A Woman in Jerusalem (12 page)

If he couldn’t find some friend or relative to take possession of this woman’s disrupted domesticity, the resource manager thought, he would have to ask his secretary to do it. He was sure she would welcome any task that took her away from the routine of her computer. Meanwhile, he decided, he would at least close the window. He put his gloves back on and – after ascertaining that the symphony would not be ending for a while – went out into the yard. Going to the rear of the little shack, which suggested a fairy-tale hut in its wintry setting of old boards and implements, he detached the laundry line from the fence and gently gathered the rain-drenched,
mud-and-leaf-spattered
articles, which felt light and intimate to the touch. Back inside, he put them in the sink, wondered briefly whether he had the right to rinse them, then turned on the tap, which surprised him by running hot at once. The neighbour whose storeroom this had been had connected its
plumbing to his own. Wouldn’t the night shift supervisor love to be here! But he mustn’t have anything to do with this. His infatuation had caused enough problems.

The music on the other side of the thin bathroom wall was showing the first signs of resolution. He shut the tap and left the laundry in the sink, already regretting having taken it from the line. He mustn’t touch anything else: no drawers, no documents, no photographs. Suppose the sought-for friend or relative were to turn up and accuse him of theft? What would he say? “Where have you been?” “Why didn’t you take any interest in her until now?”

He sat down again in the chair, one ear on the symphony that was now slowly but surely winding down, and surveyed the dead woman’s domain. Apart from the bed, which she had perhaps intended to return to that fateful morning, everything was neatly arranged. Though poor, she had had good taste. A clean plate lay on the table beside a folded napkin, mute testimony to a never-eaten last meal. Two anemones stood in a thin vase, still fresh-looking although the water had
evaporated.

The walls were bare except for a single, unframed sketch. There were no photographs – none of the son whisked away by his father; none of the boyfriend who had left her; none even, of the old mother in the village who had hoped to join her. The sketch, done by an amateur – herself? – in charcoal, depicted a small, deserted alleyway — in Jerusalem’s Old City? – that curved gently to meet the silhouette of a domed and minareted mosque.

The solemn music had become trapped in a frightful dissonance from which it was struggling to escape. As the little radio, in turn, struggled to transmit this, he guessed the composer in a flash. There’s no doubt of it, he thought, conducting with one arm. Who but that stubborn, pious old German would ever be so tedious?

He was pleased at having figured it out. When he phoned the old man, he would surprise him not only with his detective work but also with a discussion of the concert.
“Believe it or not, I listened to it while on the job. I just couldn’t tell if it was the Seventh or the Eighth.”

Something about the shack, tucked away in a backyard in a semi-Orthodox neighbourhood in the centre of town,
appealed
to him. He wondered how much rent its owner had got away with charging. “Yulia Ragayev, Yulia Ragayev,” he declaimed to the empty room. “Yulia Ragayev, Yulia Ragayev.” The death of this beautiful woman a few years his senior, who had passed so close to him without his having noticed her magical smile, saddened him greatly.

The dark, earnest notes of the German symphony, which had reached its final coda, were interrupted by the jingly melody of his cell phone. Fortunately, the caller had patience, since it wasn’t easy to find the tiny instrument in the many pockets of his overcoat. “Hang on,” he shouted as he turned down the music. Yet when he returned to the phone, it was only his mother. Unable to sleep, she was calling to ask if he had been to the hospital and found someone to deal with the dead woman.

“Yes,” he replied with a sigh. “I was in the morgue on Mount Scopus. On top of everything, they wanted me to look at the corpse.”

“And you agreed?” she asked in consternation.

“Of course not. I’m not that naïve. You tell me: how can I identify someone I don’t remember?”

For once, she was pleased with him. “You were right to put your foot down. It’s none of your business. At last you showed some sense. Where are you, in a bar?”

He debated whether to tell her, then did.

“At her place? Why?”

He explained as briefly as possible.

“And you were able to open the door?”

“Of course.”

“What did you hope to find there?”

“Nothing. I’m just having a look around. I’ve been
thinking
. Maybe the company should be a bit more generous.
Someone
has to pay for shipping her belongings to her family …”

“Be careful. Don’t touch anything.”

“Why would I touch anything? What’s there to touch? Hang on a minute, mother, hang on …”

The final bars of the symphony seemed to have taken the audience by surprise. The polite, weary applause from the transistor sounded at first like an idling engine. Only gradually, as if the listeners wished to spare the musicians’ feelings, did it pick up. The resource manager hoped that the concert had not exhausted the old man. He wanted to give him a full report tonight. Cautiously he turned up the volume, waiting for the name of the work to be announced. Yet all he heard was the applause, still rising and falling softly. Although a kind soul tried cheering the orchestra, or perhaps himself, with a long cry of “Bravo,” his remained a voice in the wilderness. It was late, and everyone wanted to go home.

“Just a minute, mother … hang on …” He reluctantly returned to the phone before she could get too indignant.

“What’s wrong? Is anyone with you?”

“No. Who could be with me? I was just waiting to hear the name of a symphony played on the radio.”

“Is there anything else you want from me?”

“Anything
I
want from
you
?”
He was startled. “Not that I can think of.”

“Well, then, good night.”

“I won’t be late.”

“You’ll come when you come.”

Before his hunch could be confirmed, the musical broadcast was interrupted by the hourly news. The human resources manager switched off the radio.

The rain was beating down again on the roof of the shack. He was tired.
Still
,
he thought to brace himself,
if
I
’
ve
gone
to
such
lengths
not
to
disappoint
the
old
man
,
I
can
’
t
let
him
down
now
.
His
car
and
driver
are
waiting
for
him
at
the
concert
hall,
and
he’ll
be
home
soon.
If
I
were
a
bit
kinkier,
I
might
be
tempted
to
take
a
nap
in
this
bed
and
cover
myself
with
the
blanket.
But
I
am
who
I
am.
I’m
not
a
lover,
or
in
love,
or
a
beloved.
I’ll
just
fold
the
blanket
neatly
and
move
on.

