A Woman in Jerusalem (23 page)

The consul, listening from the front seat, doffed his red woollen cap and remarked:

“Even a peasant like myself knows that story. Whenever I slice an apple I feel its halves wanting to reunite. That’s why I keep slicing them into smaller and smaller pieces …”

The human resources manager guffawed. His inner tension easing, he listened affably to the weasel’s rebuke:

“That’s the most superficial and obvious aspect of
The
Symposium.
It’s no wonder that people like you always remember it. But for such a simplistic metaphor there was no need for Socrates and his friends to gather in Agathon’s house. Nor would their conversation have gone on enchanting us for thousands of years. Its real point is more profound.”

“Tell us.” Both the consul and the emissary were eager to know.

“Are you really in the mood now, in the middle of the night?”

“We have nothing better to do.”

And so, while they sat in the dark cavern of the armoured vehicle with the two drivers in front bathed in the luminous green glow of its haphazardly working dials, the journalist strove to expound the essence of love, his voice rising above the roar of the engine as the vehicle laboured up a steep winding road.
Had
I
known
that
this
detour
would
involve
such
precipitous
climbs,
the human resources manager thought,
I
would
never
have
agreed
to
it.

“Love,” declared the weasel in high Platonic style, “bears witness to our finiteness, but also to our ability to transcend it.”

Human desire ascends by rungs like those of a ladder from love’s lowest manifestations to its highest, from its most concrete to its most abstract, from its most physical to its most
spiritual. To have the world of true form revealed to one is the reward of the wise lover – who, freed of the physical object of his desire, realizes that his pursuit is of something more essential. The more he searches for it, the more he realizes that the ultimate beauty lies not in the body but in the soul …

“The soul …” The consul, perhaps reminded of his soulful wife, roused himself.

“That’s love’s secret,” the weasel continued as the vehicle slowed to take the hairpin bends. “There is no formula. Each person has to find the secret for himself. That’s why Eros is neither god nor man. He’s a
daimon,
thick-skinned, unwashed, barefoot, homeless, and poor – yet he links the human to the divine, the temporal to the eternal …”

The vehicle came to a halt on the steep gradient. Worried that the trailer might break free on the long climb, the elder brother went to check the tow-bar. The sudden stop woke the boy who turned from his place amid the luggage to glance quickly back at the trailer, now awash in the beam of a torch held by the resourceful technician. Soft snowflakes danced in the bright light as he circled the coffin worriedly, examining its ropes and knots. Even this did not put his mind to rest; re-entering the vehicle, he took the wheel from his brother, trusting only in his own sure touch.

“That’s also why Socrates, though he did not reject the young Alcibiades’ love, also did not agree to its
consummation.
”

“How’s that?”

“True love requires separation. Plato specifies that the desired union of the two halves that so appeals to your
imaginations
must never take place. The love of beauty must remain open-ended. Therefore, it’s always in a state of disequilibrium. Its extremes can drive a man to the most shameless acts.”

From
the
first
officer
of
the
night
watch
to
the
second
officer:

You’re
punctual,
sergeant.
It’s
time
for
the
changing
of
the
guard.
But
I’m
not
going
to
bed.
I’ll
stay
up
to
keep
you
company.
Half
an
hour
ago
I
would
have
said
things
seemed
quiet
and
peaceful;
the
hours
of
sentry
duty
had
gone
by
in
their
usual
drowsy
haze.
But
suddenly
I
saw
something
new.
I
won’t
waste
words
describing
it.
Here,
take
these
binoculars
and
look
out,
into
the
darkness.
Do
you
see
that
large,
glowing
body
descending
towards
us
through
the
fog?
What
is
it?
An
old
spacecraft
re-entering
the
atmosphere?
A
UFO
from
a
distant
planet?
Or
am
I
just
seeing
things,
as
my
troops
always
claimed?
Use
your
fresh,
young
eyes,
sergeant,
and
tell
me
what’s
out
there.
Should
we
wake
the
CO
or
wait
to
get
a
closer
look?
I
don’t
want
to
end
up
a
laughingstock.

