A Woman in Jerusalem, page 11
He promised to give her one. “By the way,” he added, “you must know that there’s a mother, too. She lives in a village somewhere …”
“Yes, we do know. We even looked her village up on the map. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Contacting her now will just cause further delays – and we have already had too many. We’ve asked the ex-husband to get in touch with the mother and he said he’d try. Communications are poor there in winter. For the moment, I’d advise leaving her out of it. We can try getting her to the funeral in time.”
“Right.”
With a plan for the company’s proposal now taking shape in his mind, the resource manager allowed himself a glance at the sky, which was bathing him and the street in a radiant light. A full moon had unexpectedly broken free of the winter clouds and seemed to be cruising the heavens as if driven by a brisk breeze. He thought of the cleaning woman and her thin folder that lay in the trunk of his car. At this very minute burly men would be entering the morgue on Mount Scopus, removing her from her refrigerated compartment, wrapping her and tying her to a stretcher, and carrying her in the moonlight to an ambulance, or perhaps a plain pickup truck, for transportation to the Central Pathology Institute near Tel Aviv, her first stop on her long voyage home. He thought of the twelve claylike corpses pledged to science, and of the lab technician’s request for an identification.
Which he had refused to give.
Thinking it improper.
Like the night shift supervisor’s infatuation.
So that now he would never see the woman at all.
He had an urge to drive to Mount Scopus in the hope of catching a glimpse of her after all. Even were he to get there in time, however, he had forfeited his right. And so, getting into his car, he dialled the owner in order to bring him up to date and let him know of the need for a decision. This time, however, the housekeeper was determined to protect the old man’s sleep.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked her.
“I know and I remember you, sir,” she answered in her polite Indian English. “But I’m not to disturb the master tonight.”
He must be sleeping off his medical examination, thought the resource manager. If he tires so easily, perhaps he’ll also tire of this business and let me be – although, he could just as well turn me into a scapegoat …
Sounds of shooting came from his mother’s apartment. He entered cautiously, sure she had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Yet she was wide awake and smiling, wrapped in a heavy quilt, enjoying an old Hollywood thriller.
“How come you’re home so early?” she asked.
“Early?” He glanced with a snort at his watch, went to his room, undressed, put on his flannel pyjamas, went to the kitchen to slice himself a big piece of cake, and returned with the plate to the living room. Perhaps he could still get involved in the movie.
“So how come you’re home?”
He told her of the decision to return the woman’s body to her homeland so that her son would have a grave to visit.
“That makes sense,” his mother said. “That’s why you’re home early?”
“No. I mean, yes. I’m afraid the old man may ask me to accompany the coffin. He’s trying to use me to clear his conscience.”
“What do you care? You’ll accompany the coffin and see a new part of the world.”
“In midwinter? In freezing weather?”
“What of it? This morning you were upset because the snow you thought you saw last night was gone. You’ll have all the snow and ice you want there.”
He looked at her, half annoyed and half amused.
“Tell me something. Are you trying to get rid of me? Am I a nuisance to you here?”
“A nuisance, no. But it’s painful to be reminded.”
“Reminded of what?”
“The broken home you’ve left behind.”
5
That night he dreamed he was tossing an atom bomb into his old apartment – a minibomb the size of a ball bearing that could be gripped with his fingers and looked like a toothed, stainless-steel cog. Despite its film of lubricating oil, it was pleasant to hold. With a swift movement he flung it up at the apartment. At first he felt alarmed by what he had done, even if he had no regrets. Yet when he saw that his wife and daughter were unharmed and alive somewhere else, he calmed down. Still, their eyes were red and inflamed, and their resentment made conversation difficult. They’ll get over it, he reassured himself, going to inspect the damage. He felt sorriest for the loss of the family albums. A doorman or guard standing in a corridor formed by the debris kept unauthorized persons from ascending to the wrecked upper floors. He was a heavyset, middle-aged man in a double-breasted suit and Mafia-style fedora, and he had set up a small table with a kettle, a plate, and some silverware. With a hand he barred the dreamer’s approach.
The human resources manager awoke, turned over on his other side, and dreamed another dream, which he forgot at once.
He was early for work. Going straight to the owner’s softly lit office, he said in a businesslike tone: “Here’s the latest. I wanted to tell you last night, but your housekeeper wouldn’t let me. As I expected, the woman’s husband – her ex, that is – wants her sent back so her son can attend the funeral. He won’t let the boy come to Jerusalem; he thinks this country is a hellhole. Her body was transferred to the Central Pathology Institute last night to be prepared for the journey. I don’t know how that’s done, but I can find out if you’re interested. Our consulate there will look after the body once it arrives. They are experts in such things. We simply have to decide where we stand in all this and whether we drop out or continue – and if we continue, how. Both National Insurance and the Ministry of Immigration want an answer this morning.”
