A Woman in Jerusalem (18 page)

Still,
even
if
none
of
us
wants
to
admit
it,
it’s
just
as
well
that
something
happens
now
and
then
to
break
the
boredom.
A
town
like
ours
can
get
pretty
depressing;
our
little
airport
never
sees
the
fine
ladies
and
gentlemen
who
fly
around
the
world
in
the
movies.
We’re
in
the
sticks
out
here.
There
are
five
flights
a
day
and
each
takes
off
again
right
after
landing.
The
passengers
disappear
quickly.
At
our
airport
there
are
no
shops,
no
businesses.
Even
the
little
caf
é
that
opens
for
each
flight
shuts
down
again
at
once.
The
only
exercise
the
waitresses
get
is
in
the
officers’
beds.
And
how
long
can
anyone
drag
out
the
pointless
inspections
of
the
new
arrivals
and
their
luggage?
A
coffin,
you
have
to
admit,
is
more
interesting
and
comes
with
some
action.
Provided,
of
course,
that
it’s
disposable.

But
here
comes
the
officer,
jumped
out
of
bed
with
a
new
medal
on
his
chest,
bought
last
week
in
the
market.
He’s
telling
the
policeman
on
duty
to
move
over
so
that
he
can
check
the
passports
himself
and
sniff
out
any
rat.
It
takes
someone
with
experience
to
pick
out
at
a
glance
the
culprit
who’s
trying
to
slip
away.

Well, what of it, thought the emissary when he was taken out of line and asked – most politely, to be sure – to report to the baggage terminal. The consul will soon come to relieve me of this responsibility that I should never have taken upon myself. And if she’s late, I have my satellite phone. Besides, I’m not alone. The journalist and his photographer don’t have a story without me.

He was not and never had been a coward, neither in the army nor in his travels as a salesman, and so it was with confidence that he descended to the baggage terminal in the basement of the airport – a converted military base – and
strode down its narrow corridors. With an expression of amusement he followed an officer into a grim-looking cubicle that might have been a room for transit, interrogation, or even detention. Putting down his carry-on bag, he took the liberty of sinking into a chair, as if he had just covered the distance from the Holy Land on foot, meanwhile hastening to wave his three baggage stubs as a way of requesting the rest of his luggage. Only when the leather suitcase and two cartons arrived and he identified them with a nod did he consent to show the document in his possession. Whatever was in it, he assumed it would be enough to begin the negotiations that the consul would conclude.

Absorbed in reading, the officer absentmindedly fingered his new medal. A red ribbon, tied to his cap by his latest lover, dangled before his eyes. It was impossible to tell whether he found the document intriguing or simply too difficult to follow. Just then, though, the deep silence in the cubicle, which was definitely beginning to seem like a detention room, was broken by footsteps and the sound of something heavy being dragged. Cries of warning mingled with stifled laughter. The door burst open and the coffin entered slowly, gripped by four policemen under the direction of an old porter.

The resource manager shut his eyes and breathed deeply.
Just
keep
calm,
he told himself.
Think
of
the
funny
story
this
will
make
one
day.
The
bars
have
now
closed
in
Jerusalem.
If
that
woman
I
was
hoping
to
meet
came
looking
for
me,
she’s
found
someone
else
by
now.
But
that’s
all
right,
too.
I’m
on
a
short,
simple
mission
and
I
only
need
to
wait
patiently
for
the
consul.
She’ll
come,
no
doubt
about
that.
I’ve
mentioned
her
twice
to
this
officer,
who
has
almost
finished
reading
the
letter.
Even
if
her
name
meant
nothing
to
him,
her
title
speaks
for
itself.
“
Consul”
is
an
international
word
and
an
old
one.
There
were
consuls
in
Roman
times.

The officer rose and folded the document. He briefly debated what to do with it, then returned it with a slight bow, said something in his own language, and signalled to the resource manager that he would return shortly, then departed, after unexpectedly locking the door behind him.

The human resources manager rose and took out his satellite phone, which he had shielded until now from possibly covetous eyes. Trying not to look at the coffin, which seemed to loom larger and larger, he dialled the consul. The line was crystal-clear and the call was answered by the consul’s husband, who, it turned out, also served as her aide-de-camp. His calm baritone inspired trust: it was the voice of an old, experienced hand. “Ah, it’s you! At last! We’ve been waiting for a sign of life from you. It’s a good thing those two journalists told us you were on the plane. Otherwise, we’d have thought that you’d missed the flight and the coffin had come without you. Don’t worry, though. We’re here in the airport. Everything is under control. My wife inquired why you had been separated from the other passengers. It’s actually quite simple. There’s nothing mysterious or personal there. A few months ago there was a problem with a coffin from Israel that no one came forward to claim. In the end, they had to bury it themselves. That’s why, when you made the mistake of saying you were this coffin’s chaperone, they were
determined
to keep you close by.”

“I didn’t say anything. They already knew – don’t ask me how. But it doesn’t matter. Just get us out of here.”

“Us?”

“Me and the coffin.”

“Of course. In a jiffy. We’re just waiting for a signed commitment from the family as to the time and place of the funeral. The coffin can’t be released without it.”

