He props himself up, shoves the pillow behind his back, and looks hard at her.
"You would surely like to see another unusual animal, like the elephant with the cyclops eye."
"Definitely… happily."
"But what can I do, Daniela, I don't have another animal like that."
"If you don't, then you don't."
Beyond the door the African women babble on, like a crystal brook.
And suddenly, almost without thinking, she says, "Listen, last night I read the Song of Songs."
"In English?"
"Yes. And it's no less beautiful and moving than the original, which kept echoing for me in the translation."
He is silent, his glance wandering.
"And when I read all eight chapters I understood what you felt. A poem like this pours salt on the wounds."
Yirmiyahu gets up and begins pacing around the small room, as if trying to chase her away. And suddenly he explodes, "What's going on here? You came to Africa because of Shuli, but in the end you're forcing me to talk about Eyal."
"Forcing you?" She is shocked. "And it's not connected?"
"Everything is connected and also not connected," he says irritably, "but I should never have told you about Eyal's last night."
"What's happening to you?"
"That story makes him ridiculous."
"That's totally absurd." She objects with all her might. "His innocence was noble; he is not ridiculous."
But he persists. There is a deep substratum to this episode, which goes beyond personal psychology. Surely if an Israeli soldier takes over a strange house and intimidates its residents, in essence he only continues to dishonor them by suddenly risking his life to hand over a clean bucket.
"I can't begin to understand what you're getting at."
"Obviously you don't understand, and apparently you never will." He speaks in a low voice, yet his words resonate with inner turmoil. "For all of their brainpower, the Jews are incapable of grasping how others see them. I'm talking about real others, those who are not us and never will be us. Because only this way is it possible to begin to understand, for example, why that Palestinian, who got a considerable sum from me just to tell what happened with that friendly fire, did not seem at all impressed by what Eyal did. He just took the money and went off without a word of thanks, or a word of condolence, or any praise at all for the consideration and good manners that were supposedly displayed. And I, with idiotic obsessiveness, could not reconcile myself to such indifference. So again I turned to my Jerusalem pharmacist, and pestered him to arrange an additional meeting with this man. At night, in the heat of the intifada, with a twofold mortal threat, from our forces and the opposing ones. And this was a first glimpse into the abyss we are toppling into, or, more accurately, that you are."
Here is the genetic defect, it strikes Daniela, as she sees his red eyes flaring at her in the dark room. There is no need to go out in nature to find it.
WHEN THE TINY elevator lands with a thud, shake, and groan and the narrow grille is opened, the two passengers find its inventor waiting in an armchair beside the big bed, a glass of tea in his hand, an electric heater glowing red by his feet, and his cane on his lap. Well, little lady, he addresses the expert, did you hear the yowling of a cat, or do you think our hostess is hallucinating?
"No hallucination and no cat, grandpa," she answers emphatically. "There are all kinds of sounds in your adorable elevator, but only because of loose electrical contacts and because of phenomena that are common in an old system like this, where the commutator collects dirt and even tiny particles of metal that flake off from the piston. I've already found the connector box you hid behind the picture of Carl Gustav Jung, and on the roof I located the power cable you camouflaged among the clotheslines. But your son is terrified of electrocution. With the turn of one screw I could have disconnected the system, but he prevented me, by force. What's going on? Did you cause him some electrical trauma in his childhood that makes him such a coward?"
The old man laughs, then chides her.
"First of all, speak with respect about my son, because he's a grandfather too. He got through his childhood in my house without any traumas, but when he was a student at the Technion he was mainly taught how to predict disasters. In this case, however, I agree with him. I would also prefer that you not touch live electrical connections, because I didn't take out insurance on you."
"Nonsense. You weren't worried about electrocution when you connected the elevator straight to the electrical pole in the street."
"First of all, it wasn't me, but a bitter old pensioner from the electric company, who wore special insulated gloves and some sort of sleeves that enabled him to work with live wires and set up free electrical power for his friends. Only after he was caught in the act did they start to take care at the electric company that their retirees shouldn't be in any way embittered."
"Yes, then, too, there were robberies and indecent acts," remarks the lady of the house, "but the newspapers had only six pages and no space to cover them all. Come, my engineers, and have some tea."
"Maybe we should first check the vibrations in the piston," Ya'ari says, leaning toward his father's feet to warm his hands above the heater's white-hot coils. But the hostess insists they take a break and leads the old man into the living room. The four Filipinos sit stone-still around the refreshment table, as the old man knew they would, waiting for a clear signal allowing them to take a cookie or little sandwich.
The signal is given. The hostess passes around a big plate, and Francisco and Hilario and Pedro and Marco do not refuse a single round, until the plate is empty.
"All right," says the old man, "now let's go have a look at the piston, so it can tell us what's bothering it."
And this time he invites the Filipinos to come with him into the lady's bedroom, and all at once the intimate chamber is filled with the strong presence of members of a different race, who are naturally keen to inspect a little elevator tailored to their own small proportions. Amotz heads over to check how to detach the oil piston from the wall, but his father tugs him by the jacket and says, This time, let me lead.
Ya'ari smiles and watches his father brace himself against the squat sturdy shoulders of Marco and Pedro and make his way into the elevator he had devised, where he presses against the wall to keep his balance and tells the Filipinos to let him stand alone. With a trembling hand he closes the grille. Behind the faded gold-colored lattice, with his bald head, gaunt face, and drooping shoulders, he resembles an old monkey in a cage. He pushes the up button, but his shaky finger lacks the strength to start the elevator, so he moves back slightly and presses the button again with the tip of his cane. The elevator shakes, moans, bumps from side to side, and begins to rise, and only when he is completely out of sight does the yowling in the shaft die down.
Francisco, Marco, and Pedro grin as if they'd seen a circus stunt, but little Hilario is worried. He approaches cautiously to peek inside the open closet and see where the elevator has disappeared to. Ya'ari does not hide his pleasure at his father's accomplishment and smiles broadly at the hostess, who has sunk helplessly into her armchair.
"Insane," she declares, coming to regret the forfeit of her peace and quiet for this tumult.
"Naughty boy," the expert agrees.
For a moment Ya'ari worries that his father will go out on the roof and be blown away by the wind. But after two minutes the wailing is heard again, and the elevator lands in all its musical richness.
Ya'ari hurries to extract his father, and since the old woman does not relinquish her chair, he seats him on her bed, props him all around with silk pillows, and waits for precise technical instructions as how to begin dismantling the piston without electrocuting himself.