The old man nodded. His mind seemed already made up. Yet the resource manager went on talking. Now he spoke with emotion.
“Wait. Don’t say anything yet. I read your response to the weekly. It was unfair and inaccurate and it made me furious. But then I thought: to hell with it, who cares? Let it stay as it is. I throw that weekly in the garbage without looking at it, so what difference does it make to me what’s there? If placing the blame on me – that is, on the human resources division – is any comfort to you, I’ll grit my teeth and bear it. I heard you had a major medical examination yesterday. Even though I hope – in fact, I’m sure – that the results will be negative, meaning positive from your point of view, I’ve decided to spare you the aggravation of another argument.”
The old man, having shut his eyes to concentrate on what his favourite young manager was saying, permitted himself a slight smile.
“First of all, thank you. I share your hope, though not your certainty, that the results will be positive – that is, negative, medically speaking. But believe me, even if I were lying on my deathbed, no conversation or argument with you could be aggravating. Behind the executive façade, I see in you a responsible young fellow who can be talked to man-to-man.”
The human resources manager shifted in his chair.
“And now,” the owner went on, “you’ll inform National Insurance and the Ministry of Immigration that our firm will send a representative to accompany our murdered worker to her funeral. In addition, we will make a contribution, or whatever you wish to call it, to her orphan, over and above what he has coming from the government. If the boy’s grandmother attends the funeral, she’ll get one too. We’ll even donate a modest sum – why not? – to the ex-husband, in compensation for his time spent in hell. Believe me, I have the money for it. Too much. I never thought I’d be as wealthy as I’ve become, especially since the start of all this terror, which makes the whole world want bread and cake. Why not be generous?”
“So as to atone for a cruel and pointless infatuation.”
“Cruel? Do you think so?” The old man seemed surprised. “Well, if it was, we’ll atone for that too. But who is going to do it? Who’ll represent us at the funeral? The answer is obvious. The ideal candidate is sitting across from me. After all, before you separated from your wife and daughter you were happy to be a travelling salesman. What’s one more round of travel for you, especially since this time you won’t be selling anything? You’ll only be giving – and handsomely.”
“Excuse me,” the human resources manager said sharply. “I didn’t separate from my daughter. That was an unkind thing to say.”
The owner, aware that his remark had been uncalled-for, looked mortified. Of course! He should never have made it. How could he have been so addlebrained? Rising to his full height, he walked over to the resource manager, seized both his hands, and bent to ask for forgiveness. As if anyone would willingly separate from his child! It was a foolish slip of the tongue, one more sign of advancing senility. Perhaps the resource manager should take a day or two off, not just to prepare for his trip, but to get away from a doddering old man like himself.
He opened his wallet, took out one of its many credit cards, and handed it to the resource manager with a code number. He could spend whatever he saw fit without itemization. Meanwhile he, the owner, would get in touch with National Insurance and with the editor of the weekly – why not? – to let them know about the resource manager’s mission. He would also ask his office manager to go through the dead woman’s possessions. Anything of material or sentimental value would be packed and shipped with the coffin. The rest would be stored, pending its final disposal, at the bakery. He would simply need the keys to her room.
The resource manager took a key ring from his pocket and removed two keys. “What about those employment figures?” he inquired.
“Never mind them. Your secretary will finish getting them together. As of now, you’re temporarily relieved of all your duties in the human resources division. Concentrate on your trip. You’re no longer a manager but an emissary. A very special one.”
And why not, thought the emissary. What’s wrong with a little vacation? These past two days he hadn’t had a free minute. And even a short trip, especially since he might extend it after the funeral, demanded preparation. His first stop on leaving the bakery was a nearby bookshop, where he bought a guidebook to the cleaning woman’s country, complete with a map. Next, he ordered a big breakfast at a café and spread the map out on the table. After finding the provincial capital and the grandmother’s village, he phoned the representative of the immigration ministry.
“I don’t know if I should be telling you this,” he said, “but since you kept me in the picture, I’m returning the favour. Our company is sending me with the coffin, both for symbolic and practical reasons, so that I can give the son – and the grandmother too, if she gets there in time – a contribution. You said there’s a late Friday night flight. I’ll be on it. I was just wondering who’s accompanying the coffin at your end. Will it be you or someone else? I wanted to coordinate …”
“Who’s accompanying the coffin?” The representative of the immigration ministry sounded nonplussed. “No one is accompanying it. It will fly by itself. Our consul has promised she’ll be at the airport.”
“The consul is a woman?”
“Yes. An excellent one, too. She was born there and has good connections with the authorities. Believe me, this isn’t the first coffin we’ve sent her.”
