The Extra (2 page)

At the start of her current sojourn in Israel she greatly missed her music. Even if she were to replace the strings on her childhood harp, it would not satisfy her passion for the rich timbre of a true harp. A week after her arrival, she attended a concert of the Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra, and during intermission introduced herself to the harpist, a young woman of Russian origin, and asked if she could practice on the orchestra's harp when it was not in use. “Let me think,” said the young woman, studying the middle-aged emigrant from Jerusalem, wary that she might be plotting to return to Israel and take her job. “Leave me your phone number,” she said defensively, “and I'll get back to you.” And as expected, the woman has not yet finished thinking about it, but in the meantime Noga's passion for playing has subsided. In another ten weeks the trial period in assisted living will be over, and she will return to the harp that awaits her in the basement of the Dutch concert hall, ready and willing for the rehearsals of Berlioz's
Symphonie Fantastique
.

For now, she makes do with plucking the levers on the bed, whose electrical mechanism crouches underneath in a dusty black box. This bed, an alien creature amid the old furniture of the Jerusalem apartment, was a welcome addition after her father's death, consolation and compensation for the man of the house who had vanished from the world in silence. Indeed, only after the man's demise could it establish residence here, in place of the narrow, worn-out double bed—such a sophisticated bed, crafted by Yosef Abadi, a young and talented engineer who had worked with her father at the municipality and remained friendly after his retirement. During the week of shiva, Abadi and his wife came daily to visit the mourners, bringing them meals and newspapers and offering help with any problems arising from the sudden death. It occurred to the widow to ask Yosef to help her dispose of the old double bed, which might be of use to a young couple in Jerusalem, Jewish or Arab, since with her husband gone she felt an urge to create more open space in the bedroom and would do fine with a simple single bed. But the young engineer protested. Why simple if you can enjoy a sophisticated bed? A year earlier, in his small home workshop, he had upgraded a hospital bed for his elderly aunt, adding an electrical mechanism controlled by levers and pedals, and now suggested installing a similar bed for the widow. This bed would have a variety of movements but be easy to operate. It could lay a person down or tip her out of bed. It could elevate the head to suit the owner's eyesight and soothe aching legs by tilting them to a comfortable angle.

Since no one understood at first what this was all about, the gracious offer was not declined, and when the shiva ended, workers from the water department removed their former manager's wooden bed and replaced it with an electric bed, and the young friend promptly taught the surprised widow how to make her life easier at the flick of a finger.

“But why didn't you tell my husband about this bed?” she asked. “You could have built one for him. He would have enjoyed it before he died.”

The engineer laughed. “No, he would never have given up that old double bed of yours.”

“That's true,” said the widow, blushing girlishly. “You knew him maybe better than I did. No wonder he loved you.”

And with an air of victory she challenged Honi, as he too lay down on the bed to test its capabilities: “See, there's no reason to exile me from Jerusalem. A smart bed like this will take care of me all by itself.”

But the firm response came at once: even a smart bed cannot do it alone at an hour of need, but if the bed also moves to assisted living, it will be a helpful partner.

T
HE PREVIOUS DAY, BEFORE DAWN,
Noga had waited for her ride at the intersection of Yeshayahu Street and the Street of the Prophets. Ultra-Orthodox men from Geulah and Kerem Avraham strode silently toward the center of town, taking care not to come near the lone woman. But across the street, beside what was once the Edison movie theater, a large figure sat immobile at a bus stop, the face concealed by a hat. Was it a living person? Noga suddenly trembled, for her father's final slumber of half a year ago still weighed on her. Hesitantly, fearfully, she crossed the street, and despite the likelihood that this was merely a huge
haredi
who had stopped to rest, she dared to reach out and nudge the hat to look directly into the reddened blue eyes of an elderly extra waiting for the same ride.

This man is a former magistrates' court judge, now a pensioner, and because of his height and girth he is in great demand as an extra. For many years he sat passively on the judicial bench, and is delighted to spice his later years with new and unusual roles throughout Israel. Despite his considerable experience as an extra, he has no idea where and for what role he has been summoned today. The producers, it turns out, are reluctant to reveal the destinations to the extras in advance, for fear they will back out at the last minute. For example, not everyone is fond of performing in commercials. People are pleased to take part, even in a small and marginal way, in a fictional story, but shy away from serving as meaningless extras in a quickie commercial, sometimes of a dubious nature and unworthy of the participants.

“And you, your honor,” Noga gently asks the older extra, “are you also averse to commercials?”

It turns out that the retired judge is not afraid to appear in commercials that advertise unreliable products or subjects. His son and daughter are embarrassed, it's true, but his grandchildren are excited to see him on the television screen. “I have no enemies to ridicule me,” he jokes. “As a judge I preferred to impose fines rather than send people to jail.”

A yellow minibus pulls up, with one male passenger, about sixty years old and swarthy, who apparently recognizes her, for after the judge and Noga climb aboard, he hurries to sit next to her, and in a friendly tone mixed with a slight stutter, says, “G-good that you returned from the d-dead.”

“From the dead?”

“I mean, from the m-murdered,” he clarifies, and introduces himself as one of the extras from that night a week ago when the refugees landed on the coast.

“Really,” she says, surprised, “you were also in the old boat? So why don't I recognize you? We sailed and landed three times.”

“No, I wasn't in the boat with the refugees. They had me up on the hill with the p-police who shot at you. It could very well be”—he laughs with embarrassment, his stutter more pronounced—“that it was m-m-me who killed you three times, even though I felt s-sorry for you.”

“Why sorry?”

“Because in spite of the darkness and the rags they gave you to wear, you looked sweet and interesting even from a distance, and I hoped that the director would let you climb up so we could k-kill you at short range.”

