A Woman in Jerusalem (6 page)

He bit into the plain, dry white bread and found it tasty. Was it the same bread he was used to eating at home? Had his former wife looked for the bakery’s label in the supermarket and bought it as a gesture of solidarity? Once all this was over, he intended to demand a free daily loaf for all the
administration
workers. He tore off another piece, opened the thin folder, and, chewing noisily, read for the third time the CV dictated to him by the woman, now dead.

The computer printout provided him with the date and place of her birth and her address in Jerusalem. Hoping to form a better notion of the beauty that had eluded him, he bent to take a closer look at the digital face and long,
swanlike
neck. Was the secretary right? Did he live inside himself like a snail while beauty and goodness passed like shadows? Even if he did, she needed to be taken down a peg. In the army he had had a reputation for keeping his female soldiers in line – until, that is, he married one.

He shut the folder, tore off a third piece of bread, and went to the cabinet to get the file of the night shift supervisor. Bulky and tattered, it contained a pre-computer age
black-and-white
photograph of a handsome young man, a
technician
wearing the uniform of the Army Ordnance Corps, his dark eyes shining at the world with hope and trust. The resource manager leafed through the folder. There were requests for pay increases and paid vacations; notices of the man’s marriage and of the births of his three daughters; occasional promotions accompanied by nagging memos that he hadn’t yet got his increase. All in all, he had had an uneventful career. Marred only by a reprimand from the owner ten years before for negligently allowing an oven to be damaged by overheating, his file told the story of a hard worker who had gradually risen through the ranks. His
technician’s
smock and oil-stained hands notwithstanding, he now earned twice as much as the human resources manager.

By now the loaf of bread looked as if it had been gnawed at by a mouse. Throwing its remains into the wastepaper basket, he put on his coat, still wet from the rain, and headed back to the bakery, now nearly invisible behind a pall of fog and chimney smoke.

As Tuesday was the night on which the bakery fulfilled its orders from the army, the ovens and conveyor belts were still going full-blast. He asked a cleaning woman for a smock and cap and went to warn the night shift supervisor not to talk to the journalist. It took a while to find him; he was with two technicians, the three of them peering into the empty bowels of an oven, trying to determine why it was making a
screeching
noise.

Once again the human resources manager felt envious of the bakery workers for having to deal only with dough and machinery. The supervisor, flushed from the heat and wearing a smock and apron, was deep in conversation with the technicians. In his aging, troubled face the resource manager could still make out the dark-eyed soldier in the Ordnance Corps who had been so full of vitality.

Their glances met. The supervisor did not seem surprised to see him. Perhaps he realized that aggressive yet scattershot investigation by the secretary had not closed the dead woman’s case. The resource manager, anxious to spare him embarrassment in front of the technicians, waved a friendly hello and asked:

“Can I have a few minutes of your time?”

The supervisor threw the oven a last glance. Still concerned about the noise it was making, he ordered the technicians to bank the fires.

“Take her down a few degrees,” he said.

Sighing
with
relief
at
the
departure
of
the
cafeteria’s
last
diners,
we
finished
placing
the
chairs
on
the
tables
before
mopping
encrusted
red
mud
from
the
floor
which
resembled
that
of
a
slaughterhouse
after
the
day’s
torrential
rain,
when
the
two
of
them
entered
out
of
the
dark.
Exhausted
though
we
were
by
the
customers
who
had
flocked
here
all
day
to
get
out
of
the
rain,
how
could
we
refuse
them?
One
was
the
young
personnel
manager,
whose
secretary
we
knew,
because
it
was
she
who
arranged
for
us
to
cater
the
parties
given
for
retiring
staff.
The
other
was
a
regular
customer,
the
night
shift
supervisor.
If
our
cafeteria
was
the
only
warm,
quiet
place
two
senior
staff
members
could
find
in
the
entire
bakery
complex,
far
be
it
from
us
to
disappoint
them.
We
warned
them,
though,
that
the
kitchen
was
closed
and
that
a
pot
of
tea
was
the
most
they
could
expect.

That
was
fine
with
the
personnel
manager.
Without
bothering
to
ask
the
supervisor,
who
looked
preoccupied,
he
took
a
table
by
the
window.
We
went
on
mopping
and
scrubbing
while
listening
with
one
ear
to
their
conversation
in
the
hope
of
learning
how
long
they
would
take.

