A Woman in Jerusalem (25 page)

He runs and is seized by a sweet dread when he sees her by the large window in the dimly lit principal’s office, slumped in an executive armchair in which she has been placed to ease the shock. He now realizes he has always known she is not a cleaning woman but a teacher. Gone are her apron, broom, and cap. She is wearing a flowery, childish summer blouse like the nightgown spread out to dry by the old owner in the shack. The collar is open, revealing a long, strong neck tilted sensuously back and perfect, sloping shoulders of white marble in which there is not a drop of blood.

The dream turns sultry with a passion he has never felt before. Is the bomber on his way to the market? Has the bomb already gone off? He is reminded that he has written down the story, not only of her life, but also of her love for him, which took place long ago when he was a child or perhaps even an infant. They made love as she nursed him. How frightful that not even so ancient a passion can save her! He leans towards the armchair to make certain there is no mistake and that this is indeed the forgotten woman the night shift supervisor was smitten by. Miryam, Miryam, he says, recalling the new, secret Hebrew name on her door. Her photograph, which he displays to others to establish her beauty, excites him. Too distraught to remember that he is only a student, he brandishes the slide rule at the principal and his assistants, who are struggling to extricate the half-dead woman from the armchair and throw her away with the rubbish.

Wait, the dreamer shouts as he runs forward, spurred by the secretary’s sympathy. Give me time. A lonely but ambitious student, he embraces his teacher with a sob as though she were a fellow classmate, even though she is ten years older than he …

Is he still talking in his dream, or is this a thought that has spiralled out of it? For as he covers her with his kisses, he murmurs or thinks:

“Why give in? Why give up? Is there anywhere in the world a cross worth my dying on?”

The emissary’s dream sent such pleasurable shock waves through him that he sat up the moment he opened his eyes, as though to secure the vision in his consciousness and prevent further dreams from uprooting it. Having taught himself in the army to form a mental picture of his unit the instant he awoke, making certain all his men were at their posts, he was aware of the barracks at once. A professional glance informed him that the three soldiers sleeping by the stove were gone, their place
taken by three others wrapped in the same blankets.

The travellers were scattered in their corners, fast asleep. The stove, to which coal must have been added, burned brightly. Although it was still dark out, he deemed it best to have a look at the coffin. Taking care not to waken the boy, who had thrown off his blanket, he rose from the mattress. For a second he debated whether he was entitled, or perhaps even obliged, to cover the sleeping youth. Yet it seemed best not to touch him even in passing.

He dressed carefully, wrapping his scarf around his neck and slipping into his heavy winter coat before tiptoeing out with his army boots in his hands. Exchanging a quick glance with the consul, who opened bloodshot eyes, he stepped into the corridor. There the old sergeant was sleeping by a makeshift barrier erected to keep the unexpected visitors from touring the site without payment.

The resource manager had experience with sleeping sentries and had disarmed and court-martialled more than one of them. Since this was not the approach he wished to take with the wrinkled old sergeant, however, he sat down beside him and put on his boots while waiting to be noticed. Indeed the sergeant soon opened his eyes and recognized him. The boots, even if issued by another army, aroused his comradely
instincts
. Lifting a thin blanket, which at first glance seemed designed to warm a cat or lap dog, he revealed the satellite phone standing upright in its charger, from which improvised wires ran to a large battery that had once belonged to a
half-
track
or tank.

Deprived of words, the resource manager could only bow an appreciative head.

The sergeant carefully detached the wires, cleaned the phone with a corner of his coat, and handed it to its owner, who immediately put it to the test by dialling his office. Within seconds he heard his own voice asking, deep in the Jerusalem night, to leave a message. Graciously complying with his own request, he reported positively on the latest developments while smiling at the sergeant’s efforts to follow
his conversation with himself. Yet when he took some money from his wallet and held it out, it was firmly rejected. How could an old soldier accept payment for a military duty?

Once he had assured himself that the phone was working again, the manager signalled that he wished to go outside. To allay suspicion, he mimed his intention to do no more than check the coffin. This was not easily accomplished, since the sergeant had forgotten the coffin’s existence. When a
rectangular
box sketched in the air failed to remind him of it, the manager tilted his body backward, shut his eyes, crossed his arms on his chest, and made believe he was about to be buried.

