes her more vulnerable to men. She easily arouses the wild fantasies of random passersby. He doesn't always watch her every move, but it sometimes seems to him that her glamour distances them from their closest friends.
Now she sits, fuming in the car, swathed in the cumbersome old windbreaker that obscures her body completely. On her sour face, devoid of makeup, are a few unsightly blemishes, as if she has deliberately made herself ugly for her husband, to stave off any suspicion or complaint.
"No, Amotz, I'm not hungry," she says, pushing away the sandwich, "you eat."
"I'm not hungry either," Moran says, rejecting the same sandwich, "you eat it, Abba."
Moran's work uniform smells of gun oil — a fundamental Israeli aroma, an ever-present whiff of dread, the smell of one's first contact with the army, of basic training, which forty years cannot erase from one's consciousness. What's this? Ya'ari extends a hand to feel the dense black stubble covering his son's face. That redheaded officer doesn't make you shave before he sits down to play backgammon with you? Moran pulls away from his touch. What about you, he goads his father, you didn't shave this morning either. What, Imma isn't here so you're trying out a sexier style?
"Sexy?" Ya'ari is insulted.
"Sexy like Arafat," Efrat says maliciously, looking at her husband.
The little ones have not had their fill of their father, and they cling to him and climb on him. But Moran is distracted, graceless. His mind is fixed on his wife, but they are both silent now, and the poisonous silence is affecting the children, who provoke each other, wanting attention.
Nadi is drawn to the smell of meat roasting on a nearby grill, and Ya'ari has to stop him. The Israeli din gains volume. Bluish smoke pollutes the winter air. Meat- and sweets-stuffed recruits improvise a mini-soccer match at the edge of the visiting area, or walk arm-in-arm with their girlfriends within the perimeter set by their commanding officers. Fathers laugh heartily, sharing memories of their own army days, and mothers exchange phone numbers, so they will be able to keep track together of special events during the months of training.
Yes, reflects Ya'ari, there's anger and bitterness between these two, but also attraction, and in this teeming parking lot they won't be able to defuse their spite and reconcile before parting. He cannot presume to fathom the workings of his son's marital relationship, nor does he intend to try without Daniela. But even Daniela, who does venture into mind-reading, can be mistaken. Could she imagine, for example, that tucked between Baby Mozart and Baby Bach is a videotape of hard-core sex, which these young people watch to get turned on, not relying on their own desire? But he won't tell Daniela about the tape, so as not to upset her.
He offers the car keys to his son and says, Listen, it's a mob scene here, and you might want some quiet time together, so take yourselves to some nice café in the area, and I'll look after the little ones. When I visited you at the base that night, I thought I saw an old tank the children might enjoy. Is there really an old tank here, or did I just imagine it?
"I haven't run into any old tanks, but I haven't done much exploring around the camp. If you say you saw an old tank, it must be there. You, Abba, are not capable of hallucinations."