A Woman in Jerusalem (9 page)

“Under wraps?” His mother gave a start. “From whom?”

“From that vile journalist who plans to write another instalment, for one.”

“But the morgue needs to know who she is. Why not tell them?”

“It’s only for a day or two. Even then, I’ll talk only to authorized parties. And before I do, I’ll need to double-check my sources. The last thing we want is an exposé of the supervisor’s private life. With weasels like that journalist, you have to watch out … By the way, the owner doesn’t know a thing yet. He went to a concert and let me run myself ragged.”

His mother, enveloped in cigarette smoke, did not like his procrastination one bit. Surely the dead woman must have friends or family who were looking for her.

“I don’t believe anyone is looking for her. But to be honest, who knows?”

He brought her an ashtray.

“Not you, that’s for sure.” There was disdain, even anger, in her voice. “I’m warning you, though. Once you’ve discovered who she is, she’s yours.”

“How come?”

“She’s your responsibility. Keeping it to yourself is not only disrespectful, it’s criminal. Tell me” – she was raising her voice now as if he were once again a small boy – “what’s your problem? Why can’t you phone the hospital? What are you afraid of?”

He removed the dishes from the table, scraping the waste into the bin, placed them in the sink, and rinsed them. “It’s the middle of the night,” he said gently. “A morgue isn’t an emergency room. No one is sitting there waiting to hear from me. Divulging details over the telephone that can end up in the wrong place is worse than doing nothing. If she’s been lying unidentified for a week, she can wait one more night. Believe me, her ordeal is over.”

His mother said nothing. She took off her glasses, stubbed out her cigarette, reached for the review section of the
newspaper
, and headed for her bedroom. Going into the bathroom to check the water, he discovered it was cold here, too. Well, his mother had not known he was coming. He switched on the old boiler, put some water on for tea, and glanced at the front section of the newspaper. Then, before his mother could
turn her light out, he went to ask for the sports section. Had she already thrown it away? He addressed her timidly; even now, their eyes did not make contact.

“You must think something. I mean about that picture.”

She preferred not to answer. “It’s hard to say. It’s so small …”

“Even so.”

She hesitated, weighing her words. “Your boss’s office manager may be right. There’s something about her … especially the eyes … or maybe it’s her smile. It’s like
sunshine.
”

A wave of chagrin swept over him. For some reason, it grieved him to be told that the woman was beautiful. His mother, who seemed to know this without looking at him, tried retracting her remark, then gave up.

“Should I leave the light on for you in the hallway?”

“Why? Are you going out again tonight?”

“Yes. There’s no hot water for a shower.”

“How was I supposed to know you were coming?”

“You weren’t. I’m not blaming you.” He shifted his weight to his other leg. “While the water is heating, I’ll run over to the morgue. Maybe I can find someone there to take her off my hands.”

“At this hour?” She sat up in bed. “Don’t you think it’s rather late?”

“Not really. It’s just a little after nine.”

“What hospital is she in?”

“Mount Scopus.”

“There’s a morgue there?”

“You’re asking me? So I’ve been told …”

She was beginning to feel sorry for him.

“Perhaps you’re right about putting it off until tomorrow. That wouldn’t be so terrible.”

“
Now
you tell me that?” he snapped. “After first making me feel all that guilt?”

He turned out the light.

Sometime
before
10
p.m.
he
appeared
at
our
security
hut,
a
stocky
man
with
a
hard,
weary
face.
Although
the
storm
had
subsided,
in
his
winter
overcoat,
galoshes,
gloves,
and
yellow
woollen
scarf
he
seemed
prepared
for
more
bad
weather.
And
yet
he
was
bareheaded.
Before
he
could
say
a
word,
we
searched
him
for
guns
and
explosives.
“You
want
the
morgue?
At
this
hour?
”
He
said
he
was
looking
for
our
director,
assuming
there
was
such
a
person.

That
gave
us
a
fright.
Had
there
been
a
new
bombing
we
didn’t
know
about?
But
no,
he
had
come,
so
it
seemed,
in
connection
with
last
week’s
bombing,
which
no
one
remembered
any
more.
He
waved
a
thin
folder
and
said
that
he
had
discovered
the
identity
of
a
woman
killed
in
that
bombing.

“We’re
sorry,
sir,”
we
answered,
“but
it’s
after
visiting
hours.
You
need
special
permission
to
be
admitted
at
night.”
Yet
after
he
showed
us
his
ID
card
and
told
us
he
managed
the
personnel
department
of
a
bakery
that
supplied
half
the
country
with
bread,
we
said,
“More
power
to
someone
like
you,
who
with
hundreds
of
people
working
under
him,
still
comes
to
ask
about
a
temporary
cleaning
woman
–
a
dead
one,
in
fact.”
He
liked
that.
Then
he
asked
again
how
to
get
to
the
morgue.

How
could
we
tell
a
personnel
manager
where
it
was
when
we
ourselves,
in
all
our
years
of
working
here,
had
never
been
there?
We
had
to
call
the
emergency
room
and
ask
for
directions.

