A Woman in Jerusalem (22 page)

“Hey, go easy …” The human resources manager laughed. “If you don’t watch it you’ll end up on bended knee yourself, with your photographer taking a picture.”

“Now that’s an idea!” The journalist liked it. “If I can fit it into the story – why not? We’ll lift the lid of the coffin and give our readers a glimpse of death itself. An artistic one, shot with a zoom lens from a distance …”

“Don’t you dare!”

“What’s wrong now?”

“I’m warning you!” The resource manager’s amusement had turned to anger. “Don’t you dare think of opening the
coffin … do you hear me?”

“But why get worked up? I beg to remind you that having that woman on your payroll doesn’t make her your personal property … Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but you’re here as an escort, just like me. If she belongs to anyone, it’s to her son. He signed for her and he’ll decide. Suppose the grandmother wants to open the coffin for a farewell look, who’ll stop her? With all due respect to your expense account, you’re not the boss here.”

Anger was now becoming feverish hatred.

“I’m warning you! Don’t you dare! Don’t print more crap in that goddamn newspaper of yours!”

“But why get worked up? What’s the paper to you? Do you ever read it?”

“Never. The first thing I do on Friday morning is toss it out without opening it.”

“There you are! So what do you care what’s in it? Not that you aren’t missing things, believe me. Precisely because we know that most of our readers aren’t interested in local news and only look at the rentals and used-car ads, we sometimes run surprising features, good investigative reporting on
little-known
subjects.”

“I believe I’ll go right on missing them.”

“That’s your right. Just hand me that satellite phone of yours, if you don’t mind. I want to know if my son is back from his school hike.”

“I’m not handing you anything. You’ve already drained my battery with all your talk. The consul had no outlet to recharge it. There are more important things than your son’s hike. I’ve told you: you’re here strictly as an accessory. I was generous enough to let you and your photographer tag after me, but that’s over with now. From now on you’ll keep your distance, is that clear?”

The weasel winced in the circle of his reading light. For the first time the emissary felt that he had managed to hurt this pudgy fellow, on whose unshaven chin a thin strip of beard had appeared.

A heavy silence descended on the vehicle. From afar, its big wheels and high-set lights made it look like a hovering
spaceship
. The boy had disappeared among the bags and suitcases, his long limbs folded into them. The human resources manager, weary and dejected, turned his back on the
journalist
, spread out his legs, and hung his scarf on a tripod. The consul removed his wife’s red cap; his steel-grey curls blew in the wind. The resource manager kept his eyes on the green dials until he dozed off to the sound of the powerful engine.

The engine’s silence woke him. He opened his eyes and found himself deserted. The other passengers were stretching their limbs outside, at a junction with road signs. It was nearly midnight. He stepped outside, and was surprised to see that the starry sky was bright and clear despite the biting cold. They had stayed ahead of the storm, and the two brothers, conversing quietly while one lit a cigarette from the glowing tip of the other’s, had reason to feel pleased as they
affectionately
kicked the vehicle’s big wheels. The consul, waving hello with a snowy branch, was in a good mood, too. He was observing the photographer, who had taken advantage of the break to shoot the vehicle from every angle. The boy, blue with cold but wide awake, was copying the Cyrillic letters of the road signs into the journalist’s notebook.

It was 10 p.m. in Jerusalem. The Sabbath was long over. Now was a good time to report on his progress to the owner. Even if the old man thought their journey unnecessary, or downright dangerous, there was nothing he could do about it now. The human resources manager could without fear inform him of the latest developments. Looking for a quiet spot, he found one to the rear of the trailer, the high-set wheels of which raised the coffin to eye level. A white rime had formed a strange crust on it, like crocodile scales, the result of its rapid passage through the frigid air. He tried peeling off a scale and stopped when the cold burned his fingers.

He opened his satellite phone and extended the antenna. But all the stars in the sky, as close and friendly as they looked, could not put him through to Jerusalem. The weasel had talked the battery to death. Cursing him under his breath, the resource manager shifted his position, but to no avail. The consul, seeing his frustration, came over to offer
encouragement.

