A Woman in Jerusalem (13 page)

“My compliments,” the owner said with an approving glance. “You didn’t cut any corners tonight. It’s beyond anything I had expected. I must have frightened you this afternoon when I threatened to find someone else if you refused to carry out this task …”

“That wasn’t your only threat,” the resource manager said reproachfully. “You also hinted I’d be out of a job.”

“Did I?” There was no knowing if the old man’s surprise was feigned or if he had merely forgotten. “That article must have upset me greatly.”

“I wonder who you had in mind. To replace me with, I mean?”

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “There’s no shortage of candidates. But why should I replace you when you’ve demonstrated once again how resourceful you are – especially when you don’t want to disappoint me.”

The human resources manager agreed with this description. “That’s true. It’s just as you say. I hate to disappoint. That should help you to understand why I didn’t want to let my
daughter down tonight. It’s enough to have let down her mother.”

“She wasn’t let down at all,” the old man crowed. “She was delighted with the substitutes I found for her. My office manager phoned me before the concert to let me know what a good time she and her husband had.”

“She did?” The resource manager felt cheated. “Then you already knew what I’ve told you …”

“Some of it. While you were following the progress of my concert, I was following yours. I even phoned the hospital during the interval, but no one could tell me if you’d been there.”

“No one could have. But what made you do it?”

“I wanted to see if you were making headway. You still don’t realize how upsetting it is to be called inhuman. What is left to us if we lose our humanity?”

“Who else phoned you?”

“The night shift supervisor.”

The resource manager was startled. “He did? But when, during the concert?”

“No. Just now, before you came. That’s why you had to wait. He couldn’t get over his talk with you. He felt the need to confess to me, too. He wasn’t sure what you thought of him.”

“But why not? Wasn’t I fair to him?”

“Too fair. He was much harder on himself than you were on him. But I know him from way back. I’m the last person to be taken in by his sentimentality. He’s been with us for over forty years. He was hired by my father when he was a young technical sergeant just out of the army – a
good-looking
fellow who attracted not only the girls he worked with but older women too. We were constantly bailing him out of trouble. He caused scandals even after he was married and took a long while to settle down. That’s why we put him on the night shift: it’s quieter there and the workers are tired and have no time for escapades. A few years ago he became a grandfather. He even asked me to be the godfather to one of his grandchildren. And now he falls head-over-heels for some
poor Tartar, so much so that he has to fire her to protect himself! While leaving her on the payroll, of course …”

The resource manager felt weak from exhaustion. He needed to end this, to return to his mother’s, shower, and go to sleep.

“So what line shall we take?” he asked, with the last of his strength. “What should our response be?”

“No line at all.” The old man was pale with emotion. “We won’t put up any defence. We’ll accept the blame, apologize, and offer compensation.”

“For what?”

“For the indignity we caused. For firing someone without reason. For our personnel division’s ignorance. That’s how we’ll end all this. Not with some left-handed apology that will just make that son of a bitch dig deeper. We won’t offer any version of our own. We’ll simply say: ‘It’s all true. It’s our fault. We ask forgiveness and wish to atone.’”

“Atone?”

“Yes. Fully. That’s what’s called for. I suppose we’ll either have to ship her overseas for burial or bring her relatives to a funeral here. We should consider helping her son, too. Her belongings need to be disposed of. Above all, the
compensation
must be generous.”

“But what business is it of ours?” the resource manager protested. “It’s the responsibility of the government. We’re not to blame for the bombing. Let the government take care of it.”

“The government will do what it has to. And we’ll stand in for her family and make sure that it does. Of course, the article is nasty. But nasty isn’t always wrong. I could cry thinking of that woman fighting for her life without a single one of us even knowing. And then lying unidentified in the morgue, because even our night shift supervisor doesn’t notice she’s missing! Listen, my friend. I don’t want to apologize. I want to do penance. I’m eighty-seven years old and I have no time for polemics. I won’t let my or my ancestors’ reputation be tarnished.”

“You feel that strongly about it?”

“That strongly.” The old man raised his voice fiercely, pleased to see the little Indian peer worriedly out from the kitchen.

“But why?” The resource manager no longer knew what he was objecting to. “That woman got an extra pay packet and you treat it as a sin calling for religious expiation.”

“Let it be religious expiation. So what? What’s wrong with that?”

The resource manager tried to make light of it. “I believe Bruckner’s music has left you wallowing in Christian guilt.”

“Don’t. I slept through most of it.”

“That’s when our subconscious is most easily affected.”

“If it’s my subconscious you’re worried about,” the owner replied, reaching into his robe to scratch his chest, “don’t expect it to rely on the government.” He was clearly enjoying the conversation. “Yes, I want expiation. I can afford it. And I have just the person for it …”

“Meaning me?”

“Naturally. Who else? Wasn’t it you who asked to change the name of the personnel division to
human
resources
division
? Your humanity matters to you, too. That’s it in a nutshell, my friend. You promised me today to make that woman … what did you say her name was?”

“Yulia Ragayev,” the resource manager whispered,
exhausted,
suddenly aware of where things were heading.