Although the directions did not seem complicated, he was soon wandering up and down hallways and stopping interns and nurses, who had only the vaguest idea of where the dead were kept. Finally, hoping to find someone who was better informed, he went to the main office. The woman at the desk already knew about him. Not being authorized to receive his report, however, she drew him a map to help him reach the morgue and promised that somebody would be there to receive him.

The map did not, as he had imagined it would, instruct him to descend to the ground floor and look there for stairs to a hidden basement. Rather, it guided him outside to a small
cluster of pine trees in which stood an old, stone building, one wing of which, according to a sign, was a stockroom for medical supplies. A second wing housed the department of forensic medicine, while a third, unidentified, was no doubt the one he was looking for. He had to stumble down a dark lane to reach it. Twinkling lights in the distance, which came not from stars but from far-off houses, hinted at a panoramic view by day.

It was remarkable, reflected the human resources manager, who did not consider himself easily frightened, that no effort had been made to conceal the place. On the contrary: it stood in the open by the pine trees, untended and unguarded, as though it were just another office you could walk into and out of without fearing the dead any more than they feared you. Although a light was shining in a small window, he wasn’t sure anyone was there. What will be, will be, he told himself. At least now I’m dressed for the weather. Even if I’m on a wild-goose chase, it will save me time tomorrow.
Meanwhile
, the water is heating in the boiler and I’ll be rid of the real or unreal guilt my mother is trying to pin on me.

He knocked on the locked door. No answer. Circling the building, he came to a back door that opened when he pushed it. Without warning, he found himself in a cold, dimly lit space; an air conditioner was humming softly. A dozen or so stretchers with corpses on them were arranged in two parallel lines. Some of the bodies were well wrapped. Others,
apparently
intended for research or the classroom, were covered with transparent sheets of plastic.

The human resources manager froze. With all due respect for the rational belief that death was the end of all things, it was irresponsible to leave the door unlocked. Suppose he were unbalanced or given to morbid fantasies? He could easily panic and file a lawsuit.

Standing still, he shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and prayed that there would be no bad or strange smell. Allowing himself a furtive glance, very much like his mother’s in recent months, he noticed a corpse the colour of yellow clay. The
plastic sheet that enveloped it was too thick for him to tell if the body was a man’s or a woman’s. Even though he felt sufficiently composed to examine the stretchers for the cleaning woman’s identifying tag, his uninvited presence in the room struck him as a breach of etiquette. Reluctantly, he backed out, then shut the door with a click.

And yet, nevertheless …
I’ve
made
it
to
the
last
stop
,
he thought.
I
was
here.
It’s
not
my
job
to
identify
a
woman
I
don’t
know.
I’ve
come
to
report,
not
to
investigate.
Tomorrow
I’ll
wrap
things
up
with
a
telephone
call.
If
the
worse
comes
to
the
worst,
I’ll
come
back.
It’s
not
something
I
can
ask
the
old
man
or
my
secretary
to
do,
let
alone
the
night
shift
supervisor,
who
might
be
tempted
to
take
too
passionate
a
farewell
look.
He’s
in
no
state
for
it.
I
promised
to
spare
him
a
reprimand,
not
to
arrange
a
last
rendezvous
with
his
beloved
–
who,
legally,
until
the
authorities
find
her
next-of-kin,
is
still
my
or
my
division’s
responsibility.

In his mind’s eye he was transported to the vast work floor of the bakery, with its rattling production lines twisting in doughy arabesques. Although this dough after reaching the ovens would become tomorrow’s bread, its yellow-clay colour bore an eerie resemblance to that of the corpse he had just seen.

He circled the building, wondering how far it was to the distant lights. Snug in his layers of clothing, he felt ready for any adventure. But the lights had vanished in a dark mist. The night, which had seemed about to clear, now grew so dense that the smock of an approaching lab technician looked like the flapping wings of an angel.

The woman at the office had kept her word and found someone at the pathology lab who knew the ins and outs of the morgue.

He was a stout man of about fifty, wearing a French beret that could have been a token of bohemianism, a kind of Orthodox skullcap, or both. Full of curiosity and energy, he
hailed the resource manager standing in the darkness with a barrage of words. “It’s good you came tonight, because she would have been gone by tomorrow. You would have had to chase after her to the Central Pathology Institute, where all the unsolved cases are sent. The doctors and nurses from intensive care managed to keep her body here until now because they were hoping that a friend, relative, or fellow worker of hers would turn up. They wanted someone to know how hard they had fought to save her life and why they couldn’t. We’re a small hospital here, far from the centre of town, and we don’t generally get the critical or even the severe cases. Perhaps the police and emergency teams don’t think we’re well enough equipped. Still, it’s a blow to our professional pride. I suppose she was brought here because she didn’t seem in serious condition at first, even though she was unconscious. The only visible damage was a few small
puncture
wounds in her hands and feet and a scratch on her skull. These certainly didn’t look fatal. Only afterwards did it turn out that she had an infection of the brain, perhaps from a bacterial source in the market.”