A Woman in Jerusalem (20 page)

“Six hundred is doable, too. How long will it take? Two days at the most.”

“You’ll never do it in two days. Get that out of your head. You’re in the wrong world again. The roads here are terrible.”

“Let’s say three. Even four. I’m taking this boy to his grandmother.”

“And what will we do with it while you’re taking him?”

“Do with what?”

“The coffin.”

“We’ll take it with us. There’s no choice. We’ll bring the woman back to the village she was born in. The boy and his grandmother will bury her there. Isn’t that the right, the natural thing to do?”

“It’s a noble idea!” exclaimed the weasel, who had been following the argument with interest. “It’s absolutely the right thing to do.”

“Will you come with us?”

“Of course.” The weasel smiled. “While steering clear of you, of course.”

“Yes. Do that.”

The consul, however, looked askance at this unexpected proposal. The visitors from Israel did not know what kind of country they were in.

“Why look for trouble? Let’s bury her here. We can bring the grandmother to the grave next summer. Our consulate has no budget for your trip.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll pay for it. It’s cheaper than a helicopter.”

“Especially a nonexistent one.”

Relieved at having at least shot down the helicopter, the consul turned to the ex-husband, who was anxiously awaiting an explanation. The boy and the driver listened, too. As the father frowned and shook his head in disapproval, his son slipped free of him and skipped lightly to the emissary, his face
bright with excitement. Full of emotion, he leaned towards the hand of the head of personnel which he brushed lightly with his Tartar eyes before planting a grateful kiss on it. Then he straightened up: he was almost as tall as his startled benefactor. Behind him, the greenish fog through which the nearby city gleamed, was lifting. With this new warmth in his veins, the emissary felt the cold’s iron grip weaken. Uncertain how to respond to the wordless gratitude of a youngster labelled a juvenile delinquent, he touched the pilot’s cap and smiled in bewilderment, as the photographer popped another flash-bulb.

The consul was still upset. Apart from wanting her breakfast, she had counted on getting rid of the corpse that same morning. There was a small church near the cemetery in which she had planned to hold a ceremony before noon, followed by a lunch for the mourners at the government’s expense; beyond that her responsibility did not extend. Now the human resources manager had made her call everything off. She urgently needed to consult her husband. If only he had been there, he might have nipped it all in the bud.

Going to the locked door of the terminal, she shook it more vigorously than would have been permitted to someone without diplomatic immunity. It was opened by a policeman, to whom she explained that a next-of-kin had been found, a young man who was prepared to claim the coffin and vouch for its burial in his mother’s village. The policeman went to wake the officer – who, only too pleased to return the woman to her native soil, hurriedly put on his uniform and produced the requisite forms. Since the young man was none too adept at reading or writing, the consul helped him fill these out. Then the papers were presented to the ex-husband for his approval.

Meanwhile, the imminent arrival of another flight and its subsequent takeoff had brought the little airport back to life.
Departing travellers and welcome parties mingled noisily and the small buffet opened its doors, filling the air with cigarette smoke and the smell of coffee and pastries. With a reassuring whirr of propellers, a converted military transport touched down smoothly on the tarmac, and the policemen dusted off their uniforms and donned their caps. Soon the disembarking passengers were pushing baggage trollies through the terminal, among them – lo and behold! – the consul’s husband. Smiling and spruce-looking, his steely curls piled high on his head, the freed hostage wheeled out a trolley with the leather suitcase and the two gift boxes from the bakery.

“Where’s the coffin?” the worried consul asked.

“The coffin,” her husband sighed, “we will have to carry out. Now that they know we’re taking it, they want nothing more to do with it. I suppose it must unnerve them … not that I’m any judge. I’ve never felt more peaceful than I did beside it.”

“Let’s first fortify ourselves with something to eat and drink,” the consul said.

Her shrewd husband, however, advised otherwise. “That can wait until we get home. The coffin has to be moved before the airport shuts down again. We don’t want a new officer go through the whole thing again.”

He explained the task to the engineer and his son and asked the resource manager, “What do you think? There are four of us, not counting my wife. Can we manage by ourselves without the driver?”

“Why send for the driver,” the emissary replied, “when the two men who got me into this predicament are standing here doing nothing?”

The journalist and the photographer good-naturedly agreed to lend a hand. Then the five adults and the boy descended to the cubicle in the basement. Resourcefully finding a way to fit the coffin through the narrow door, they started up the stairs bearing it on their shoulders, dutifully following the
instructions
of the consul’s husband. The coffin was heavy. Having spent time with it in private, the resource manager was not
alarmed by the coffin’s metal edge that cut into his shoulder, although he could sense the boy’s nervousness as he came into contact with it for the first time. The youngster would have lost his grip and stumbled, bringing them all down with him, had not his father pushed him out of the way.

The five of them climbed on, the consul’s husband and the dead woman’s ex-husband holding up the coffin’s front end, the journalist and the photographer carrying the rear. In the middle, by himself, was the emissary, the human resources manager of the company that had forgotten the woman’s existence. Anyone less expert than the old farmer, who directed them in two languages at once, might not have brought them safely up the stairs. They proceeded carefully, taking each step and turn with care. A sour smell accompanied them. The resource manager was not sure whether it came from the coffin or from the unwashed body of the boy, who had chosen to stick close to him and once or twice to reach out a helping hand.

“If I’m not steering clear enough of you,” the weasel panted behind him, “don’t complain. This was your idea …”

The human resources manager snorted. Unable to turn around, he could think of no rejoinder. He had to keep his eyes on the stairs, at the top of which, as they neared the exit, the light was growing brighter.

