"Perfect pitch without ever studying music?"
"Yes, apparently I was born with it. And when I learned that I had hearing like this, I started to listen to sounds at the garage too, to put my sensitive ears to use finding the connection between grating noises and other weird sounds in trucks and tractors and malfunctions in their engines, and it turned out I could hear tiny noises, and if you took care of them in time, you could avoid a whole lot of trouble later. I mean, in this country, until something actually breaks down or falls apart, nobody pays attention or takes preventive measures. Even right now I can hear the automatic transmission in this ambulance scraping when it changes gears, and our driver, when we get to Jerusalem, ought to check the oil in the gearbox so we don't get stuck in the rain on the way back."
DANIELA CANNOT REMEMBER the ages of the rock fragments that were laid out beside her dinner plate four days ago, on that unforgettable evening at the dig, but she did grasp the archaeologist's explanation of evolutionary "transmission" and believes that when the time comes she will be able to summarize it for Amotz. Her Ugandan visitor is the only member of the research team who holds a Ph.D., and from the archaeology department of the University of London, no less, and this strengthens his self-confidence and his independence, as he boldly invites himself into the chamber of a foreign lady to make a highly unusual request.
"I am sorry for the disturbance and invasion of your privacy," apologizes the slender black man, as he seats himself on the stool at the foot of the bed, "but since we know that tomorrow you are returning to your country, and we are returning this evening to our excavations, we have decided to speak with you in private even before getting Jeremy's approval. It is very important to us that you will hear our request first, so you may consider it on your own, before consulting with your brother-in-law. You see that I am not speaking only for myself but also for my friends, who are happy for your short visit and your very generous interest. But first of all I wish to ask you, is there any chance that you will return to Tanzania or to Africa within the next year?"
"Return to Africa in the next year?" She smiles. "I don't think so. More likely I will never come back. This is a private visit, sort of a visit of consolation for me and my brother-in-law, and it has fulfilled its purpose. I also don't think my husband will agree to another separation from me. We visited Tanzania together three years ago, when my sister was still alive, and together with her and her husband we went to the nature preserves. If Jeremy decides to stay with you, he will have to come to see us."
Despite the archaeologist's appreciation of her presence now, Daniela senses that he is pleased that she has no intention of making another trip, as if his request were dependent upon her leaving here forever.
"By the way, Jeremy also will not be able to stay with us a long time."
"Why?" she inquires, a bit concerned.
"Because the research team has a budget for only one more year, and after that we will return to our respective countries. But I believe Jeremy is already looking for another position."
"Where?" she asks, scowling. "He'd be better off coming back to Israel."
"But he doesn't think your country has a chance."
"Nonsense… don't listen to what he says."
Dr. Kukiriza is surprised by the sudden storminess of the Israeli woman, which is followed by a long silence. Only slowly does he overcome his hesitancy, and in a gentle voice begins in a roundabout fashion to explain his request. He starts with the plight of the African scientist, who for all his personal boldness and independence is still officially dependent upon the evaluations of the white researcher who controls the official archival record and the state-of-the-art laboratories. There are members of the team who correspond by e-mail with scholars in America and Europe who study the great apes of Africa, and who report to their colleagues what we have discovered here and hope to find in the future, but even if these whites encourage Africans, they cannot confer final scientific verification on their work until they see and feel the actual evidence, and this verification is essential not only for our confidence and feelings of self-worth but also to increase our funding.
"So why don't you send them what you found? It's so simple."
"It could be simple," the Ugandan says, "but it is not. Because there is a strict ban upon removing what we find from the country without the permission of the government."
"Why?"
"Because these fossils are considered a national treasure."
"Monkey bones?"
"Of course, madam." His face darkens and his voice becomes tense. Even the bones of apes millions of years old are a national treasure of the first order, and when a great anthropological museum is built in Tanzania or a neighboring African country, it will include a place of honor for the findings of this research team. In Africa they do not have artistic masterpieces, nor historical memories of ancient battles and wars that changed the face of the earth, nor writers and thinkers whose works have become classics, and yet, humanity originated in Africa, so why should they not take pride in what they have given to the world? If humanity still matters.
Now she feels embarrassed by what she said in haste and nods with enthusiasm.
And he continues to explain that when findings are sent outside Africa, there is a need not only for special permission but also for insurance and guarantees that everything will be returned intact, and thus the cost of such a shipment is beyond their ability to pay, not to mention having to navigate the long and complex bureaucratic procedures. There is a concern that if bones like these begin to travel the world, scientists will not come to Africa from far and wide to inspect them closely. In Ethiopia recently, the signature of the president himself was required to ship the jawbone of a chimpanzee for examination in France.
"It's that bad?"
"It's that bad." He rises from the stool and begins to pace about the room, lost in thought, as the moment arrives to unveil his question.
"Are you perhaps familiar with an institute in Israel called Abu Kabir?"
"Abu Kabir?" She is surprised to hear the well-known name on the lips of the black man. "Of course… it's our main pathology institute."
"An Arab institute?"
"Why, no," she corrects him, "this is an Israeli institute where all are equal, Jews and Arabs, and the Arab name is left over from some village that was maybe there once and destroyed in a war. But it's in Tel Aviv."
The Ugandan closes his eyes for a moment.
"Abu Kabir, meaning Father of the Great One: a beautiful, strong name for an institute of pathology."
"A beautiful name?" She is taken aback. "For us it's a name that arouses great fear. This is where they identify the bodies of victims of terrorist attacks."
"So it is also explained on the institute's Web site. But apparently because of the many victims you have, Abu Kabir has developed into a very advanced and sophisticated institute, which supports scientific research involving identification from the past as well."