“Just a minute. I still don’t get it. Since when can you put a coffin on an aeroplane as though it were a suitcase? Suppose something happens to it?”
“What could happen? If the plane crashes, the body in the coffin is already dead.”
“That’s true. But still it seems strange that I’ll be its only escort.”
“You’re not an escort. You’re simply on the same flight. Even if you wanted to be one, it’s only after you land.”
“What about documentation?” His mind was not yet at rest. “There has to be official confirmation of some kind.”
“There will be. It’s usually given to the head steward or the pilot. But if it will make you feel better, we’ll be glad to let you have a copy.”
6
By now he was not only disappointed but also worried. What is this, he asked himself. I’m being saddled with a dead woman as if I were her best friend or close relative.
But when he left the café, his mood brightened. The Jerusalem skies had cleared and it was getting warmer. He went to the bank and withdrew a hefty sum in foreign currency, using the owner’s credit card. On his way back from the travel agency to his mother’s place, he couldn’t resist a detour that passed his former apartment building. It was still standing, untouched by his dream. At midday he phoned his ex-wife and said: “Listen to me before you hang up. I know it isn’t my day today, but tomorrow night I’m going abroad with the coffin of that cleaning woman. Our company wants me to represent it at the funeral and make a contribution to the orphan. In addition –”
“Get to the point,” his ex-wife said.
“I may be away for three days. That means I’ll miss next Tuesday again. I’d like to switch to today on a one-time basis.”
“We have plans for today.”
“Let me have just an hour, or even half an hour. I want to say a proper goodbye before I go. This isn’t a holiday or a pleasure trip. It’s a long, hard mission on the country’s behalf. Who knows that the next explosion in the street won’t get you or me?”
“Speak for yourself.”
“All right. It may get me.”
She yielded and gave him three-quarters of an hour to be with his daughter – provided, of course, that his daughter agreed and had the time for it.
A few hours later, he climbed the steps of the building into which he dreamed he had flung a nuclear weapon, rang the bell, then let himself in with his key. His daughter was sound asleep in her school uniform, her schoolbag tossed on the floor and one red rubber boot still on her foot. Loath to wake her despite his limited time, he looked at her slender figure, which since the divorce had seemed to refuse to mature, with both tenderness and concern. In the kitchen he found a clean plate beside a knife and fork, still waiting for the lunch she hadn’t eaten. He took some food from the fridge, put it on the stove to warm, and stood on a chair to reach a small storage space, searching for his old army boots, among other items, which he had put away there, after his discharge.
“What are you looking for, Abba?”
Her face bore the traces of sleep.
“A pair of good boots.”
“What for?”
He told her about his mission and the snow and ice that awaited him.
“Wow! I’d love to go with you.”
He climbed down from the chair and gave her a big hug. How he’d love to take her! But he couldn’t – and even if he could, her mother wouldn’t permit it.
He climbed back on the chair and found the boots, which were in good condition. Then he polished them while his daughter dutifully ate her lunch. Now and then he asked her a question about school or took a morsel from her plate. Although she hadn’t the vaguest notion of what the gaps in her education were, the solved maths problems and the office manager’s English composition had got her good marks.
“Why don’t you send me that cute old couple more often?” she asked with an unfamiliar impishness. “They can do my homework all the time.”
“They’re not so old. Couldn’t you see how on-the-ball they were?”
“Sure I could. Maybe that’s because they’re still in love.”
Surprised, he patted her curly head. “You know what? You’re pretty on-the-ball yourself.”
He could tell from the way her face lit up how seldom he had ever bothered to praise her. Snuggling close to him, she asked about the cleaning woman. He was frank – he described the article due to appear the next day and the supervisor’s strange falling in love. Eyes wide with fear, she smiled in spite of herself at his account of his night in the morgue and his refusal to look at the dead woman, even though her beauty was considered special by all who saw her picture.
“Wow!” she repeated excitedly. She wanted to hear more about his trip and to know how much money the woman’s son would get.
That, he answered, would have to be decided once he got there. He had no idea what the local currency was worth.
She let out a sigh. How she would have liked to go with him! Not just because of all the snow, but also to see the woman’s son. Was he good-looking like his mother? To think he had lived right here in Jerusalem …
They talked on and on. Groping his way, he sought to assure her that he would never give up on her and that she should never despair of him. The afternoon sun outside the window was sharpening its palette of colours as the day grew brighter. His daughter’s simple but honest questions and his candid replies had forged a new closeness between them. When his ex-wife came home early, he didn’t grumble or complain. Hanging his boots over one shoulder, he simply said, “All right, I’m off. You didn’t give me as long as you said you would, but that just made every minute worth more.”
