The Extra (20 page)

Even after I realized that they had tricked us into separating, I didn't give up on you, until I saw you rolling around in a nightgown in a wheelchair, and I thought, Why get in the way of my extra enjoying herself? and I started following you from afar. But then I got an urgent call from a real hospital in Jerusalem: the sick grandson I told you about had been hospitalized and wanted his grandfather. So I rushed over there without saying goodbye, and I've been at his bedside for two days, and when he says, Saba, you mustn't move, his command carries more weight than a police superintendent's. And I'm pleased to say that there are encouraging signs, but for the duration, I'm at his side.

Nevertheless I grabbed a minute and hopped over to say goodbye, because I remembered that in the coming days you'll be flying away. And so, dear Noga, I'm done forever with being an extra. The fictions we enjoyed together were my swan song. And even if they build a morgue at the port, I'll not be there. So when you go back to playing your harp in Europe, think well of the eternal extra of the past, who sometimes got stuck when he spoke, but his thoughts were clear and pure. All I wanted from you was friendship, and am grateful that I received it.

She is pleasantly surprised by the candid and fluent text, free of hesitations or erasures. And yet she wonders, clenching her fists: How will I slake the old desire that arose in Jerusalem? Is there really nothing left for me but to wait for the flutist who betrayed my concerto?

And at night, in her disappointment, she again wanders from bed to bed until, as in her high school years, she satisfies her desire in the bed of her youth.

Morning light bathes the big kitchen of her parents' apartment, where, still drowsy, she sits in a nightgown, slowly eating a soft-boiled egg, half listening to a concert on the classical station of Israel Radio, when Uriah arrives, shaved and combed, in jacket and tie. “I was on my way to work,” he explains with disarming nonchalance, “and I thought, why not say hello to her before she vanishes again.”

And as if he had never pretended to be an extra in a torn army uniform, his head in a bloody bandage, or hadn't silently crept into the adjacent bed at midnight, he now stands smiling and serene, no embarrassment or apology, surveying the apartment he knows well from the years of his marriage, struck by how shrunken it seems.

“Not shrunken,” she replies, calm. “Honi threw out some old pieces of furniture, so Ima wouldn't long for them in Tel Aviv at th-the—”

“The old folks' home,” he says, rescuing his ex-wife from the stammer that suddenly seizes her. Not looking at her directly, and careful not to touch a thing, he is mesmerized by the apartment, drawn into the living room and bedrooms as if he were a buyer or broker and not a man come to mourn his humiliation. But Noga knows well that despite the confident façade, the jacket and tie, the briefcase that hasn't budged from his hand, despite “on my way to work,” he is agitated by the uncontrollable adventure he has just plunged into.

“Yes, the old folks' home,” he says, almost defiantly, as if it were the source of evil. “And for the life of me, Noga”—he is still careful not to focus his gaze—“I can't understand why your brother, in such a quick, random encounter next to the toilets, after years of absolutely no contact, had to involve me in your mother's old folks' home and the question of yes or no. Obviously, it's no.”

“Meaning?”

“That she won't leave Jerusalem.”

At last he looks straight at her, and a beloved face sets her heart pounding.

“And maybe she'll want to surprise you too?” She smiles.

“Me? What have I got to do with this?”

“Well, you're here.”

“And all his small talk about the old folks' home was just a pretext, so he could tell me you were here in Israel.”

“Why a pretext?” she says, defending her brother. “No pretext, just a simple explanation so you'd understand why your ex-wife appeared as an extra on the opera stage, and not be shocked when you saw her there.”

Uriah considers this.

“But why did he need to call attention to your performance?”

“He didn't need to, no,” she confirms. “It was a big pointless mistake. Honi shouldn't have mentioned my existence. Better he should have talked about the music, asked you whether or not you enjoyed act one.”

He senses the irony that has evolved over many years of separation, and concedes:

“I saw no trace of you in act two.”

“But I was there!” She raises her voice. “At first I was a smuggler and even carried a sack, and ended up with the chorus at the bullfight.”

“And I wasn't sure if Honi was just pulling my leg.”

“No, Uriah,” she says, still defending her brother, “Honi wouldn't pull your leg. Not a chance. He loves you. You know how he mourned over you and got angry with me when you were compelled to leave me.”

“Yes, I assumed he was serious, and so the next night I came back, because I still wanted to see you on the stage.”

“What? You came back to the opera at Masada?”

“But not in the audience. I sneaked onto the stage.”

“The stage? No way. Sneaked in from which side?”

“From the north, Noga, the north. I circled around the orchestra and got close to your little hill and followed one of your Bedouin kids with binoculars . . .”

“Mine?” She laughs. “How so?”

“In the cart pulled by your donkey.”

“Again mine.”

“Lucky kids. And what kind of extra were you, anyway? A Gypsy woman?”

“Gypsy woman smuggler in act two, but with the children and donkey I was just a simple country girl.”

“And you really did look young, younger than I remembered you.”

“Too bad you didn't come out on the stage. They would've found a part for you too.”

He stares at her coldly.

“The conductor spotted me and got security men to remove me.”

“And then?”

“I went home.”

“But why? If you came without your wife, you could have waited for me and said hello.”

“Why? I had more than enough of you in my life, so why look for you at intermission? I also told myself that maybe a story that wasn't ours but someone else's was my chance to understand what was still blocked. In fact, when I saw them wheeling you around in your nightgown with an IV dangling over your head, I felt what I didn't dare to feel all those years I was with you—that you, Noga, are essentially a crippled person. You have a defect, and so there's no point blaming you or being angry with you. Even when you're playing music and apparently acting normal, the sickness is nesting deep inside you. And so the question remains: why, after my decision to let go of you forever, do I come back to you again, in your childhood apartment?”

