A Woman in Jerusalem (28 page)

It was nearly dawn when the driver, with the help of the attendant’s drawing, found the beginning of the shortcut. As exhausted as they were, they decided after a brief debate to set out on it. It was a dirt road strewn with twigs and branches, over which the vehicle crunched pleasantly.

It was still crunching when the sleeping travellers awoke to find themselves in milky daylight, in a forest whose branches were matted with a parasitical growth that hung in long, dull beards; snarled and tangled, these sickly curtains made it hard to see what lay ahead. The drivers were in constant danger of getting lost. Far from a shortcut, the forest now seemed like a huge creature that threatened to strangle them. The road, clearly marked at the outset, forked every several hundred metres, forcing them to choose.

The younger brother drove. The elder brother sat beside him. The travellers had never seen him so pale and tense. He held the map in one hand and a compass in the other, and both hands shook each time he said “left” or “right”. The route indicated by the compass did not always look correct; often it was the narrower or more rutted of the choices and caused the coffin to jounce wildly. Although the vehicle performed well, its big chassis, springs, and powerful engine a tribute to the engineer who designed it, their navigator’s growing anxiety that they might be on a wrong course, a course that would leave them stranded among the trees like another parasite, infected them all.

Each retreated into his own heavy silence: that of the consul, who until now had never lacked words and had served as a bridge between the locals and the foreigners, was the hardest to cope with. Yet the emissary was determined to respect it. Feeling hunger for the first time since his poisoning, he rose from his litter, found a baked potato, and gnawed at it with a steady appetite. He was facing backwards, looking out at the profuse matted clusters that brushed the woman’s coffin. How had he ever been foolish enough to agree to make her his business?

Several nerve-racking hours went by. At last, the
lackadaisical
sun, after blinking on and off through the trees, shone for an instant on a broad band of clear horizon. At once they set the vehicle on a course for it.

The attendant’s advice had been correct after all. The shortcut not only existed but had brought them to their destination – not a moment too soon, since the frozen river’s banks, between which the ferry plied a channel, were already crowded with people. Men, animals, cars, and wagons were waiting to cross to the opposite side, on which another
multitude
was waiting to cross back.

This was the river that had been mentioned to him by the consul – whether as a challenge, an obstacle, or a memorable experience – on his first day in the provincial capital. Frozen into a white glaze, it was solid enough to walk or play on. The
elder brother, after parking their vehicle in line, was overcome with relief at being rescued from circling endlessly in the forest. A shy man unaccustomed to displaying emotion, he left the group and strode out onto the ice. By the time he reached the middle of it, he was no more than a dot on the white surface. There, as if suddenly hit by lightning, he fell to his knees and struck his head on the ice in thankful exaltation.

Once more a market had sprung up, a small one in the middle of all the people, vehicles, wagons, horses, cows, and pigs. If nothing else, it helped everyone to bargain away the time while waiting for the ferry. The consul, however, his red cap back on his head, feared a repeat of the emissary’s illness. Nothing that he did not personally authorize, he told the travellers, was to be eaten by them.

The daylight was fading. The coffin, it seemed, would not cross before morning; they would be marooned by the river for the night. The consul decided to throw himself on the mercy of the crowd. Taking the young boy with him, he circulated through it, stopping repeatedly to tell the tragic story of the dead woman going home to her old mother. The simple narrative had its effect, as did the boy’s handsome looks. The unyielding line relented and gave way, letting the coffin and its armoured escort proceed.

They boarded the ferry at dusk, on its last crossing of the day. A glorious sunset lit their way. Over the objections of the consul, who had lost his easygoing attitude since the poisoning, the human resources manager decided to cross the ice on foot and asked the photographer to record the event for his daughter. The journalist, unwilling to be bested, decided to join him. They walked cautiously, doing their best to keep their footing, while the photographer climbed on the coffin to get a better shot.

“If the ice breaks now,” grinned the pudgy journalist as they heard a suspicious crack beneath them, “our story will lose its hero and its author in one fell swoop. Nothing will be left but a back-page item about two adventurers who looked for trouble and found it.”

“That might be just as well.” The emissary’s deep sorrow surprised him. “With a reputation for devotion to corpses, no living woman will want to touch me.”