“Right. So just make Yulia Ragayev your business a while longer until you can give her a proper funeral. You’ve put hard work and good judgment into this, and there’s no reason for you not to continue. We’ll show this city that we’re not ducking anything and that we deserve forgiveness, even from that journalist. Mark my words: the weasel will faint when he sees how contrite we are. Take the long view, my friend. We have no choice but to see this through. And don’t worry about expenses. You’ll have all the money you need. I’ll be at your disposal day and night, just as I am now …”

When the human resources manager stepped back out into
the empty street, he felt enveloped by a white blur. In the car, before switching on the ignition and merging with the traffic, he opened a window to let in the cold, and searched for good music on the radio to keep him awake. The only music he could find, however, was too insipid to move him. He put his head down on the steering wheel and waited. The flakes drifting through the window made him realize that the white blur had not come from the wine. A light snow was falling softly on Jerusalem. And just as in his childhood, it gave his spirits a lift.

Only in a dream, he thought, could his mother’s voice be his secretary’s. Then he opened his eyes and realized that it was his secretary, in the apartment, demanding to enter his bedroom, so she could retrieve the cleaning woman’s keys. Was her baby still strapped to her? He looked forward to the prospect of planting another kiss on the warm, bald, little head. Knowing, however, that she was at the door and about to turn the knob, he jumped out of bed to defend his privacy. In the past
twenty-four
hours, his secretary had taken too many liberties. Still, it was late, almost ten. The old man’s wine had put the crowning touch on a hard day’s work. It was his mother’s fault, too. She should never have lowered the blinds or drawn the curtains.

He dressed quickly and asked his mother to shut the living room door. Even a fleeting glimpse of him on his way to the bathroom was more than he wanted his secretary to catch. He didn’t intend to exchange a word with her before he had washed and shaved. But he did ask his mother about the snow.

“What snow?”

“Don’t tell me it’s gone.”

She hadn’t heard of any snow. There was not a trace of it outside.

When he entered the living room a short while later, washed and shaven yet still embarrassed by the crates and cartons of his possessions that testified to his transient state, he found his secretary, dressed for work and looking official, interrogating his mother.

“What’s going on here?” he interrupted.

Naturally, she hadn’t come on her own initiative, she told him. She had been sent by the owner, whose unrelenting feelings of guilt made him want to play a more active role in the unfolding saga. The manager was late for work, so he had sent for the keys to the woman’s shack, which he wanted to see for himself before deciding on his next move.

“He wants to see that pathetic little room? What on earth for?”

His protests were meant just as much for his mother, who seemed to have become his secretary’s accomplice. The secretary, who was delighted to be out of the office, dismissed them with a wave of her hand.

“Why shouldn’t he see it? What are you trying to spare him? Let him know how his employees live. As long as he’s still alive, a little connection to reality won’t hurt him.”

He checked an impulse to rebuke her. The fact was that her new critical approach – not only towards him and the night shift supervisor but also, he now saw, towards the owner – made him like her all the more. With a fond look he inquired whether her baby had arrived home safely last night.

“Of course he did.”

“I have to tell you, I was genuinely worried he’d be smothered.”

“That’s one worry I absolve you of.”

“You should have brought him with you today, too.”

“If you find him that amusing, I can bring him to the office every day. Provided you look after him.”

“I’ll be glad to. I’d rather chase babies than corpses.”

As if her baby had been placed in sudden danger, she stiffened and turned pale. Glancing at her watch, she put down the coffee his mother had served her, sat up in her chair, and dramatically held out her hand for the keys. The resource manager, however, refused to yield them. Ordering her back to the office, he announced that he would personally escort the owner to the shack.

And so that same crisp, clear morning, the old man appeared in the market neighbourhood, dressed in an ermine coat that added to his stature and hale look. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, the crest of his royal pompadour had sprung back to life; he showed no sign of the previous night’s fatigue.
Accompanied
by his office manager, he followed the solemn resource manager down alleys and lanes until they reached a yard. In broad daylight it had lost all mystery and looked tawdry with its piles of boards and junk. A light film of white assured the resource manager that he hadn’t imagined the snow.

He took the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door like a practised estate agent, guiding the two others inside. A dim, greenish light fell through a heavy, checked curtain that he hadn’t noticed before. “Have a look around,” he said glumly. “It’s just an alcove. I haven’t touched a thing, except for some laundry I took down from a line and put in the sink, to keep it from getting mildewed. Actually, I shouldn’t have done that either, because only next-of-kin are supposed to handle her belongings. We had better leave it to National Insurance. They are the specialists.”

But the old man was in no mood to heed such advice. His large eyeballs glistened with curiosity, as he walked over to a little table covered with the same fabric as the curtains and unceremoniously lifted a bowl resting on it, examining and even sniffing at it. Then he asked the office manager to open the drawers of a chest and rummaged through them with uninhibited thoroughness, inspecting the dead woman’s clothing and even getting down on his knees to examine the shoes in the bottom drawer.

“All in all, there’s not much here,” he said, summing up his impressions. “And what there is looks old and worn. Even so, we’ll offer to deliver it to the survivors.”