“Don’t worry. We’ll find a solution for your battery.”

“If you don’t,” the resource manager said disconsolately, “we’ll be cut off from the world.”

“No chance of that!” Perched on his grey hair, the red woollen cap lent the old optimist a childlike charm. “We may even have it already. You may not have noticed, but these two daredevils managed to push this monster nearly a third of the distance while we slept. Instead of continuing fifty
kilo
metres
to a dosshouse in the next town, they’d like your permission to make a slight detour.”

“What kind of detour?”

“A minor one. They propose changing course from east to north, twenty or thirty kilometres to a small valley where there’s an army base. During the Cold War it was a top-secret installation. Now it’s a tourist site.”

The consul explained that as relations between the two superpowers had thawed, so that threats of war no longer accompanied hopes for peace, the economic situation had surprisingly – or perhaps predictably – deteriorated. Bloated military budgets had been drastically cut. Entire army units, especially in outlying areas, found themselves on the verge of starvation, forced to survive not only by selling or renting old equipment like this armoured vehicle, but also by opening country inns and restaurants on their bases. In a former nuclear command post in the valley to the north, dug out in the 1950s, there was now a museum, half historical and half technological, that showed visitors – for an entrance fee, of course – how the country’s leaders had planned to survive a nuclear war.

“And that’s worth making a detour for?”

“A minor one. Twenty or thirty kilometres in each
direction
. The drivers have heard of it and would like to visit it, and agreeing will ensure a pleasant continuation of our trip. Besides, they say there is good accommodation there and
first-rate
food. And there’s a tour of the operation rooms, complete with a simulation of all planned first strikes, counterstrikes, and counter-counterstrikes. It’s an interactive exhibition that demonstrates the catastrophe that the pressing of a single button could have loosed upon the world.”

“Computer games!”

“Yes and no. A game replayed on its original field with the original ball is more than virtual. And we’re in no hurry. The roads are better than we anticipated and the old woman may not have returned to her village yet. Why sit waiting for her in the middle of nowhere when we can enjoy The War That Never Was? Just because we’ve set out on a hard, sad winter’s journey doesn’t mean we have to be obsessive about it. Why not have some educational fun? As far as she’s concerned” – he inclined his silver curls towards the coffin — “there’s no need to worry. My private doctor has assured me on the basis of your document that we’re in no rush to bury her. You can see for yourself that she’s well-refrigerated.”

The consul’s matter-of-fact argument drew the attention of the two drivers, who now approached them with the
apprehensive
boy, whose wide-eyed gaze lingered on the
frostcovered
coffin. Now close enough to inhale his steamy breath, the human resources manager could see that he wasn’t the clone of his mother, though he felt sure the boy was the clue to her beauty, which had once eluded him.

The journalist stood off to one side, at a distance from the photographer, who was now preparing to snap a nocturnal portrait of the group around the coffin. He was finally, it seemed, taking the resource manager’s warning seriously. By the icy light of the flickering stars, the resource manager had a sudden memory. Yes, he did recall someone who had looked like the journalist, though considerably thinner, from his year at university.

“All right,” he ruled indulgently. “We’ll take the detour and have our doomsday fun – but on one condition. Twenty-four hours will be the most we spend on it, not a minute more.”

“Not a minute more,” the consul promised happily. “And I guarantee that you’ll find an outlet there for your charger.”

When the consul translated the decision into the local language, everyone was satisfied, even the motherless boy who had no reason to hasten his mother’s burial. They
clambered
back into the armoured vehicle, and the engine roared a hearty thank-you. The journalist and the boy exchanged the hint of a smile, and the human resources manager wondered whether some new, wordless alliance had sprung up between them that would help the weasel stage a dramatic climax to his story? Afraid that things might get out of hand, he decided on a change of tone. Turning to the seat behind him, he declared:

“You know, I now realize why I didn’t remember you. Back then, at university, you were thinner and even more weaselly …”

The surprised journalist laughed, then let out a sigh.