At
first
the
young
personnel
manager
did
the
talking
and
the
supervisor
listened.
Still
in
his
overalls,
covered
by
an
old
army
jacket,
he
propped
his
chin
on
one
hand.
After
a
while
the
two
fell
silent,
as
if
they
had
used
up
every
last
word.
But
then
a
response
came,
at
first
in
a
low,
hesitant
voice.
And
when
the
floor
was
spotless
and
dry
and
the
chairs
were
lowered
again
from
the
tables,
and
the
violet
light
of
a
clearing
sky
shone
through
the
window,
we
were
shocked
to
see
the
older
man
bury
his
face
in
his
hands
as
if
hiding
something
painful
or
shameful,
as
if
he
had
finally
understood
why
an
empty
cafeteria
had
been
chosen
for
his
confession.

Although the human resources manager began by apologizing for his secretary’s rudeness, which had been inexcusable if only because of the presence of other workers, the night shift supervisor did not appear to be concentrating. Far from owing him an apology, the secretary, he seemed to believe, had been within her rights. Only when the manager described the old
owner’s agitation, which made it necessary to get at the truth, did the supervisor begin to focus, as if grasping at last that the problem wasn’t a clerical one.

The resource manager hastened to reassure him. As
important
as it was to ascertain the facts, he had been through the supervisor’s file and knew about his loyalty and devotion to the company. Whatever was said tonight would remain between them. He did not intend to file another reprimand, like the one the supervisor had received for the damaged oven.

The supervisor was taken aback to learn that the owner’s handwritten rebuke was still on his record.

“All such documents come in duplicate. Their natural and final resting place is the filing cabinet in my office.”

Gently, the resource manager explained his intentions. Having taken this unpleasant business on himself, he was determined to get to the bottom of it and report back to the owner after the concert.

“The concert?”

“Yes. Just imagine: he couldn’t miss his concert! While we’re running around in the wind and rain to save his reputation, he’s having a musical evening. Well, why not? We all need inspiration. Who can object these days to some good music?”

In short, the younger man was proposing to cover for the older man, who outranked him by two levels and earned nearly twice as much. To do so efficiently, however, even in a trivial matter like this, he had to know the whole truth. The weasel meant to strike again. From his point of view, why shouldn’t he?

“The weasel?”

The human resources manager laughed. “That journalist. It’s my name for him.” They had just had a nasty phone conversation and exchanged insults; frankly, even “weasel” was too kind a description. “We have to be careful. I don’t want you talking to journalists, even if their questions seem perfectly innocent.”

“But what does he want?”

“A personal apology from the owner. A clear admission of guilt. No mere explanation can exonerate us of what he calls our callousness. He’ll keep trying to prove that that woman was still employed by us – not only at the time of her death, but afterwards too.”

“What do you mean, afterwards?”

“I mean even now. He thinks of her as a damsel in distress and of himself as her knight errant. You can be sure it won’t take him long to find out about your unreported termination of employment.”

“I’ve already said I’m sorry about that. I really am. I’ll pay the costs …”

The resource manager explained that feeling sorry and paying the costs were not the issue. The truth alone was. An unidentified female corpse still in a morgue a week after a bombing was an irresistible temptation for idealistic reporters.

“Temptation?” The supervisor was taken aback. Actually, he replied, there was a temptation in any helpless stranger – a live one, that is, not a dead one. The vulnerability of temporary or foreign workers was somehow …

“Tempting?” The casually uttered word had taken on a life of its own. “How so?”

“I mean …” The supervisor struggled to be exact. “It’s not just having power over them. It’s pity and sympathy too … you’re sucked into it.”

Flustered, he explained in a shaky voice that he didn’t want to be misunderstood. Nor did he owe anyone an explanation. The fact was … well, nothing had actually happened between them. Nothing physical. Yet he had to admit that he had thought of her all the time. This was why, since running the night shift wasn’t simple, he had had to ask her to leave – for her own good.

The resource manager hadn’t expected such frankness. He winced as he had done when discovering the CV he had recorded. It was as if this woman ten years older than himself, whom he still couldn’t remember, was threatening to become a temptation for him too.

He chose his words carefully. He had already begun to suspect, he said, that the problem was not just work-related. Even though he was tired, and anxious to join his waiting daughter, this was what had kept him on the case. He wanted to know exactly what had happened. Was there more to it than the supervisor was owning up to? His secretary had been deeply impressed by the dead woman’s beauty – and that damned journalist had spoken of it, too. It was unbelievable that even there, in a hospital morgue, someone had had the cheek to …

“What?” The supervisor turned pale.

Not that looks were always that important, the human resources manager continued, still, it was understandable if … besides feeling for her loneliness … that is, if she really had been that attractive … or was this putting it too strongly? He himself, after all, despite having interviewed her personally, couldn’t remember the first thing about her, not even with the aid of her photograph.

Although the drainpipes outside the window were still dripping, the storm had abated. The supervisor looked
tranquil
, meditative. He did not seem the least bit upset by the confession that the human resources manager was about to extract from him. The crew-cut man, twenty years younger than he was, inspired confidence.