“Ah, no,” she sighs with a smile, “the director didn't have much patience for me, and every time we came back for a landing, he killed me off quickly, told me to lie still, on my belly and then on my back, so the camera could document your cruelty.”

Noga studies the extra sympathetically as he bursts into a hearty laugh. His face is narrow, sharply lined, but his gaze is soft, kindly. His childlike stutter is intermittent and unpredictable. For a moment she considers telling him that she actually enjoyed the long moments of playing dead. The spring skies shone with stars, and the sand retained the warmth of the sun. The tiny shells that pricked her face reminded her of the beach at Tel Aviv, where she and her former husband used to stroll at night.

“What did you do after you killed all of us?” Noga asks.

“We quickly changed clothes and became farmers who sh-sheltered the heroine.”

“Heroine? There was a heroine among us?”

“Of course. She was with you in the boat, a refugee whom the script spared from death and allowed to escape to a village. They didn't tell you what the story was? Or at least the scene on the beach?”

“Maybe they did, but apparently I didn't pick it up,” she apologizes. “That was the first time in my life I was an extra, and it was strange for me to surrender to other people's imagination.”

“If s-so”—his stutter gets stronger—“it's no s-s-surprise they decided to k-kill you off e-early on.”

“Why?”

“Because apparently you, as an extra I mean, weren't a natural, and probably stared at the camera. But how did you get to us, anyway? What d-do you d-do in life? You're not from Jerusalem?”

Though the questions are friendly, she is not quick to reply, and only after a long silence she says, “Why don't you introduce yourself first?”

“With pleasure,” says the man. “I am such a veteran extra that they don't hire me much anymore, because viewers will recognize me from other movies. For years I was a police c-commander, but when my little stutter, which you probably noticed, got worse, I took early retirement, and now I can make a living from my p-passions. But today, not to worry, there won't be any shooting or deaths. Today we will sit quietly as members of a j-j-jury and listen to a trial, until one of us announces the verdict.”

“A jury?” interjects the judge, who had listened to the conversation from his seat in front of them. “Are you sure, Elazar? Here in Israel we don't have juries.”

“True, but maybe the scene is about someplace else. These days in Israel they also sh-shoot foreign films, and anyway, sometimes there are dreamlike scenes, like in Bergman or Fellini, so why not a jury?”

The minibus picked up speed on the downhill highway from Jerusalem, but soon exited at the suburb of Mevaseret Zion. There, waiting at the bus stop, were ten or so men and women of various ages.

“Look,” said Elazar, “you can count. Including us, it's twelve members of the jury plus one as a backup, in case somebody gets tired or quits. But why don't you want to tell me how you ended up with us? Is it a secret, or just complicated?”

“No secret,” the harpist says with a smile, “just a little complicated.”

I
N MIDWINTER, TWO MONTHS
after the death of their father, her brother sent her an e-mail:

My Noga,


I'm writing you an e-mail, not phoning, as I fear that on the phone you will cut me off as you usually do. I therefore ask you to read this calmly and carefully before any knee-jerk reaction.


I'm well aware that you don't believe Ima will agree to leave Jerusalem and move to assisted living near me in Tel Aviv. But just as I can't dispel your disbelief, you can't disprove my belief that this is possible. Therefore we should both submit to a reality check.


Two weeks ago Ima came down with a bad case of flu—maybe you could hear it in her voice in your weekly phone conversations, or maybe not. She almost certainly tried to mask this with you, just as she tried to hide her illness from me. It's true that flu isn't life-threatening, not in a strong woman of 75, an age that in light of the amazing performance of our elderly president seems downright youthful. But one of the neighbors, whom Ima asked at the height of her illness to bring her milk, was alarmed by her condition and phoned me.


I canceled a day of work, rushed to Jerusalem, found Ima weak and burning with fever. I called the doctor, bought medicines and decided, despite her objection, to stay the night at her place, to take advantage of her condition to weaken her resistance to the idea. And indeed, by pleading and scolding I succeeded the next morning to get her to agree to try out the assisted living in Tel Aviv for a few months.


I know you don't believe anything real could come of this trial period. I know you're convinced it would be a futile exercise. But I'm willing to cling to the imaginary, because sometimes life has a way of making the imaginary into something real. It's not unreasonable to assume that in assisted living, with devoted care and proper supervision, she will come to understand that this option is preferable to living alone in Jerusalem, where she is increasingly surrounded by strangers, and every illness or accident becomes a threat to her and to me as well, amounting to a test of my responsibility.


And therefore from a moral point of view (forgive the melodrama) you must not only encourage and strengthen me from afar, you must also be a supportive partner not only in words but in deeds.


To be specific:


Abba is gone, and you have chosen an unusual musical instrument that forced you to go far away from home. This is your right. But in so doing you've left me alone with Ima. Maybe I'm an old-fashioned worrier, but I can't help it.


I've found assisted living near us. A small flat has become available there, on the ground floor, with an adjacent garden. The management is willing to let her try out the place for three months in exchange for the maintenance fee alone, with no deposit or commitment in advance.


I took her there, she looked the facility over carefully, and with goodwill and an open mind, she visited the unit they are offering, was impressed by the garden, and having brought with her the measurements of the electric bed, realized there would be room for it. At the end she took an interest in the identity of the last occupant and even requested a description of his dying days. Then, suddenly, she spoke proudly of Abba's silent passing. Her words were so beautiful that for a moment I choked up with tears.


True, I don't know what she feels in her heart of hearts. You, who resemble her more, can probably guess better than I can. In any case, Ima promised to undergo the experiment with a positive outlook, but on one condition. And this condition, my sister, is addressed to your conscience. A condition imposed by Ima.