“Don’t remind me of how thin I was. Those days are gone forever. But you haven’t changed at all – and I don’t mean just your looks. You still carry a shell on your back, ducking into it when anything touches you … though at least you now admit what I told you over the telephone. We actually did take several philosophy courses together. Not that I remember you because of anything particularly clever or foolish that you said. It’s because of a gorgeous girl. Don’t ask me why, but she kept coming on to you.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Who was she? What happened to her?”

“What do you care? I suppose you’d like to put her into your story, too. Maybe your photographer can follow her around at night.”

“There, there! You needn’t be so offended. I was asking as an interested citizen, not a reporter …”

“When do you ever stop being a reporter? I’ll bet you look
for scoops in your dreams.”

“That’s putting it a bit strongly. But if it’s what you think, I must have really upset you. Listen, let’s make up. Honestly. I’d like to offer you an apology … an official one …”

The emissary was taken aback. For a moment he shut his eyes and bowed his head.

“But tell me,” the weasel asked, his natural curiosity again getting the better of him, “where did you disappear to? Did you drop out after your freshman year or just switch majors?”

“I re-enlisted in the army.”

“In what branch? Manpower?

“Of course not. I was second-in-command of a combat battalion.”

“With what rank?”

“Major.”

“That’s all? You should have stuck it out longer. Don’t you know that in the Israeli army you can tie any major to a tree and come back ten years later to find that he’s a colonel?”

“I guess I didn’t find the right tree.”

“Still. What made you leave the army?”

“I was too much of an individualist. Large organizations don’t suit me.”

“Then why not something more intimate … a small commando force of your own, for example?”

“What for? To be the dead hero of one of your articles?”

“We’re back to my articles! I beg you to believe that I have other things in life.”

“So I’ve heard. I’m told you’ve been working forever on a doctorate.”

“Ah!” The weasel blushed. “I see you do come out of your shell sometimes.”

“Apparently. But what’s your subject? Why has it taken you so long?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Do we have anything better to talk about?”

“I’m writing on Plato.”

“What’s left to say about him?”

“With such a complex philosopher, anyone with a little patience and common sense can always find a new angle,” the journalist said, and added dourly, “not that that’s why my dissertation is stuck. Our wretched reality simply keeps
distracting
me from it.”

“Reality is only an excuse.”

“You’re right.”

“What is it about?”

“You’re sure you want to know? Or are you just trying to pass the time?”

“That too. But I’m curious to know how your mind works. I don’t want to be surprised by you again.”

The journalist let out a lively laugh. “It’s you who are surprising. Like yesterday, for instance, when you suggested this trip, or just now, when you agreed to a detour.”

“Well, I suppose I can be unpredictable, too.” The human resources manager liked the idea. “But you’re avoiding my question. What is your dissertation about? A specific Platonic dialogue or something more general?”

“A specific dialogue.”

“Which?”

“You wouldn’t recognize the name. It’s one you’ve never heard of and never will.”

“Is it one of those we discussed in our course?”

“It’s
Phaedo.”

“
Phaedo
?
No, I don’t remember it … unless …”

“It’s on the immortality of the soul.”

“No, that’s not the one I’m thinking of. There was another … you know the one. The famous one, the one about love …”

“If you’re thinking of
The
Symposium,
alias
The
Banquet
–
no, there really are no angles left there. Platonic love has been mined to exhaustion.”

But the resource manager persisted. A friendly intellectual conversation, he thought, if not too personal, would help keep the journalist on his best behaviour. He himself
remembered
little of the famous Platonic dialogue, only that he had
been favourably impressed that love could be discussed so candidly in a philosophy course. All that remained with him of the text itself was a story or parable about a man (but who? Adam? Everyman?) who was cut or divided in two (
mistakenly?
accidentally? deliberately?). Hence the human desire to reunite with one’s missing half, also known as love …