A Woman in Jerusalem (4 page)

Feeling oddly emotional, he planted a kiss on the baby’s head to thank him for behaving so well.

The little boy shut his eyes blissfully and let the dummy drop from his mouth.

Having finished playing detective, the secretary buttoned her fur coat. She removed her net cap and handed it to the supervisor, who carefully folded it and put it in his pocket as if it were the last vestige of the death he had just learned of. The secretary was now engaged in watching the long spirals of the assembly lines with their slowly rising dough on its way to the hot ovens. Sobered by the immensity of it all, and by the rank of the man she had been questioning, she smiled ruefully and inquired whether, as an employee in personnel, she had the same right as the bakery workers to a free loaf of bread every day.

The supervisor smiled at his inquisitor’s request. He took a large bag, filled it with three different kinds of bread, two packages of rusks, and one each of croutons and breadcrumbs, and asked a worker to take it to the secretary’s car. Would the resource manager like some, too?

The resource manager thought it over and replied,

“Come to think of it, why not?”

Taking one loaf of bread, he firmly declined a second, as if this might involve a dangerous impropriety. Yet instead of leaving the bakery with his secretary, he stayed by the side of the supervisor, who hurried off to another, even larger work space with an even bigger oven. Two technicians were waiting for permission to light it, a process involving a battery of freestanding switches, dials, and lifts. The supervisor, hesitant and uncertain only a minute ago, now issued crisp, authoritative orders, to which the oven, like a trained circus animal awakened from its sleep, responded with a low growl. Enveloped in a fragrant warmth, the resource manager watched the workers harmoniously performing their tasks. He felt a pang of envy. How much better it was on a stormy night like this to work with simple matter than with fragile,
vulnerable
human life. Any error here could be corrected by pressing a button.

The night shift supervisor didn’t like being followed around. Exactly what, he asked the human resources manager once the oven was lit – its steady drone accompanied by a thin whine – was still bothering him? Hadn’t he, the supervisor, promised that in the morning, at the end of his shift, he would go to the owner’s office, admit his mistake, and offer to have the money deducted from his pay packet? When the human resources manager, his attention drawn to a fresh conveyor belt that had begun to clatter, replied that they should wait to see whether the weekly called off the article, the supervisor declared morosely:

“They’ll never call off anything.”

“Why not? It’s obvious that the woman had nothing to do with us at the time of her death.”

“Don’t be naïve. It doesn’t matter if she did or didn’t. That journalist isn’t going to give up his story. If we correct him on one thing, he’ll get us somewhere else. We should let him publish. Why make a fuss? People pick up local weeklies for the restaurant reviews and used-car ads, that’s all. And
even if a few souls do read it, they’ll forget it before they’ve finished …”

The manager, suddenly aware of a new contradiction, asked: “If you felt so sorry for her, why didn’t you wait for her to find a new job first?”

“How do you know she didn’t?”

“Because she was broke. There was nothing in her
shopping
bag but rotten fruit.”

“That’s ridiculous.” The supervisor flushed. “Who can tell after a bombing what’s rotten and what isn’t? Take my advice and drop it. Don’t mess with a rotten journalist. In the end, no one will remember …”

The manager regarded the supervisor in silence. Before the night is out I’ll surprise the old man yet, he told himself, feverishly toying with a new thought. He removed his net cap and handed it to the supervisor, who stuck it in his pocket with the secretary’s. Then, waving good night, he headed back through the large, warm work space and out to the administration building. At the exit he was besieged by the cleaning women, eager to hear about their co-worker’s death. Yet what could he tell them? No more than they could tell him. It was a large bakery with many corners, and each one of them worked alone. The dead woman, a temporary who feared for her job, had worked harder than the rest of them and never stopped to chat with anyone.

Outside it was still stormy. A convoy of army trucks pulled into the bakery’s large yard and arranged themselves in a hissing row at the loading platforms. The human resources manager fought a sudden urge to ask the workers if they, too, like the secretary, had found the woman beautiful. He didn’t want to be wrongly suspected, especially concerning someone who was dead.

