"That could be," Daniela says, crossing her arms and hugging her shoulders, "but I wouldn't dare go near there, not even to its Web site."
"And we asked ourselves," says Dr. Kukiriza, ignoring her response, "if we might take advantage of your return tomorrow to send a few findings to Abu Kabir for analysis."
"What findings?"
"Bones. Three little bones that weigh next to nothing, no more than twelve centimeters in length."
"And you want me to bring these to Abu Kabir to pose them a riddle: Who is the deceased?"
"In our opinion, these are bones of our prehistoric ape, Australopithecus afarensis. You have already had the chance to feel them. They are clean and odorless. Dry bones, but not fragile ones, which will not take up much room in your suitcase. We have already been in e-mail contact with a researcher at Abu Kabir, Professor Perlman, and she has agreed to accept them for testing."
And now that his wish has finally been expressed, he peers with fiery eyes and heightened expectation at Daniela, who remains uncomprehending.
"But if, as you say, bones like these are national property, don't I need official approval to take them with me?"
"Yes," the archaeologist admits candidly, "approval is necessary." But as he has just explained, the process is long and convoluted, and so they were hoping, he and his friends, to circumvent it by her good graces. For who will suspect a middle-aged lady, an ordinary tourist, of smuggling important bones? And who is looking for bones anyway, at the airport? And even if they are discovered, who can tell that they are millions of years old? And who will care? These are animal bones, not human. And even if we assume that someone, in Africa or Israel, insists on a clear answer as to why she has these dry bones, she can say that she innocently picked them up in the wild as a souvenir of Africa, and thought of using them as a paperweight on her desk.
A smile lights up the woman's face. She already knows her answer, but deliberately withholds it.
"We, of course, will ask for your brother-in-law's permission, but we first want to know if such a mission is possible from your standpoint."
"Possible," she answers faintly, "if it is really important to you."
"It is very important to us."
"If so," and her voice grows stronger, "don't involve my brother-in-law. Why make him anxious?"
THE STORM, WIND and rain preceded them on their mutual journey from the coast to the capital, and made worse the boisterous traffic of downtown Jerusalem. But an ambulance, even a private blue one, is entitled to use the fast lane reserved for buses and to park anywhere it pleases, including on the sidewalk across from the old Knesset building. The old man quickly plucks the hat from his head and removes the plastic poncho, and in his wrinkled black suit, enhanced by the red tie, he wheels himself straight to the stairs, and there surprises his escorts by asking to be allowed to get out of his chair and climb to the top floor with the help of his cane alone.
This is not the first time that Ya'ari's father has rejected his wheelchair. Daniela regularly encourages him to do it, even though this unsettles Ya'ari, since it's harder to steer a trembling old man supported only by a cane. This time the old man's decision is firm. He will not appear before his friend as an invalid. The shakes of the illness will in any case be mixed up with the tremors of his excitement, but the wheelchair shames his manhood. Even a mere technician would not dream of showing up in a wheelchair. It is precisely for this purpose that he has asked Francisco to bring along his two short and powerful friends, who now support him by his armpits and from the rear, so that he seems to be floating up the stairs, floor by floor, to the door he knows so well, which still displays the old plaque: DR. DEVORAH BENNETT — PSYCHOANALYST.
Here, the father surprises his staff again, by insisting that they go back down to the next landing and wait invisibly in the stairwell, for he wants to make his entrance as a man leaning only on his cane. Amotz and Gottlieb's expert join the four Filipinos, and they all crowd into the landing half a story below, positioning themselves where the psychologist will not notice them. And the old man himself, bent over, leaning on his cane, slightly loosens his necktie and rings the doorbell three times — their signal, arranged in years past, that he is not a patient. And the door is opened by the lady of the house, who in his honor has put on a woolen dress and let down her hair, and although she looks shrunken and wrinkled in the morning light, her step is light and her voice lively.
"Here's the boy," she exclaims, "but where's the wheelchair that came between us? Are you still ashamed of it?"
The old man is shocked into silence.
"What's the matter, my dear?" she says, squeezing his shoulder. "I'm the same young woman you left years ago. No need to be alarmed. And you have such a nice cane."
The old man succumbs to his twofold trembling, and the cane slips from his hand. So as not to collapse on the doorstep, he pitches himself forward and clings for dear life to the fragile old woman, who struggles to keep her balance under the unexpected load, and begins weeping on her shoulder.
From the staircase Ya'ari hears his father sobbing, perhaps for the first time in his life. Little Hilario looks up at him with perplexed concern, as if curious to know why he doesn't run over to help. But Ya'ari freezes. He sees his father's weeping as a great volcanic blast of liberation. I will do him wrong, he says to himself, if I go up now and embarrass him. He looks at the Filipinos sitting quietly on the stairs, half-listening, perhaps pining for their homeland. Only in the big bright eyes of the expert flickers a little smile, as if in the cries and whimpers she can make out hidden melodies.
Summoning all her strength, Devorah Bennett pulls the old man into the apartment and leaves the door open, which is a sign for Ya'ari and crew to enter the apartment cautiously. His father has already been taken into her treatment room, and is apparently propped in her chair, since she is saying very loudly, as if his hearing were also impaired: See, now you're the therapist and I'm your patient.
Ya'ari seats the Filipinos around the dining table, which is elegantly arrayed with expensive refreshments. As one already familiar with the apartment, he directs the expert toward the bedroom. In the hallway he puts a hushing finger to his lips as they tiptoe past the treatment room, but his father is on the alert and notices them. For the moment I'm only letting her hear the noises; I'm not dismantling anything, Ya'ari tells him, as he leads the small woman to the miracle of the tiny elevator.
"So," he says, looking into her wide blue eyes, "I bet you've never seen a contraption like this."
She smiles with amusement. This is something impressive. He pulls open the grille and escorts her into the tiny cage, which seems made to order for a nymph like her, with her cropped hair and nearly flat chest and aroma of freshly mown grass. Show me your stuff, he challenges her, pressing the up button, and the elevator begins to groan and shake and wrestle with itself, but before the expert can voice an opinion he puts a finger to her lips, Wait, he says, there's another surprise for you. And then, during the slow ascent, the wailing of the cat in heat begins to waft into the tiny space. The expert's mouth is agape with laughter. She looks around to find the electrical connections, but the walls are blank. She then reaches over and removes the picture of Jung, revealing a primitive electrical box, and as she does so the hungry yowling grows louder. The expert has already produced a small voltage tester from her jumpsuit pocket, but Ya'ari stops her. No, he will not let her near the wiring until they disconnect the current that comes from the electric company.