A Woman in Jerusalem (17 page)

On Friday morning he awoke earlier than usual and full of foreboding. Although he’d been determined to throw out the weekly without looking at it, his anger and curiosity got the better of him.

Not a word in the article had been changed. It was the same nasty piece he had read originally. Beneath a blurry
photograph
of him, like a knife in his heart, was the caption:
He
owes
his
job
to
his
divorce.
You
goddamn
weasel
,
he whispered.
You
and
your
goddamn
editor.

The owner’s response, in a black-bordered sidebar, was the same ninety-nine words he had seen over the office manager’s shoulder. Do not suppose, my dear and obedient lady, the resource manager thought, that all your English compositions and solved maths problems will keep me from making you pay for this …

He was about to throw the paper away when he noticed that there was indeed something new, a note from the editor expressing satisfaction with the owner of the company’s admission of guilt and promise to make amends. The editor wished to praise his very accomplished and courageous old friend by publicly disclosing that he had for years been supplying the weekly with newsprint at a favourable price. Although it was common to accuse the paper of
sensationalism
, what better proof could there be of the pure
professionalism
of its motives? What better defence of his own integrity than his willingness to criticize a company he depended on? The weekly would follow up on the bakery’s apology and generous pledge in its next issue.

This encomium for the old owner only heightened the resource manager’s resentment. The next issue? No, thank you. Count him out. He wasn’t giving any follow-ups. They could print their filth without him.

He crumpled the article, along with the rest of the
newspaper
, into a big ball and tossed it into the large wastepaper basket he had bought for the apartment on moving into it. “Don’t worry,” he told his startled mother. “It’s not your regular paper. It’s the weekly with that idiotic piece I showed you on Tuesday. I didn’t think you’d want to read it again.”

A seasoned traveller like him didn’t need to prepare
extensively
for this trip, so he had time to drop by the office. As the administration wing was mostly deserted on Fridays, he found no one there to tell about his mission. The old man’s office was empty, too, except for a young typist taking down voice mail messages.

Before returning to the parking lot, he decided to see what was new in the bakery. Perhaps the night shift supervisor had
been moved to the day shift to chill his ardour. Without having to be told, he asked for and put on his white cap and smock. Yet except for one, all the ovens were cold and empty and the production lines mostly silent. But the cleaning staff were out in force. Friday was the day when, besides tidying up as usual, they also scrubbed the machinery, in preparation for the full resumption of work on Saturday night. If that old puppy hadn’t fallen in love, the resource manager thought, there would be one more cleaning person here now, an earnest, lonely woman in her prime, with stunning Tartar eyes. No one on the work floor now lived up to her image.

Before leaving he took two warm loaves of hallah from a crate, remembering the special taste of the bread the night shift supervisor had given him. He would charge those to the owner too.

He returned home, ate lunch, put on his track suit, turned out the lights in his room, and lay down for a nap, even though he would be forgoing his weekend bar-hopping tonight. He had a 4 a.m. flight to catch to a cold, foreign land, and though he had a gift for dozing on aeroplanes, a few extra hours’ sleep wouldn’t hurt.

Indeed, he slept soundly, without disturbing dreams. The presence of his mother, asleep in the next room, made his slumbers even calmer. Rising, he packed his old carry-on bag, a small suitcase that could be taken as hand luggage, like an extension of himself, though it also had a secret compartment for extra capacity. He considered packing his overcoat in the suitcase with the woman’s belongings; but decided against blurring the line between the living and the dead (besides, if he forgot his coat and left it in there, it would become part of her estate). Then he drank a cup of English tea with his mother, eating a slice of the bakery’s bread instead of his usual cake; and went off to a downtown café for his weekly meeting with two married friends of his. This meeting was their way of reliving their bachelor days before taking up the family
obligations
of the Sabbath.

The winter was back. An overcast sky sprayed thin rain. He
returned to his mother’s and put on his army boots, thinking,
I’ll
consider
this
one
more
stint
of
reserve
duty,
then went to see the owner of the company. It was eight o’clock and the house was full of guests: grey-haired sons and daughters, fat
grandchildren
, and tall, stringy great-grandchildren. News of his mission must have preceded him, for he was received with warmth when introduced to a representative selection of the owner’s offspring. Then the two of them closeted themselves in a small library with a desk and couch, over which copies of the weekly were shamelessly scattered. The praise lavished by the editor on his newsprint supplier had banished all the accusations of inhumanity from the owner’s mind.

In response to his request, the resource manager was given a handsome leather case with a satellite phone – or did it work by starlight? – that came with a charger and a list of useful phone numbers, including that of Central Pathology, in case he was asked difficult questions. “Never fear and feel free to use it,” the old man commanded him, though every call would set him back five dollars per minute, not including the VAT. “Don’t economize for my sake. I’ll want to be part of every decision. My bank manager has informed me that you’ve already withdrawn a handsome sum. I like that. It’s the right approach. Always tell yourself: ‘The owner of the company is loaded. His family won’t starve when he dies.’”

He laid a cautious hand on the younger man’s overcoat, as if to see if it offered sufficient protection against the cold. Satisfied with its quality, he turned his attention to the question of a hat. Would his emissary like an old fur one. It looked cumbersome, but it might come in handy in a
snow-
storm
.

The resource manager declined. “Then at least,” said the owner, “leave your car in my garage. I’ll have my chauffeur drive you to the airport and help you with the extra packages.”

“What extra packages? All her things are in the suitcase.”

