A Woman in Jerusalem (21 page)

“Don’t worry. I brought lots more.”

“He has to shoot a thousand frames,” the journalist said, “to find one he likes. And that’s always the one the editor rejects.”

The consul’s apartment, though old and small, was pleasantly domestic. Taking off her fur coat and wool cap, she went to the bedroom and returned in a colourful house robe that lent a touch of exuberance to her tall, peasantlike figure. After all the bread and cake she was still hungry, and she now went to the kitchen to prepare a late but proper breakfast for herself and her guest. Brandishing a knife as she appeared and disappeared in the kitchen doorway, she told the resource manager about the consulate as he sat sprawled on a creaky, none too steady couch. Basically, her position was honorary. When their farm in Israel failed, during the last recession, she and her husband had decided to get back on their feet by returning to their native land. To avoid the appearance of outright emigration at a time of daily terror attacks, they had proposed establishing, in exchange for the rent, an Israeli consulate that would provide services and advise the occasional tourist who came here from Israel or the even rarer local resident who wished to visit it. Now and then they also had to deal with dead bodies, which travelled in both directions.

“Dead bodies from here, sent to Israel?” The resource manager was amazed. “You mean that happens, too?”

“Of course. An Israeli mountain climber can get killed in a fall, or a hiker may freeze to death in a river. Or else someone is careless enough to be murdered in shady circumstances. This is a big, varied country. It may be poor and primitive, but it’s also fabulously beautiful, especially in summer and autumn. It’s a shame you had to come at this time of year …”

The manager snorted. So did the couch beneath him. No one had asked at what time of year he would like to visit. His own desires had been irrelevant …

“I wouldn’t say that,” the consul retorted, breaking egg after egg into a large frying pan as if she still had a henhouse next door. “It was you who convinced that boy – if you ask me, by the way, he’s not half so innocent as you think – to bury his mother in her village. If you hadn’t offered to pay the costs and go yourself, the only grandmother he would have seen this winter would have been the one in his dreams. Not that I have anything against it if you have the time and money and want to be generous. You might even cross a few frozen rivers yourself … Well, go and wash, then we’ll eat. I’d planned to go out for a good meal after the funeral, as is the custom here, but what’s done is done. You’ve made a mess of things.”

The consul’s hearty appetite infected the emissary, too. She plied him with a local aquavit, and his head spun as though he were on a ship’s ladder in a stormy sea. When his conversation began to flag, the consul offered him her bed to nap in; she wouldn’t hear of it when he suggested that he sleep on the creaky couch. Yes, she was tired, too, having hardly slept all night. But the emissary, who had had a long flight, came first. It was her consular duty to see that he got some rest. Once he’d closed the shutters, turned out the lights, and crawled under the blankets, Israel and its problems would seem far away. “Off with you to the bedroom, then! There’s no time to lose. They’ve forecast a bad storm. You’ll have to get an early start to stay ahead of it.”

Although the resource manager had a horror of other people’s double beds, he was grateful for the chance to get away from the consul’s chatter and make a few telephone calls. He just didn’t want her changing any sheets or
pillowcases
for him. A blanket and a small pillow were all he needed. He would kick off his shoes and sleep in his clothes.

“If that’s all it takes to put you to sleep, be my guest,” the consul said, yielding with maternal resignation. “Just take your suitcase and bag, so that I don’t end up tripping over them.”

She handed him a pillow and spread the blanket while he asked whether she was coming with them.

“Absolutely not! My consular duties ended at the airport. I confirmed that the family has taken possession of the coffin and plans to bury it. Any decision to humour that boy is your affair, not the consulate’s. I’ve done my bit. I’m just curious to know why you’ve got so involved. Is it guilt towards the mother – or something about the boy himself?”

“Then perhaps your husband might join us.” The resource manager dodged the consul’s question, feeling suddenly worried. “How will we manage with no knowledge of the language? We won’t even be able to communicate with our driver …”

“My husband is no longer a young man. He doesn’t owe the government anything.”

“The government has nothing to do with this. I’ll pay him for his time and effort.”

“You will?”

“Of course. Generously …”

“Then that’s another story.”

The consul’s spirits appeared to soar. Going briskly to the window, she drew the curtain, switched on a reading lamp above the bed, and shut the door behind her, urging the emissary to sleep well.

There was silence at last. But his satellite phone needed recharging. The journalist had drained the battery with his chatter. Moreover, the only electrical outlet in the room was antique and did not fit the plug, so he abandoned the idea of calling the old owner, who might finish off the battery completely with his objections to their planned trip, and dialled his mother instead. His conversations with her were always to the point. To his delight, his daughter was there too, having decided to spend the night at her grandmother’s in her father’s empty bed. Rather than ask her about herself, as he usually did, he told her of his experiences, describing the snow and ice and the long trip ahead of them with the orphaned boy – a nice-looking teenager, as he had expected, but
highly-strung
and full of anger at his mother’s death. His daughter hung on every word and wanted to know more.