We
were
waving
goodbye
to
the
departing
passengers
when
a
metal
coffin
passed
by
on
the
shoulders
of
five
pallbearers.
We
watched
them
carefully
place
it
in
a
van
and
asked
with
a
catch
in
our
throats:
Who
died?
Where?
Where
is
the
body
being
taken?

When
we
were
told
it
was
a
local
woman
murdered
in
Jerusalem,
we
crossed
ourselves
and
prayed
for
her
eternal
rest
and
resurrection.
One
of
the
pallbearers,
a
photographer,
hastened
to
record
our
prayer
with
his
camera.

The old van’s wheels spun in the snow, then broke free. The consul and her husband sat by the driver. The coffin was in
the back. On one side of it were the boy and his father – who, though relieved of all responsibility for its burial, still hoped for compensation. On the other side, more intimately than he would have liked, the resource manager sat squeezed between the weasel and the photographer. Those two still hadn’t got over their good fortune in the dramatic new turn their story had taken.

The ride into town wasn’t long. Even so, when the consul complained of having to miss breakfast because of her
husband’s
impatience, the resource manager didn’t hesitate. Opening a carton, he took out the bread and cake.

The baked goods took everyone by surprise, as much by their freshness as by their unexpected appearance. The hungry consul was not alone in asking for seconds. The boy wanted more, too, perhaps feeling that it brought him closer to his mother. To the distress of the resource manager, who wished to leave something for the grandmother, their appetites, sharpened by the cold, clear morning, quickly polished off the carton. At least, he thought, the old man will be delighted to know what a hit his products were. Reaching for his phone, he dialled Jerusalem despite the early hour, certain the owner would be happy to hear from him. The housekeeper,
recognizing
his voice and aware of his mission, reported that the master had gone to synagogue for Sabbath services and would be back soon.

“Services?” The human resources manager was astonished. “I’ve worked for him for over ten years and never seen an ounce of religion in him.”

“What you see from up close you don’t see from afar,” the housekeeper
answered sententiously, and offered to take a message. But the resource manager did not wish to reveal his new plan – certainly not in English – to an Indian
housekeeper
. He asked her to inform the owner that his products had been appreciated and promised to call again later.

The journalist, having helped to carry the coffin, had become a character in his own story and now felt entitled to ask for the use of the phone, a handy instrument if ever he had
seen one. Not wishing to appear stingy, the resource manager gritted his teeth and let the weasel chatter with friends and family while the white stone buildings of the city drew nearer. How, he wondered, would his mission, of whose moral sublimity he felt more and more convinced, look in the pages of the weekly?

The weasel was still bantering over the phone as they entered the city, a provincial capital. Their first stop was the large building that housed the consulate – that is, the consul and her husband’s apartment. After backing carefully into the courtyard, they unloaded the coffin, placed it in a shady corner among the garbage cans and piles of firewood, and covered it with a tarpaulin.

The time had come for their little group to split up. The emissary would ascend with the consul to her apartment. The consul’s husband and the driver would go to make
arrangements
for the expedition to the dead woman’s village – the former planned to take the letter from Central Pathology to a doctor who could tell him how long a trip the corpse might withstand; the latter had to look for snow tyres. The journalist and the photographer were to be dropped off at a small hotel and the boy left at his father’s to prepare for the journey to his grandmother’s. They would soon be reunited, all except for the ex-husband – who, his role ended, must now part from them all. This was more easily said than done, however: he clutched his son as if hoping to trade him for a bounty paid out by a world that had done nothing but betray him. Sensing his despondency, the human resources manager offered him the second carton as a farewell gift. “What’s in it?” asked the man in surprise, reaching into his pocket for a jackknife and slitting the cardboard top. He quickly went through the pads, notebooks, and binders and feverishly ransacked the carton’s bottom; then, eyes burning with humiliation, he spat and swore roundly. The consul and her husband hastened to calm him.

“What did he say? What does he want?”

The man, so it seemed, was enraged more by the affront to
his ex-wife’s dignity than by any to his own. She had been an engineer, like him, with a diploma – how could the resource manager have made her stoop to the level of a cleaning woman?

“I made her?”

“In your capacity as personnel manager,” the consul said.

“And what did you tell him?”

“That he should be grateful she was given a job at all and not thrown into the street when her boyfriend left her.”

The resource manager shook his head. “That’s not what you should have said,” he declared, with a compassionate glance at the ex-husband, who was still holding on to his son. Seen in the shadows of the courtyard, the boy’s exquisitely formed features made the emissary feel slightly drunk. If I’m not careful, he thought, his father won’t let him come with us. The man needs encouragement. Taking out his wallet, he extracted several large bills and held them out. As the
ex-husband
reached for them, the photographer’s camera flashed. The consul and her husband exchanged worried glances. The driver, standing to one side, turned pale. The ex-husband was speechless. Although he had hoped for more than notebooks and writing implements, he hadn’t dreamed of anything like this.

“That’s way too much,” the consul whispered to the resource manager. “You’ll spoil them.”

“Never mind …” The emissary smiled and stuffed the bills into the engineer’s jacket pocket, as much to forestall any objection to his son’s joining their expedition as to draw a final line between him and the dead woman. The man seemed well aware of his role in the bargain. Without even a
thank-you
, he took the crumpled bills, straightened them one by one, counted them silently in front of everyone, and slipped them sombrely into his wallet before murmuring a few choked words.

“What did he say?”

“That the money is his by right. Just imagine!”

“Perhaps it is,” the resource manager said generously. He
laid a hand on the engineer’s shoulder and patted the boy’s head. “You’ll use up all of your film,” he warned the photographer.