Lifting the collar of his thin overcoat, he ran back to the administration building.

He returned to his office. Once again he thought of informing the bakery’s owner of his progress. Once again he refrained. He would keep his plans to himself and let the old man fret for his humanity.

He dialled the weekly and asked to speak to the editor. The man’s secretary, sounding as efficient and energetic as his own, replied that her boss was away and would not be
available
for the next twenty-four hours. He was taking a badly needed break and had gone off to commune with himself, leaving even his cell phone behind. Perhaps she could help the caller?

Once again it struck the resource manager how keen some people were to step into their superiors’ shoes. Introducing himself, he inquired discreetly whether she knew anything about the article.

Indeed, she knew all about it. In fact, she considered herself a party to the affair, having been the one to suggest to the editor that he warn his friend, the owner of the bakery. Moreover, it was she who had urged the old man to submit his explanation and apology by tomorrow, when it would have the greatest impact.

“But that’s just it!” the resource manager said excitedly. “We’re not apologizing for anything. We’re only explaining.” The entire accusation was based on a mistake. A preliminary investigation had revealed that the dead woman, although she had once worked at the bakery, had not been employed there at the time of the bombing. Hence the company and its human resources division had been neither callous nor
negligent
. If the editor had indeed left without his cell phone, which he rather doubted, he would advise her to wield the authority vested in her by cancelling the article’s publication.

“Cancel it?” The secretary sounded as shocked as if she had been asked to cancel tomorrow’s sunrise. Absolutely not. It was out of the question. And besides, what was the resource manager so worried about? The article would appear, with the
company’s response in a sidebar, and the weekly’s readers would decide for themselves.

“But that’s absurd!” the resource manager protested angrily. “Why expose your readers to more horror stories in times like these?”

The secretary stuck to her guns. With all due respect to the resource manager’s desire to acquit his company of blame, she wasn’t authorized to cancel or postpone an article without the author’s permission. If it was that crucial, the resource manager should contact the author directly and convince him to make changes. He had all night long to do it in.

“That weasel?”

“Weasel?” Her surprise was gleeful, vivacious. “Ha, ha, I like that! Does that come from knowing him personally or just from his writing?”

“From having read this single, ridiculous piece.”

“Well, you’ve captured him perfectly. He doesn’t look like a weasel – far from it – but that’s just what he is: quick, slippery, and able to crawl into any hiding place to attack you by surprise. But tell me,” the editor’s secretary went on as though declaring her credo, “who keeps us on our toes if not the weasels? Every newspaper needs at least one. Only one, though … that’s quite enough, ha, ha …”

As a token of her appreciation, she was even ready to give him the weasel’s phone number.

Seated in the dark, empty administration building, with the bantering conversation having got him nowhere, he lapsed into gloom. Why on earth was he being so stubborn? What was he fighting for? To cover up the night shift supervisor’s blunder? Or was it to show the old owner that he, his former star salesman, was still on top of things and the last person who should ever be threatened with dismissal? Or – he could feel the thought grope its way to the surface – was it to reclaim the dignity of an engineer come from afar to be a cleaning woman in Jerusalem. To let her know – her and whoever had loved her – that her suffering and death hadn’t gone unnoticed because of anyone’s callousness?

He switched on his desk lamp and slowly studied her computer image. Was she beautiful? It was hard to tell. He shut the folder and phoned home to ask about the dance lesson.

There was no answer. His daughter’s substitute parent could be reached only on her cell phone. Every bit as lively as the two secretaries, she told him in her faint British accent that the dance lesson had ended a quarter of an hour ago. They weren’t yet back in the apartment because his daughter had left her homework at a friend’s house and they had to drive there to retrieve it.

“Again? On a rainy night like this?”