“Hers, but not ours. We’re sending her family a symbolic gift: a carton of stationery, notebooks, and binders, and
another of cakes, rolls, and our finest breadcrumbs and croutons. Let her friends and family, and especially her son, know where she worked and what she produced.”

“But she didn’t produce anything. She was a cleaning woman.”

“And isn’t our cleaning staff part of the production line?” the old man scolded. “You’re the last person I’d expect to hear that from.”

“Look, this is getting to be silly. I’m not lugging cakes and breads thousands of miles.”

“You won’t have to lug anything. You’re simply in charge of the shipment. The consul will be expecting you and will see to everything. I’ve spoken to her and she’ll happy to be of service.”

The resource manager threw up his hands. There could no longer be any doubt. Atonement was turning into lunacy.

“A well-intentioned lunacy, though,” the owner said. He smiled, steered the resource manager back to the noisy living room, and signalled to the chauffeur that it was time to set out for the airport. The chauffeur seemed so at ease with the owner’s family that the resource manager wondered if he might be a distant cousin or illegitimate grandson. The astonishing thought occurred to him that perhaps the old man was intending to adopt him too.

At the check-in counter he was handed, along with his boarding card, an envelope from the Ministry of Immigration. A note attached to it, addressed “To the Personnel Manager,” said, “As per your request to be kept in the picture.”

Touched, he went to sit in a far corner of the departure hall. I’m about to find out things about that woman that she never knew herself, he thought, opening the envelope and
extracting
with a momentary qualm a photocopy of the Central Pathology Institute’s medical report. Written in the Cyrillic alphabet, its crowded lines suggested that it was more than just
a death certificate. Most likely, it contained a description of her embalming.

The white pop of a flashbulb interrupted him. A passenger standing with his back to him had just taken a picture of the departure gate.

The charter flight was operated by a foreign airline. It was half full and offered only one class of service. Seated in the front, he surveyed the passengers filing by him, hoping to spot one who looked capable of both reading the medical report and keeping it confidential. Judging by their bags and packages, most of those boarding the aeroplane were either guest workers going home on holiday or new immigrants revisiting their native land. Even if he found someone to read the report, what were the chances that person could explain it to him in comprehensible Hebrew? And so he changed his mind and sat back in his seat, just as the passenger with the camera – now slung around his neck – passed him with a companion, a vaguely familiar-looking man who flashed him a smile.

And what did it really matter? What in the report might he need to know? The only detail of consequence was how long the body could remain unburied, which was in any case a problem for the consul, not for him. After takeoff he folded the document, stuck it in his pocket, released his safety belt, ate some of the tasteless meal, and switched off his reading light. He was unable, however, to relax. Suppose the consul wasn’t at the airport to greet him – what would he do then? Although the medical report endowed him with a measure of authority, he wasn’t sure it would be wise to display it.

He thought about the dead passenger in the baggage hold, which might be directly beneath him. Once again he
whispered
her name, as he had done that night in her shack.
Yulia
Ragayev
,
he murmured sternly, though not without pity.
Yulia
Ragayev,
what
more
must
I
do
for
you?

He rose and went to the toilet, glancing at the other passengers as he passed down the aisle. Most were asleep beneath their blankets. Even those with earphones seemed to be listening to the music in their dreams. As he groped his
way in the darkness, a man rose from his seat and threw an arm around him, blocking his progress.

“You called me a weasel?” It was the photographer’s
companion
. “Well, then, here I am, the whole beast from head to tail. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. This is my photographer. In the end we’ve met in the skies – and in a completely new spirit. We’ve come to cover your mission of atonement for our paper. Don’t worry, this time we’re on your side. We definitely won’t bite.”

A sleeping passenger opened his eyes and groaned. The resource manager stared down and said nothing. He wasn’t surprised. In fact, he had suspected as much. Shaking off the journalist’s embrace, he said in a steely voice:

“The honest reporter, eh? We’ll see if you’re capable of it. I’m warning you, though – you and your photographer had better steer clear of me.”

Before the journalist could reply, he found himself pushed lightly backwards. Continuing to the toilet, the resource manager locked the door and stared hard at the mirror. Had it been possible to use the satellite phone, he would have called Jerusalem to protest at the two stowaways. And yet he couldn’t deny that their presence also pleased him. The old man must have offered to pay their way. Anything to assure that his restored humanity be on the record, if only in a Jerusalem weekly that few read and even fewer thought about.

The resource manager put his shaving kit on the sink, lathered his face, and ran a razor over it. A predawn shave to make himself look presentable to his troops had always been his habit in the army.

Uh-oh!
Here
comes
another
coffin.
Quick,
go
and
get
an
officer
to
decide
what
to
do
with
it
before
it’s
too
late
again!
Should
we
send
it
back
to
the
plane
until
there’s
someone
to
receive
it
or
should
we
do
it
the
honour
of
taking
it
to
the
terminal?
Could
someone
please
tell
us
what’s
happening
over
there
in
the
Holy
Land?
Who
are
all
these
dead
they
keep
sending
us?
Is
it
some
kind
of
money-making
business?

Now
the
passengers
are
disembarking.
In
shock
from
the
cold,
they
run
for
the
little
bus.
Did
that
coffin
come
with
family
or
friends,
or
with
some
government
official,
so
that
we
don’t
have
a
repeat
of
the
last
time,
when
one
arrived
by
itself
and
sat
for
two
months
with
no
one
to
claim
it?
In
the
end
we
had
to
bury
it
ourselves,
next
to
the
runway.