I’ve
been
serving
this
country
for
over
fifty
years.
The
best
years
of
my
life
have
been
spent
right
here.
But
the
wild
swings
from
military
to
civilian
existence
have
left
me
depressed.
I
don’t
know
what
I
am
any
more.
Who
can
believe
that
a
huge,
state-of-the-art
installation,
dug
into
the
ground
in
top
secrecy,
one
of
the
most
closely
guarded
bases
in
our
vast
and
powerful
land,
is
now
a
tourist
site
run
by
a
small,
undisciplined
garrison?

Do
you
have
any
idea,
my
young
friend,
just
how
deep
the
nuclear
shelter
beneath
us
is?
Would
you
believe
that
once
upon
a
time
an
infernal
elevator
burrowed
ten
floors
into
the
ground
before
it
hit
a
false
bottom?
Do
you
realize
that
underneath
the
command
rooms
and
storerooms
are
comfortable
apartments,
equipped
for
our
politicians
and
generals
to
stay
in
with
their
families?
That
at
a
depth
of
dozens
of
metres
are
double
beds
for
lovers,
tables
set
for
banquets,
an
ultramodern
kitchen
with
an
enormous
freezer
filled
with
every
delicacy
–
all
to
add
variety
and
spice
to
long
months
of
hiding
from
radioactive
poisons?
Has
anyone
told
you
about
the
library
of
great
books,
the
playrooms
and
games
for
children?
There’s
even
a
hospital
with
maternity
wards
and
operating
theatres.

They
say
the
threat
of
nuclear
destruction
has
passed.
Our
former
enemies
are
now
our
friends
and
the
doomsday
weapons
are
rotting
in
their
silos.
The
pinpricks
of
terrorists
and
suicide
bombers
don’t
call
for 
underground
cities.
And
that,
young
man,
has
spelled
the
end
of
a
career
soldier’s
world.
I,
who
once
served
in
war’s
inner
sanctum,
have
become
a
butler
and
a
lackey.
In
the
old
command
rooms,
in
which
every
drill
made
history’s
heart
skip
a
beat,
I
entertain
the
tourists
with
Disney
wars.

You
tell
me,
young
man:
Is
it
so?
Is
peace
here
to
stay?
Can
we
be
so
sure
that
a
new
threat
–
now,
today,
tonight
–
won’t
send
us
back
into
hiding?

After
all,
even
if
we
trust
your
twenty-twenty
vision,
you
can’t
deny
there’s
something
worrying
about
an
unfamiliar
armoured
vehicle
approaching
the
gate
with
its
lights
raking
over
us,
especially
when
it
has
a
coffin
in
tow.
That’s
a
bad
omen
for
an
ageing
sergeant
whom
nobody
needs
anymore.

The “minor detour” to the newly opened tourist site in an old and still partially functioning military base turned out to be a difficult two-hour journey, climbing precipitously and then dropping just as fast. Perhaps this was why, when stopped at the gate by a beetle-browed veteran sergeant with a mouth full of gold teeth, who insisted that security regulations forbade the entry of unidentified military vehicles, the tired drivers put up no resistance and left their vehicle outside, instructing their passengers to take their personal belongings and follow the old warrior several hundred metres to their lodgings. Leaving the coffin on its trailer, they let themselves be led, not to the guesthouse, which was half a floor
underground,
but to the barracks room, where three soldiers lay asleep by a crackling stove. The sergeant handed them blankets, pointed to some mattresses stacked against a wall, and suggested they get some sleep; the reception officer would register them properly in the morning.

The elderly consul, by now exhausted, took a mattress, dragged it to a corner, pulled off his coat and shoes, and collapsed, taking a last rueful look at his disappointing detour before covering his head with an army blanket. The human resources manager said nothing. His military experience had taught him that a stern silence was the best tactic when his troops were aware of a blunder. Choosing a mattress, he
added two blankets to the one he’d been given and lay down in the corner opposite the consul’s. The two brothers chose the third corner, where they nested side by side; the fourth corner was claimed by the journalist. In high spirits after his well-received homily on love, he invited the photographer to join him and even to take his picture in commemoration of the day’s trek before he bundled up and turned his head to the wall.

The boy alone took his time finding a place. After standing pensively in the middle of the room in his pilot’s cap, as if looking for something he had lost, he knelt by the stove and tossed a few scattered coals into the fire. He had slept most of the way and did not seem tired now. When the old sergeant arrived with a pail of hot tea, he helped pour it into cups and hand it out to the travellers.