The office manager, who had worked for the owner for many years, nodded doubtfully and stole a look at the resource manager. The resource manager said nothing. He resented this juggernaut of a man turned loose in the same room in which, seated in the straw armchair the night before, he had felt such unusual grief as he repeated the murdered woman’s name.

The old owner continued to rummage. After unsuccessfully attempting to decipher the title of a book in Cyrillic
characters
, he wandered to the kitchenette, studied an electric kettle, turned over a frying pan to contemplate its bottom, sorted out the knives and forks, and moved on to the lingerie that had lain in the sink overnight. Rolling up the sleeves of his fur coat without ceremony, he finished the resource manager’s work, wringing out the flimsy panties, nylon stockings, slip, and floral nightgown and carefully spreading them in a bright
panoply over the armchair to dry. “We need a good
photograph
of her,” he declared.

The office manager gave a start. “Why?”

“For our bakery’s memorial exhibition. It shouldn’t be only for employees killed in action. Terror victims deserve to be there too.”

The resource manager had had enough.

“I’m warning you again,” he said, turning sternly to the hyperactive old man. “We mustn’t poke around here. And we certainly mustn’t take anything. Our company has no personal claims on this woman. We’re in enough trouble because that old puppy fell in love. Why look for more?”

The owner was unimpressed.

“Yulia Ragayev.” His voice quivered in the greenish light. “What kind of a name is that? Does it sound Jewish to you?”

“Who cares?” The resource manager was getting cross. “All that matters is that she’s still on our payroll.”

The owner turned to look at the employee, who was nearly fifty years his junior. “What’s botherng you?” the old man asked quietly, yet forcefully, putting a hand on the resource manager’s shoulder. “What are you getting so worked up about? Have I said what matters and what doesn’t? You’re right. The important thing is that she’s still on our payroll. That’s why we’ll give her the consideration she deserves. But we can’t bury her properly if we don’t know where she comes from.”

At
first
we
didn’t
notice
he
was
there.
When
we
did,
we
assumed
he
must
be
from
the
secret
service,
one
of
those
characters
who
turn
up
now
and
then
to
scrounge
for
information,
for
another
intimate
detail
or
two
about
the
dead,
not
all
of
whom
are
always
innocent
passers-
by
.
We
didn’t
bother
to
talk
to
him.
He
seemed
happy
enough
in
his
corner,
listening
carefully
to
social
workers,
pathologists,
psychologists,
assessors,
and
municipal
clerks,
all
of
whom
had
something
to
say
about
the
dead,
the
injured,
and
their
families.
Believe
it
or
not,
we
still
have
cases
ten
or
more
years
old
whose
files
we
haven’t
been
able
to
close.

Yet
after
a
while
our
curiosity
got
the
better
of
us
and
we
asked
him
who
he
was
and
whom
he
represented.
He
apologized
for
crashing
our
meeting,
which
he
had
only
done,
he
said,
to
reveal
to
us
the
identity
of
a
terror
victim.
He
spelled
her
name
and
recited
her
visa
number
as
if
it
were
his
own
ID.

At
first
we
didn’t
realize
what
this
woman
had
to
do
with
him.
Neither
her
name
nor
her
number
meant
anything
to
us.
But
then
someone
remembered
the
unidentified
body
from
the
previous
week’s
bombing,
which
had
since
been
overshadowed
by
a
subsequent
one.
We
had
been
certain
that
this
body
had
been
transferred
to
Central
Pathology
and
that
we
were
no
longer
responsible
for
it.
Now
we
learned
that
it
was
still
in
Jerusalem.
An
article
that
had
appeared,
or
was
about
to
appear,
in
a
local
weekly
had
led
this
well-meaning
man
to
make
the
identification.
He
repeated
the
name
and
visa
number.

Naturally,
we
wondered
about
him.
Was
he
a
relative?
A
friend?
A
neighbour?
Perhaps
a
lover?
Such
people
sometimes
surface
post
humously
.
We’ve
run
into
all
of
them
before.
Yet
in
this
case
it
was
none
of
the
above.
To
our
surprise,
the
man
had
not
even
known
the
deceased.
He
was
the
personnel
manager
of
the
Jerusalem
bakery
in
which
the
victim,
an
unattached
temporary
resident,
had
found
work
as
a
cleaning
woman.
For
days
no
one
had
noticed
she
was
missing,
and
the
company
now
wished
to
make
up
for
the
oversight
by
helping
with
the
funeral
arrangements.

The
man’s
request
that
we
allow
the
bakery
to
be
of
assistance,
discreetly
and
without
publicity,
was
more
than
welcome;
it
lightened
our
otherwise
gloomy
meeting.
We
immediately
directed
him
to
another
room
with
a
representative
of
the
Immigration
Ministry,
who
elicited
all
he
knew
about
the
dead
woman
and
took
down
his
phone
number
and
address
for
further
contact.
Later
we
learned
that
he
was
divorced
and
living
with
his
mother
–
hardly
an
earthshaking
revelation.