Half an hour later, he phoned the owner and found him at home. “After Bruckner’s Eighth,” he inquired, “are you up to listening to me?”

“Why the Eighth?” the old man marvelled. “It was the Ninth.”

“Ah,” the manager said, hastening to correct himself while displaying his knowledge. “The unfinished one.”

“Unfinished?” The old man had apparently not bothered to read the programme notes. “How unfinished can anything be that lasts over an hour?”

“Think carefully,” the resource manager said. “You heard only three movements. If that constipated man, with all his spiritual doubts and struggles, had finished the fourth
movement
before he died you’d have had to sit through another hour … What do you say, then? Do you have the patience for the report you’ve been waiting for? Or are you desperate to go to sleep?”

“I already slept at the concert,” the old man joked. “And at my age, there’s no need for sleep anyway. If you’re still on your feet, come on over. Just give me a few minutes to get organized. Meanwhile, I’d like a yes or no answer: are we guilty or not?”

“Responsible is more like it.”

“Responsible for what?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said dryly, cutting short the
conversation.

It was nearly one o’clock when he arrived at the large luxury apartment. He had been there only once, many years before, during the old man’s week of mourning for his elderly wife whom the resource manager had never met and who may not even have been old. The living room had been filled with condolence callers, and the human resources manager, after mumbling a few obligatory words, had
retreated
to a corner and sat by an illuminated glass cabinet filled with vivid clay and plaster models of the many kinds of
bread and baked goods produced by the company during its long history.

Tonight, when he was the only guest, he found himself drawn to the same cabinet. The housekeeper, a small,
dark-skinned,
white-haired Indian, took his hat, scarf, and gloves and went to call the old man. Did the owner’s choice of this woman, the human resources manager wondered, indicate that he considered himself too old for sex?

It took a while for the owner to appear. For the first time since the resource manager had known him, he really did look old. His bath had clearly done nothing to revive him. His tall figure was stooped. The royal pompadour was damp and limp. Dark rings circled his eyes and his face was pale. His feet, clad in old slippers, were dry and veiny. For a moment, the resource manager had the unsettling thought that his boss might be naked beneath his bathrobe. The symphony must have left him feeling drained. Besides wanting to know what his manager had discovered, he seemed anxious to recharge his batteries with the younger man’s energy. He filled two glasses with red wine.

“Well?” He raised his glass in a toast. “Is everything clear now? You’ve identified her? She really did work for us? Tell me what you know.”

The resource manager took a sip of the excellent wine and silently handed the owner the thin and by now somewhat dog-eared folder. “Before I tell you anything,” he said, “have a look.”

The owner reread the newspaper article with an
expressionless
face; carefully followed the lines of the computer printout with a long, wrinkled finger; and turned to the CV written in the resource manager’s hand. Picking up the photograph, he rose, switched on a standing lamp, and went to peer
nearsightedly
at the cleaning woman, as if seeking to bring her back to life.

The resource manager poured himself some more wine. “Would you say she was an attractive woman?” he softly probed, as he moved to return the folder.

The unexpected question made the owner snatch the folder back for another look. “Attractive? It’s hard to say. Perhaps … but what makes you ask? She has breeding, wouldn’t you say?”

Once again the resource manager felt a pang, as if
something
had been stolen from him forever.

“Breeding?” The word somehow offended him. “What do you mean? What do you see?”

The owner chuckled at the question. “I’m not sure. There’s
something
foreign about her, something … Asiatic, even though she’s fair.”

The resource manager had to tell everything. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through,” he blurted. “I’ve been to the morgue on Mount Scopus. In fact, I’ve just come from there. They wanted me to identify the corpse. I refused. Tell me: Am I responsible for someone I’ve seen only once in my life? But I found a better solution. Would you like to hear about it?”

The owner sank deeper into his chair and touched the younger man’s knee as if to calm him. “Come,” he said, moving the bottle of wine out of reach. “It’s late. Let’s start from the beginning. One thing at a time.”

The resource manager was reluctant to forgo the wine. A new thought was forming in his brain. Just look at this old man, he reflected. As wealthy as he is, he insists on being employed by his own company so that he can draw a salary on top of all his profits – none of which will keep him from dying sometime soon. Who knows if he’ll be succeeded by a human being like himself or by a faceless board of directors?

He had a feeling of warm intimacy, as if he were in the company of an elderly cousin who, because he had reached the last stage of his life, could be told everything. And so, after praising the wine and wheedling a third glass, he launched into his story, starting with the owner’s half-scolding
declaration
“No choice” and ending with switching off the lights in the dead woman’s threadbare shack.

He told it like a detective story, with a beginning, a middle,
and an end, knowing that it would be impossible to reveal the whole truth. The night shift supervisor’s motives, which had set the plot in motion, would have to remain obscure. Feeling the marvellous wine settle inside him, he was careful to avoid both too much confusing detail and too much oversimplifying generalization. When at last he reached the heart of the matter, he defended the supervisor as though pleading for his own self.

The owner listened patiently, benevolently, letting the resource manager tell the story as he wished. His bathrobe was as ancient as he was. A missing button afforded a glimpse of a dry, waxy body whose thin skin was crisscrossed by blue veins.

The resource manager plunged ahead. He described the corpses he hadn’t flinched from looking at, especially the bearded homunculus, and went on to speak of the woman’s rumpled bed. With a smile, he apologized for having made it. It was something he’d felt he had to do.