The sergeant, his memory refreshed, was happy to grant the visitor his wish. Opening the door, he accompanied him outside. It was the manager’s impression that he could have commanded the soldiers at the rusty iron gate, even the old sergeant himself, to carry out any order he gave them if only he had been able to speak their language. At the very outset of his military career, when given his first squad command, he was aware of exerting a sober authority that raised his troops’ morale. But although he was a natural leader, he also managed to convey to his superiors that there was nothing in the world he thought worth being killed for in battle. Little wonder he’d never got far in the army.

The scaly rime was gone from the coffin, and its metal surface was visible again. He touched it to see how cold it was. Not knowing at which ends the corpse’s head and feet were, he positioned himself between them, reached for his phone, and scanned the sky for stars. The clouds had blurred their pinpoints. Pulling out the phone’s antenna, he dialled the number of the owner from memory.

It was the middle of the night in Jerusalem. However, a man who stayed cozily at home while his personnel manager atoned for his inhumanity had to accept being wakened at odd hours.

“It’s me …”

“Well, well! At last.”

“I know this may be an intrusion, not only on your sleep,
but on your dreams. Still, I thought it best to talk to you in private, with no one else around.”

“You needn’t apologize, young man. At my age, sleep is a waste of time. I’m happy to hear from you at any hour.”

“I didn’t want that weasel of a journalist you put on my tail to overhear our conversation.”

“You’re right. It’s best to keep your distance from him. I wouldn’t spend too much time worrying about him, though. He’s seeking atonement for himself. The editor promised he’ll be more sympathetic this time.”

“It’s almost morning here, sir.”

“I’m aware of the difference in time. I’ve been trying to follow your strange escapade on the map …”

“I see you already know everything.”

“No one knows everything. It’s enough to know the main points. When I saw yesterday that you were keeping radio silence, I phoned our consul. She told me you had decided to turn your mission into an expedition.”

“What was your reaction?”

“I’ve known of your fondness for adventure since your days as a travelling salesman, but I had no idea that your guilt towards that woman was so great.”

“You’re wrong, sir. It’s compassion I feel, not guilt. Not just for her, but for her son. He insisted at the airport that his grandmother attend the funeral … and since we couldn’t bring her to us, I thought, as long as we’re here anyway, why not give this woman what our overburdened government can’t afford and bring her home to her native village at our expense? That’s the proper ending for this story.”

The old man sighed. “Who knows what is or isn’t proper? Or whether your ending will really be the end? But what’s done is done. The consul has described the fair-haired boy who put you up to it.”

“He didn’t put me up to anything. I felt sorry for him. He’s a lonely youngster whose father treats him like a stranger. And he has the legal right to decide where his mother will be buried.”

“Yes, I know all that. The consul isn’t sparing of words. Or of details and commentaries. I know about your armoured vehicle, too, and about the battery you couldn’t charge. Not to mention her magnificent husband whom she can’t stop praising …”

“He’s an excellent fellow.”

“Well, she misses him. I believe she’s jealous that he’s minding you instead of her. By the way, what does she look like, this consul?”

“A giraffe.”

“That’s just what I thought. She talked on and on. I can’t remember all she said.”

“Let’s stick to the point, then. We’re in the middle of a long trip and can’t back out. There’s no way of knowing how much it will cost.”

“I’ve already told you the expenses don’t concern me.”

“I am not the only one who feels guilty, sir, am I?”

“If that’s how you wish to interpret my generosity, so be it. Just don’t worry about money. You have unlimited credit.”

“Things are very cheap here, but they still have a way of adding up.”

“I’m relying on your judgment … on your instincts.”

“Don’t rely on them too much, sir. My intuition has taken to dreaming. Are you awake enough to listen to a wonderful dream I had?”

The old man seemed to shudder. “No! Your phone costs too much to dream over it. You were told to go on a short mission. If it turns out to be a longer one, that’s fine with me. Just don’t go off on any tangents …”

“We’re already on one.”

“How’s that?”

“A minor one. To a former army base that’s now a tourist site.”