“I’m not so sure,” the weasel said with a smile, laying a consoling hand on the shoulder he had promised to steer clear of. “You’ll see that your devotion will win you many admirers. You won’t have to look for them in out-of-the-way bars any more. They’ll come looking for you … and who knows, perhaps for me too …”

Since
hearing
the
bitter
news
from
Jerusalem,
which
we
had
imagined
existed
only
in
the
Bible,
we
couldn’t
stop
tormenting
ourselves.
Holy
Mother,
give
us
the
heartfelt
wisdom
not
to
err!

At
once
we
sent
a
messenger
to
tell
the
old
woman
to
come
home
from
the
monastery.
We
made
her
promise
to
say
nothing
about
the
tragedy.
Four
nights
and
five
days
went
by
without
a
word
from
her.
Although
the
storm
had
washed
away
roads
and
knocked
down
bridges,
we
lit
a
bonfire
every
night
to
make
sure
she
could
find
her
way
back.

Ah,
what
would
we
do
if
the
dead
daughter
arrived
before
the
mother
was
here
to
mourn
for
her?
Should
we
bury
her
or
wait?
And
if
we
waited,
where
was
the
most
dignified
place
to
keep
her?
Should
we
break
into
the
old
woman’s
cottage
and
put
her
daughter
in
the
bed
she
was
born
in?
Or
should
we
place
the
coffin,
as
we
always
do
for
funerals,
by
the
altar
in
the
church?
But
dear
Jesus,
how
long
could
we
pray
with
a
corpse
lying
beside
the
holy
icons?
And
how
could
we,
who
are
used
to
the
dead
faces
of
aged
peasants,
look
into
a
coffin
with
a
mangled
body
from
Jerusalem?

And
who
would
speak
at
the
funeral?
We
hadn’t
seen
her
for
years
and
knew
nothing
about
her.
All
we
had
were
distant
memories
of
a
quiet,
delicate
child
who
went
everywhere
with
her
mother
–
to
the
fields,
to
the
market,
to
the
church
–
until
some
man
fell
in
love
with
her
and
carried
her
off
to
the
big
city.
At
first
her
mother
used
to
travel
all
the
way
there
to
see
her.
She
said
her
daughter
was
an
engineer
and
had
a
beautiful
baby.
But
once
we
were
connected
to
the
telephone 
lines,
she
stopped
going.
Could
the
poor
woman
have
been
in
touch
with
her
daughter
in
Jerusalem
without
telling
us?

For
five
nights
we
knew
no
peace.
And
then
came
the
news
that
the
coffin
had
crossed
the
river
on
the
ferry,
with
an
armoured
vehicle
and
a
big
escort
–
and
still
no
sign
of
the
mother.
What
were
we
to
do?
What
were
we
to
tell
the
delegation
that
was
bringing
us
an
engineer
who
had
died
as
a
cleaning
woman
in
someone
else’s
war?

Holy
Mother,
we
asked
and
asked
and
got
no
answers.

And
so,
when
the
big
wheels
came
to
a
halt
by
our
fire,
we
didn’t
know
what
to
believe.
We
even
hoped
that
the
coffin
might
be
empty
and
that
your
silence
had
foretold
a
miraculous
resurrection.
For
a
second,
but
no
more,
we
actually
thought
that
was
her
climbing
down
from
the
vehicle,
as
young
and
beautiful
as
ever.
But
as
we
approached
in
joy
and
trembling,
we
saw
that
it
was
only
her
son,
a
tall
boy
who
had
brought
his
mother
home
to
his
grandmother
for
her
to
turn
despair
and
anger
into
sorrow
and
pity.

It
was
a
distinguished
delegation.
Its
armoured
vehicle
was
so
big
and
old
that
it
needed
two
drivers,
and
its
story
was
so
long
that
it
needed
two
journalists,
and
even
its
leader
needed
someone
to
interpret
what
he
said.

At
first
we
didn’t
know
that
the
white-faced
man
in
the
old
army
uniform
was
the
leader.
But
he
was
a
man
without
guile
and
we
understood
as
soon
as
he
spoke,
Holy
Mother,
that
he
was
the
answer
to
all
our
questions.