The unexpected conversation cheered him. But his phone was beeping a warning, so he switched it off, disconnecting himself from the world, then turned off the reading lamp, pulled up the blanket, and tried to fall asleep. On a shelf in the darkness, the glass figurines of cows, horses, chickens, and sheep, mementos of a lost farm, shone with a reddish gleam. He thought worriedly of the coffin standing by itself in the courtyard.
What
a
turn
of
events,
he mused ruefully.
A
foreign
woman
ten
years
older
than
myself,
whom
I
can’t
even
remember,
has
become
my
sole
responsibility.
National
Insurance
has
closed
her
file,
her
ex-husband
has
turned
his
back
on
her,
her
lover
disappeared
long
ago,
and
even
the
consul
no
longer
wishes
to
represent
her.
That
leaves
me
in
a
cold,
primitive
land
in
the
company
of
two
journalists
who
think
I’m
a
story,
led
by
a
teenage
boy
I’m
not
sure
I
can
handle.
How
could
I
have
known
last
Tuesday,
when
I
promised
to
take
this
woman
on
my
back,
that
she
would
weigh
as
much
as
she
does?

He threw off the blanket, walked to the window without switching on the light, and carefully opened the shutters in the hope of sighting the courtyard below. It took a while to spot the coffin, still beneath its tarpaulin. A crowd of curious children had gathered around it. Apparently aware, so it seemed, of what was in it, an elderly tenant was standing guard to ward them off. The resource manager felt grief for the woman, dumped like a nobody in the ugly courtyard of a strange building. Had he done the right thing by prolonging her last journey? Might it not have been wiser to have kept silent at the airport and let father and son work things out for themselves? Perhaps the boy would have given in; by now the woman would have been buried and it would all be over, the Jerusalem weekly would have its story and the old owner’s humanity would be restored.

If only those Tartar eyes hadn’t brushed his hand as the young lips touched it! He now had a clear notion of what the cleaning woman must have looked like. For the first time since his involvement in the affair, he felt obliged not only to see it through all the way to the end but also to
feel
it all the way, too.

He closed the shutters, returned to the consular bed, buried his face in the velvet pillow with a slight feeling of nausea, and covered himself again. It was late in the day when the loud, merry voice of the consul’s returning husband woke him.

He slipped into his shoes, folded the blanket, straightened the bedcover, and entered the living room. The consul and her husband were sitting down to another meal.

“You’re all set.” The old farmer’s blue eyes twinkled. “We’ve found you a good four-by-four vehicle with snow tyres for the roughest roads. The doctor and I had a look at the document you brought. It could use some literary editing, but its contents are encouraging.”

“Meaning?”

“That she’s been properly embalmed and is in no rush to be buried. You can travel to the ends of the earth with her. That’s no cause for concern.”

“Then what is?”

“The storm that’s on its way.”

“Your wife …” The resource manager felt a nervous flutter. “She must have told you how much I’d like you to come with us. You can be in charge. That way I’d have a private consul of my own …”

“He’s already my private consul,” said the consul
affectionately
, stroking her husband’s silver curls.

“In a manner of speaking,” the husband chuckled, planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek.

“Naturally, you’d be compensated for your time and effort.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the old farmer said. “I’d do it for nothing, out of sheer sympathy and curiosity. But if you want to pay me, why not?”

“I’ll pay handsomely.” The emissary was moved. “I’ve had faith in you from the moment I met you.”

The consul smiled and put another dumpling on her husband’s plate. “If you have faith in me too,” she said, “you’ll pull up a chair and eat some solid food. Do you hear that wind? It’s getting stronger and whispering, ‘It’s time to get going.’”

Tell
us,
you
hard
people:
After
desecrating
the
Holy
Land
and
turning
murder
and
destruction
into
a
way
of
life,
by
what
right
do
you
now
trample
on
our
feelings?
Is
it
because
you
and
your
enemies
have
learned
to
kill
each
other
and
yourselves
with
such
crazy
impunity,
bombing
and
sowing
endless
destruction,
that
you
think
you
can
leave
a
coffin,
with
no
explanation
or
permission,
in
the
courtyard
of
an
apartment
building
in
someone
else’s
country
and
disappear
without
so
much
as
a
by-your-leave?