“What can I do about it? The rain is indeed inconsiderate.” But there was no reason to be upset, said the office manager, tactfully defending the child’s inattentiveness. She was waiting for her in a nice café. In fact, she wasn’t even alone, because her husband was co-parenting with her. He was sitting by her side right now, having a beer. The resources manager could take his time – all night, if he wanted – to answer the scurrilous charges. She and her husband were used to teenage girls. They had a granddaughter the same age in America.

“All night?” Her generosity with his time annoyed him. “What for? Everything is wrapped up.” He would soon come home to release them, he said, proudly declaring that he had tracked the dead woman down. Her name was Ragayev and a short but successful interrogation in the bakery had revealed the “termination” of her job. Although the company had indeed issued the pay slip that had put the journalist on the scent, she was no longer employed there at the time of the bombing. He was going to try to have the article cancelled, which in the editor’s absence meant contacting the author.

The office manager reacted enthusiastically. Cancellation was the best solution – far better than a response on their part. It was just the thing to restore the old man’s peace of mind. “Insist on it,” she urged the resource manager. “We’re taking good care of your daughter. You promised to make this woman your business – do it. Get hold of the journalist now …”

The manager sighed. “He’s a real weasel,” he said. “Once he sinks his teeth into someone, he won’t let go. He’s liable to dig deeper and find more than just a clerical error.”

“Such as what?”

“How should I know? He’ll come up with something. Maybe involving the night shift supervisor …”

“But why assume the worst?”

“Why doesn’t
he
make the call? I’ll bet he has the editor’s cell phone number.”

The office manager, however, knew her boss too well to agree to this. Clerical errors were not his strong point, and he was apt to grow confused or excited and make matters worse. And time was of the essence. The weekly was going to press tomorrow, and the old man was now in a restaurant, before going on to a concert.

“The hell he is! He’s going to concerts and restaurants while we’re defending his honour?”

The office manager, a positive thinker, sought to correct him. “It’s the honour of us all. The proper functioning of your division is involved, too. Leave the old man alone. Let him have his music. How much longer will he enjoy life? You needn’t worry. My husband and I are looking after your daughter.”

Compassion for his child welled within him. Didn’t the office manager agree she was adorable?

“She’s a good girl.” As always, the office manager was being honest. “She’s just … in a world of her own. A bit disorganized. It’s hard to tell what she wants. But don’t worry. She’ll find herself in the end …”

The resource manager shut his eyes tight.

Vying with the smug, lazy drawl on the cell phone was the sound of pounding music. The weasel must be at a wedding or a nightclub. Yet not even the background noise could keep the journalist from swearing roundly at his editor for having
shown the company owner an advance copy of his article. “The man’s a moral scoundrel and a traitor to his profession,” he said. “Now I understand why the little bastard was in such a hurry to disappear.” He had begun to fear a stab in the back the moment his photographer had pointed out that the bakery also ran a paper products division that sold newsprint to the weekly. “So what are you telling me?” he asked the resource manager. “That you deserve moral immunity for a good price on newsprint? Why can’t your response wait a week? You’re trying to kill my article. Are you really so scared of finding out how inhuman you are or are you just worried about losing business? If the latter, I can only say I’m amazed to find such innocent capitalists. I only wish someone would think of boycotting you because of me. You needn’t worry, though. No one will. Who cares about the inhumanity of a big company when staying human nowadays is too much for anyone? People are so screwed up that they’ll even admire you for being tough. And suppose some bleeding heart is upset – so what? You think he’ll go from shelf to shelf in the supermarket boycotting your products? What crap! What’s wrong with you? You must be awfully unsure of yourselves to be so sensitive about a minor accusation. Don’t make a big issue of it. Say you’re sorry; just apologize. Only please wait a week before doing it.”

“No one is sorry and no one is apologizing or waiting,” the manager answered, shouting to make himself heard above the music. “You’ve got it all wrong. The woman left her job a month ago. At the time of the bombing she was no longer in our employ, even though we kept her on the payroll by mistake. I’ve checked it all out. We had no way of knowing she was dead and no reason to know. We expect you to be fair and withdraw your article.”