“I don't get it either. But if you can let go of your briefcase for a second and dare to sit down, together we might discover something new.”

G
LUM, SERIOUS URIAH SITS
down in the kitchen, placing his briefcase on the table amid plates and cutlery, perhaps preparing for a quick getaway.

“If you take the briefcase off the table,” says his former wife, “I'll make sure it doesn't run away.”

“I keep it in full view not to forget that a whole world awaits me out there, and to remember not to be swept away by you.”

“Nevertheless, it's not nice of your black briefcase to scare my soft-boiled egg.”

“Soft-boiled egg? I don't remember your liking your eggs soft.”

“Oh, how good that someone in the world remembers things about me that I've forgotten. Yes, I hated soft-boiled eggs. Ima didn't have the patience to keep boiling them, and the liquid yolk was like saliva. But now, on my own, I make up for her sins, and when I time it right, the egg tastes wonderful, and when the spoon taps the shell, even the chicken that laid it is happy.”

Scowling, he studies the woman in the nightgown.

“I didn't learn of your father's death until I ran into Honi at Masada. But even had I known in time, I doubt I'd have come to the funeral, or even the shiva.”

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn't have wanted to see you.”

“But you and my father were close. I only just learned from Ima that you brought your kids to meet him, to prove that you're innocent of blame.”

“That's correct.”

“But who thought you were to blame?”

“Whoever.”

“And now you understand that I'm also not to blame. I just have some kind of mental defect.”

“True.”

“And if you had understood a year or two ago that because of a psychological defect I'm not to blame, would you still have taken your children to my father to prove your innocence?”

“Yes, because the boundary between defect and guilt is not always clear.”

“Would you have taken them even if you knew it caused him pain?”

“It didn't cause him pain. He was happy and he played with them.”

“The fact that he played doesn't mean it didn't also cause him pain. He played with them because he couldn't kill them.”

“Why kill?”

“So you wouldn't bring them again.”

“I wouldn't have brought them again.”

“Maybe you would have enjoyed another chance to taunt my parents. By the way, how did my father play with them?”

“He found an old doll of yours and put on a funny little show.”

“And you told your wife you brought her children here?”

“I don't hide anything from her.”

“You won't hide this visit either?”

“Not this visit either. The second trip to Masada, the wounded soldier at the port, all will be told when the time comes.”

“When will that time come?”

“You'll know when it comes.”

“Ima caught a glimpse of your wife during intermission at Masada and told Honi she looks like me.”

“She doesn't look like you.”

“Or reminded her of me.”

“She doesn't remind.”

“What's her name, by the way?”

“Osnat.”

“My mother saw her at intermission, waiting for the restrooms, and not knowing she was your wife, just from a casual glance, she told Honi that she looked like me.”

“She doesn't look like you.”

“But my mother wouldn't just make that up. She's a smart, practical woman, and she also gave birth to me and knows me. And of her own free will she stated that your wife looks like me.”

“She doesn't.”

“Maybe there's something similar that you don't notice?”

“She doesn't resemble you in any way.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. If she resembled you, why would I be here?”

“Because you still love me, even though you're the one who broke off the marriage, not I.”

“True . . .”

“In which case, why exactly are you here?”

“My love is playing tricks on me.”

“Who is your love? A separate entity from you?”

“Yes, a separate entity. Who tags along even after the separation from you.”

“A love with chutzpah.”

“Yes, separate and rebellious and cannot be tamed.”

“I might tame her, take her by surprise.”

“How?”

“I have a whip. I bought one in the Old City to use on the
haredi
kids who were breaking in here, but in the end I was afraid to do it. But this disobedient love of yours deserves to be whipped. Wait, Uriah, you'll see.”

She dumps the remains of the egg in the garbage, puts the dirty dishes in the sink and goes to the bathroom to wash her face and put on makeup along with the appropriate smile, which she checks in the mirror. But she keeps on the nightgown that thinly veils her nakedness. She wonders where she left the whip, then remembers, but when she comes back with it in hand she finds Uriah standing sadly by the apartment door, holding his briefcase, ready to leave.

“Here,” she says, putting the whip in his hand. “An old whip, a real one, which over the years beat many a camel in the desert, will now whip your love until it lets go of you.”

Astonished, Uriah holds the whip. He then snaps it spontaneously to see how far it extends.

“You're insane,” he declares with satisfaction, “and it's madness that needs whipping, not love.” He whips the big sofa, the two armchairs, even the television, which trembles under the blow. Then he gives her back the whip and says, “That's it, Noga, enough. Everything is imaginary and absurd except for work, which I'm late for.”

And as much as she feared he would come, it hurts her now that he's leaving, for this time it will be forever. When her brother asked her to join the experiment, she never imagined he would also bring in her former husband, yet now she is trying to delay him.

“Wait, Uriah. Before we say goodbye, just tell me what your job is now.”

“Same job.”

“Meaning?”

“At the Ministry of Environmental Protection.”

“How great you're still there. I was so proud that you worked in a field that had value. Even in Holland I tell friends and colleagues that the man who left me is not only a stubborn person but a positive person.”

“Please . . .”

“That's what I thought and that's what I think. That's why my love for you never fully died. Tell me, have you stayed in the same department, where you were a deputy? You haven't been promoted?”

“Now I am the director of a department.”

“A department. How many people?”

“Twenty.”

“A small department, but undoubtedly important.”

“A department that deals with garbage, recycling, packaging . . .”

“And that's the most ethical part,” she gushes. “Really important. It's the future. If only I could recycle myself.”