A Woman in Jerusalem (15 page)

Anyway,
he’s
sitting
in
his
corner
with
two
girls,
the
one
who
has
a
smile
for
everyone
and
the
good-looking
junkie
the
owner
can’t
get
rid
of,
and
an
older
man,
that
cultivated
fairy
who
likes
to
talk
to
him,
when
his
coat
starts
making
these
sounds.
It
was
obvious
he
didn’t
hear
it
and
we
yelled,
“Hey!
Don’t
you
know
your
own
cell phone?”
He
jumped
up
as
if
bitten
by
a
snake
and
answered
in
the
nick
of
time.
“Hang
on
a
second,
Miss,”
we
heard
him
shout,
“there’s
this
awful
music
here.”
He
ran
outside,
then
came
back
after
a
while
and
asked
for
his
bill.
We
haven’t
seen
him
since. 

The call had come from the representative of the Ministry of Immigration; she had remembered to keep him in the picture. Despite the late hour, she thought he should know the latest developments. The ex-husband had been informed and was demanding that the woman be buried in her native soil. Although he had neither the time nor desire to arrange for the funeral of someone he no longer cared about, he wanted it done for his son’s sake. He personally didn’t care if they buried his former wife where she had died. Yet since he had had the good sense to get their son out of “that hellhole,” as he scathingly referred to Israel, he felt the boy deserved to have his mother’s grave nearby rather than in a distant and permanently dangerous place.

“That’s the latest,” the efficient immigration ministry
representative
told him. She had already passed the information on to the National Insurance hotline, along with a request to have the body transferred immediately to Central Pathology, which alone was equipped to prepare it for a long journey. Barring unexpected complications at either end, it should be on its way in forty-eight hours, on a late Friday-night charter flight.

“I see you people know how to get things done.” Shivering from the cold, the human resources manager praised her with professional objectivity. Then, pressing the phone to his ear, he retreated to a side street to hear better and to avoid the curious stares of the pub’s security guard.

“Yes, we do,” the immigration ministry representative replied with a contented sigh, the golden traces of the exotic voice of her childhood accentuated for him the dreams night brings. Alas, she continued, in the past three years her section of the ministry had amassed much experience – although, to tell the truth, it was rare for a body to remain unidentified for so long. It had taken ten days from the time of the bombing to find her next-of-kin. That was far too long. It smacked of chaos and was bad for the country’s image. Now they had to make up for lost time, which was why she must know immediately whether the resource manager and his superiors still wished to be involved, even though the government
could finish the job without them. There was a budget for such things and a competent staff, and since nobody in the woman’s country had heard of the bakery or of any blunder on its part, there was no need for compensation or even an apology. If the resource manager and his company wanted to drop out now, no one would think any the worse of them. If they wished to be part of it, however, National Insurance and her ministry were both in favour of that. It was a lot to have to carry the burden of so much bereavement by themselves. She would appreciate an answer by tomorrow, plus a practical proposal if that answer was yes.

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.”

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.”