“What kind of base?”

“A nuclear command post from the Cold War. Our drivers heard great things about it and decided to use our rest time for an educational tour.”

“You’re talking to me from a nuclear command post?”

“No. We haven’t visited it yet. We’ll do that in the morning. I’m out in the open now, next to the coffin. It’s cold, but not unbearable. I’m facing east because the dawn has planted a rosy kiss there.”

“A rosy kiss?”

“Actually, the mist makes it pink.”

“Watch out, young man, watch out! You’re leaving me more worried than I was at the beginning of this conversation. Don’t go off on any more tangents or tours at my expense. And remember, that woman won’t last forever, not even in the cold.”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten her. We have a
document
from the Pathology Institute that says we have lots of time.”

“Listen!” The old man’s apprehension was growing by the minute. “Don’t rely on any documents. Trust your instincts. And remember that you’re an emissary, not a general. I want you to stay in close touch with me from now on. And don’t waste your battery on foolish conversations, yours or anyone else’s.”

At first he thought he had identified the exact point at which the sun would rise – a bare, snow-covered crag between two rounded hills – because the rosy glow was brightest there. Yet the loitering sun surprised him by appearing far away, from behind a distant mountain, flooding the wooded valley with a cloudy yellow light.

If the ground I’m standing on, thought the human resources manager, is one big nuclear shelter, there must be visible or concealed air vents. Looking for them, he noticed instead, beyond some distant trees, silhouettes and smoke. These belonged, he saw as he approached, to a group of vendors or gypsies setting up a market in a clearing. Was it for local inhabitants or tourists? Or might it be – but why not? – solely
for him, the utter stranger, an emissary from afar who had risen early because he feared another dream?

Slowly, he made his way through the trees. Although the appearance of a mute foreigner caused the stall holders to pause in what they were doing, this did not keep him from inspecting the merchandise they had taken from their sacks and crates. The still-fresh memory of his dream of their countrywoman, whom he was returning to her native soil, was like a protective bubble around him. He strolled past heaps of potatoes, carrots, and winter squashes, red-rinded cheeses, pink, skinned suckling pigs, furry rabbits in their cages, freshly baked rye breads of different shapes and sizes, old household utensils, glasses, plates, embroidered tablecloths, linens, colourful dresses, icons, statuettes of saints. Smells of cooking enveloped him.

Only now did he notice, by signs glimpsed through their scarves and heavy coats, that most of the vendors were women. Now some smiled at him and softly called out their wares. Although he had no local currency, he was certain they would accept anything he offered.

But what should he buy? What was typical of the region? Perhaps he should wait for the consul’s husband to help him tell the real from the fake. Meanwhile, he would have
something
to eat – something hot, even scalding, to fortify him against the death that had hovered in his dream. At the far end of the clearing, steam rose from a large pot. A woman of uncertain age, wearing a tatty fur coat, stirred the pot while singing hoarsely to herself. He couldn’t be sure whether she was retarded or belonged to some exotic Arctic race. Next to her, swaddled like a gift package, a baby lay on a thick woollen blanket. What did its sweet little face, peering from beneath its bonnet, remind him of?

The emissary, lured by an excess of initiative to the ends of the earth, recalled how five days previously he had followed his secretary’s baby as it scuttled down the corridor and rapped with its dummy on the old owner’s door, so that he’d had to scoop it up in a quick embrace. If only he could touch the
reality of the warm little body in front of him long enough to shake off his dream! Yet as no mother would lend her baby to a mute stranger, he took out a bill and pointed to the dark contents of the pot, which appeared to be some kind of stew.

The woman gave him a worried look. Muttering
something
, she refused to take the money. But Tartar stew was what he wanted and he laid the bill down insistently, reached for a metal mug by the pot, and handed it to her to fill. There was a warning buzz from the vendors around her – for her or for him, he couldn’t tell. Since she continued to hesitate, he dipped the mug in the pot himself and slowly downed the thick liquid. Although he knew from the first sip that he was drinking an unusual brew, he went on draining it for its warmth. I needn’t worry, he told himself. I ate all kinds of swill in the army and was none the worse for it.