How
could
you
have
failed
to
think
of
our
children,
suddenly
faced,
among
garbage
cans
and
gas
canisters,
with
an
anonymous
death
not
hallowed
by
flowers
or
prayers?
Didn’t
you
think
of
the
nightmares
they
might
have?
Of
the
questions
they
might
ask
us?
Heartless
though
you
are,
you
must
know
that
only
a
clever
neighbour
with
the
wits
to
shield
them
kept
their
play
from
turning
into
horror.

And
what
were
we
supposed
to
do?
How
were
we
to
protect
ourselves?
By
calling
some
numskull
of
a
policeman
and
bribing
him
to
believe
that
we
had
nothing
to
do
with
it?
How
could
we
prove
that
a
corpse
that
turned
up
one
Saturday
afternoon
in
our
courtyard
belonged
to
no
one?

There
was
nothing
to
do
but
clench
our
teeth
and
look
out
of
our
windows
until
you
returned.
At
dusk
you
came
breezing
back
in
an
armoured
vehicle
from
some
ancient
war.
We
recognized
you
at
once:
hardened
foreigners,
a
race
of
cunning
wanderers
who
–
again
without
explaining
yourselves
–
loaded
the
coffin
onto
a
trailer
and
disappeared
into
the
darkness.
The
dictators
who
ran
our
lives
until
recently
behaved
the
same
way.

And
even
afterwards,
oddly
enough,
we
felt
no
relief.
A
faint,
inexplicable
sorrow
continued
to
gnaw
at
us.
We
still
didn’t
know
whose
body
it
was
or
how
it
had
died.
Where
had
it
come
from?
Where
was
it
going?
Our
biggest
grievance
against
you
is:
Why
did
you
make
off
with
it
so
quickly?

It wasn’t easy for the two journalists to set out on such short notice from a small hotel in which they had made themselves at home. Yet in a winter like this they could never have
managed to reach the grandmother’s village on their own. Moreover, they knew that a coffin’s voyage over distant steppes, undertaken at the whim of an orphaned boy, would grip their readers more than a mere grieving old woman reunited with her dead daughter.

The transportation offered them was better than they had expected, the driver having convinced the consul’s husband – now promoted by the human resources manager to full acting consul – to rent, not a minibus, but a converted army-surplus personnel carrier. Square and steel-plated, it had huge wheels that kept it well off the treacherous ground; to enter it they had to use a ladder. Though its exterior was still combat grey, great pains had been taken to refashion it comfortably within. It had been stripped of its battle stations and given wide,
well-upholstered
seats, baggage racks, and overhead lights. Inside, all that remained of its military past were the silent green dials on its dashboard and two tripods welded to the floor. The trailer bearing the woman’s coffin had no doubt once been used to transport a heavy mortar or ammunition crates.

The driver had been reinforced as well. The acting consul, who wore his wife’s warm red wool cap as the badge of his promotion, had acceded to the young man’s request and drawn on the emissary’s generous expense account to hire a second driver, who just happened to be the first driver’s elder brother. An expert navigator and mechanic, he urged the group to set out without delay and use the night time to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the approaching storm.

The resource manager, unfamiliar with local prices, had no idea what all this would cost. Yet the fact that the pittance he had paid the embittered ex-husband had sufficed to make the man drop all complaints encouraged him to think that in this case, too, the expense would not be great. For a reasonable sum he would restore the owner’s humanity, which had been maligned by the journalist who now joined the photographer in admiring the converted carrier.

“But where’s the child?” the resource manager asked
anxiously, concerned that the handsome youngster might have vanished at the last moment.

“Child?” The new consul objected to the term. “Is that what you take him for? Wait till you see where we’re about to pick him up. You can tell me then whether you think he’s a child …”

The city’s streets were broad and deserted. There were few pedestrians and the shops were closed, because of the night or, perhaps, the storm. The high-placed headlights of the vehicle were reflected by the stairways and entrances of monumental buildings decorated with turrets and spires and guarded by bearded sentinels in sheepskin coats. A group of middle-aged, snugly wrapped women with shopping baskets stood silently on a corner, awaiting transportation back to their village.

On the outskirts of town, the party entered a parking lot. It belonged to an abandoned factory, beside which piles of
unidentifiable
raw materials lay rotting. A loudspeaker attached to a tall chimney blasted earsplitting disco music. The
powerfully
built mechanic, doubting the consul’s competence in such matters, went inside and emerged a few minutes later with the delicately built boy in tow. The young man’s face had an alcoholic flush; he carried a small backpack and was dressed in the same pilot’s hat and overalls he’d worn that morning. They seated him in the back among the bags and suitcases and told him to keep an eye on his mother’s coffin, which, though firmly connected to the trailer, might be jolted loose.