“But her husband … I mean her ex …” The flustered emissary had begun to stammer. “Isn’t he with you?”

“Of course. He’s right here. He’s prepared to go to the cemetery and do the honours right now. But he’s not the problem. It’s his son, who is refusing to cooperate. The boy insists that we wait for his grandmother. He doesn’t want his mother buried without her.”

“But where is she? Why didn’t you bring her too?”

“That’s the whole point. She lives far away and doesn’t know that her daughter is dead. She went on a pilgrimage to a
monastery several days ago and can’t be informed until she gets back.”

“But that will take time. How do you know when, or even whether, she can get here? Who gave the boy the right to decide?”

“He’s the next-of-kin. He’s authorized to sign for the coffin and its burial.”

“How can he be authorized at his age?”

“He is. Apart from the grandmother, he’s the only blood relation.”

“But how old is he?”

“Thirteen or fourteen, though he looks older. He’s not a child any more. And unfortunately, he’s a complicated type. There’s a delinquent side to him. It’s hard to know what’s going on inside him that’s making him so stubborn. He may be trying to extort additional benefits from our government. In any case, we can’t do anything without him.”

“But what about me?”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere in the baggage terminal. In a room with the coffin.”

“With the coffin? Those dumb police have gone too far. I’m terribly sorry … why didn’t you tell me before? The consul will have you released at once, or at least transferred elsewhere.”

“It’s no big deal. Just try to do it quickly.”

“Of course. The bastards have taken you hostage to cover their asses. But don’t worry, we’ll get you out of there. If they need a hostage, I’ll take your place.”

“I’m not worried. I’m fine and in no hurry. Just don’t forget me.”

“Of course we won’t. This is an excellent phone
connection
. Your voice sounds as if it were inside my head.”

“That’s because I’m using a satellite phone that doesn’t depend on the mercies of the local system. It’s plugged right into the sky.”

“Well, then, you have no cause for concern. Just give me
your number.”

The conversation having ended, the resource manager went over to the coffin. He had now devoted three whole days to this woman, labouring faithfully on her behalf after giving his impulsive word to make her anonymous death his business. So far he had kept it. Now, in a locked room, the two of them had finally met. Although it wasn’t the face-to-face encounter proposed to him in the morgue, it seemed intimate enough. It’s a pleasure to meet you, he smiled. I’m the manager of the bakery’s personnel department, better known as its human resources division – and you, Yulia Ragayev, having worked as a cleaning woman there, have all the rights of a terror victim as defined by National Insurance.

He placed a firm hand on the coffin to see what it was made of and to test the strength of its joints. A sleeping angel, the lab technician had called her. Was that just to goad him into identifying her, or had that expert on corpses truly detected in this one a rare, soul-stirring beauty? Now, it lay a few feet from its captive chaperone, itself a captive in the strangest of limbos, trapped between worlds, detained in a baggage terminal that was no longer in his country and not yet in hers. If he could open the coffin, he would gladly take a farewell look. Perhaps a close-up view would tell him if the Tartar eyes were real or imagined. The state of her body would not deter him. He was young and could take it. He had the pluck and imagination to reconstruct her beauty even if it was gone.

But suppose that the coffin, which had been pushed against the wall, was locked on its far side? And the room’s single window tall and set high in the wall, did not look as if it could be opened. What if there was a bad smell? He decided that it would be best to take his leave of her with words alone, in a musing, questioning eulogy. What did you want from us, Yulia? What did you hope to find in the hard, sad city that killed you? What kept you there when you could have gone home with your only son?

Had the lid of the coffin lifted and the woman inside it sat
up to reply, he would not have been fazed. After all, he had everything she might need. Her good clothes were in the suitcase for her; there was also cake and bread if she was hungry, and even notebooks, pens, and pencils she could use to jot down her impressions of dying while they were still fresh …

The satellite phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was the consul’s husband again, still worried about him. “If you’re feeling anxious, relax. We haven’t forgotten you. If we can’t get the little pain-in-the-ass to sign, we’ll find someone to relieve you by the coffin.”

“I’m not anxious and don’t you be, either,” the resource manager replied. “I never thought this mission would be simple. Take all the time you need. I’m fine for now.”

He looked for the light switch. Unable to find it, he put the two cartons on top of the suitcase, propped his feet on them, covered his eyes with the black eye mask he had been issued on the aeroplane, and lay back to get some rest.

The eye mask did its job, which was fortunate, because it took the consul’s husband a while to get him released. The suspicious officer, fearful of being saddled with another coffin, was loath to exchange his foreign hostage for a local one.

The resource manager was dozing when he felt a friendly hand on his shoulder. It belonged to the consul’s husband, a sturdy man of about seventy with a head of grey curls, who had come to keep his promise. An ex-farmer with hearty looks and a bluff manner, he seemed to have come straight from the fields. Pulling off his boots and shaking the snow and mud from them, he removed several layers of clothing, spread them casually on the coffin, took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, whipped out the weekend edition of a Hebrew paper that had arrived on the flight from Tel Aviv, and declared his readiness to settle in for the duration. Only then did the officer, persuaded the substitution was genuine, permit
the emissary to exchange the gloomy terminal for a foggy morning.