The boy glanced with wonder at the vehicle, pleased at having brought so elaborate a scheme into being. He still had the same sour smell. The weasel made a face. “Gentlemen,” he murmured, “if we don’t make this young Adonis take a bath at our first stop, we’ll have to cease breathing.” The emissary saw the boy redden. We have to be careful, he thought. He must still know some Hebrew from his time spent in Jerusalem. “
Shalom
,”
he said, giving the youngster a friendly smile to make him feel at ease. “I’ll bet,” he added, “that’s one word you still remember.” Yet the boy only grew
redder and said nothing, and cast his handsome eyes glumly downwards as if even one word from the city that had killed his mother was too much for him. Slowly he turned to look behind him, as much at the first dark signs of the storm, which was now blotting out the fading city on the horizon, as at the coffin bobbing up and down in the reddish glare of the taillights.

From the outset, the older driver took the younger one, who seemed glad to yield to his authority, under his wing. It was clear that he would decide on their route, which he did by choosing a longer one with better and more-travelled roads. Once assured that his brother had mastered the controls, he turned his attention to the decommissioned dials on the dashboard, determined to put them back in working order. The consul, having had experience with machinery as a farmer, joined in the effort and soon brought a dial back to life; although its purpose remained a mystery, its steady flicker cheered them all. Although the vehicle handled roughly and noisily, its gears letting out a double groan when shifted and its huge wheels jouncing for no apparent reason, they felt they had embarked safely on a real adventure. Not even the yellow gleam of the distant storm in the rearview mirror, which the mechanic pointed out as if he were a radiologist reading a worrisome X-ray, could dampen their spirits.

The darkness thickened. The road, though otherwise a relatively good one, was full of potholes. The emissary, turning to glance at the boy whose handsome face was now invisible, saw that the journalist had switched on his light and was making notes.

“If not for that smear job of yours,” he said without anger, “I’d be in a warm bed now instead of bouncing around in the cold.”

“In bed? So early?” The journalist smiled and shut his notebook. “That’s a bit of a stretch. It’s eight p.m. here, which means the Sabbath has just ended in Jerusalem. From what I know, that’s your bar time, not your bedtime.”

“You even trailed me to the bars?”

“I didn’t. He did.” He pointed to the photographer. “He needed a picture.”

“He should have taken a better one.”

“What’s wrong with the one he took? It’s realistic.”

“Look who’s talking about reality,” snarled the human resources manager.

“I believe in it and aim for it. Why should you care about your picture in the paper? No one will think more or less of you because of it. Only your actions will determine that. To tell the truth, I’m beginning to think more of you myself.”

“You are? I’m honoured!” The resource manager was sarcastic. “Finally, I stand a chance with you. Just what is it you think so much of, may I ask?”

“Your ability to discern the plot of this story.”

“Which is?”

“Bringing this cleaning woman to a grave in her native village. That’s the kind of humanity I feel proud of. I feel proud of my own too, of course.”

“Just a minute. What does your humanity have to do with this?”

“Whose if not mine? Don’t dismiss what I’ve done this time. Over the years I’ve written dozens of angry articles. I’ve attacked people and institutions. Until now, I never
accomplished
a thing. The libel suits I was threatened with may have been dropped, but those who threatened me went on looking right through me. They read what I wrote and said, ‘No comment.’”

“That’s what I told the owner to say, too.”

“It’s to his credit that he didn’t listen to you. This is the first time an article of mine, dashed off late at night, has changed anything. It led not only to an admission of guilt from a large bakery, but to action. Believe me, that’s made me an optimist again. An idea born in my brain has us all headed for the ends of the earth in an armoured vehicle. You must admit that for a weasel, that’s not bad … By the way, take a look at these tripods. You’re an ex-military man – what do you think they were for? They must be from the First World War. You’ll see,
my friend! You’ll see what I make of all this! The editor has promised me a third of the issue if I bring him a story with some punch …”

“I hope you’ll at least acknowledge that it’s courtesy of the company you slandered.”

The weasel laughed good-naturedly.

“I may – and then again, I may not. So what if all this was paid for by a company that will only increase its profits as a result?”

“I thought you took pride in being objective.”

“Objectivity is a point of view. If you have it, nothing can destroy it. I’m here to report on how a businessman came to regret the callousness with which his company treated its workers and decided on a goodwill gesture of atonement. But since he also knows that if the gesture isn’t publicized it hasn’t happened, he’s saddled you with a photographer and a journalist to make sure his atonement is remembered on earth as well as in heaven. And with my help it will be, because I’ll write that there are still decent men in this depraved world who can accept legitimate criticism. You yourself are not only a private individual in my story, you’re a symbol. An aloof executive, a former army officer oblivious of the fact that a cleaning woman killed by terrorists went on collecting her pay packet, is now on his way to do penance, braving a winter storm on an expedition to a far land where he will beg forgiveness on bended knee.”