The Extra (3 page)

Because only after Abba died, and maybe as a result, she thought it right to divulge to me (maybe in the past they had been embarrassed to do so) that they had never owned the Jerusalem apartment, that it was a rental, under the old key-money system. In other words, many years ago, when they moved from Kerem Avraham to Mekor Baruch, the apartment on Rashi Street was acquired for key money alone, which in those days was a convenient arrangement for those who could not afford to buy. The key money was intended to protect the tenant from eviction for life, and also to bequeath that right to his spouse, in exchange for a fixed rental payment which in its day was reasonable but over the years, with inflation, became ridiculously low.


The original owner of the apartment died long ago, and his son and heir died as well, and his widow, who went to live abroad, entrusted the apartment to the care of an elderly lawyer, to whom Abba in recent years would pay the rent every six months. Something totally absurd, like 800 shekels a month or less. Obviously, even an elderly lawyer was aware how absurd this was, so after Abba died, and since the lease was only in his name, the lawyer saw it as an opportunity to take over the property and return it to the inheriting widow. From then on he has been staking out the apartment, waiting for Ima to die or to leave, for only then would he have the legal right to regain control in return for a paltry sum, a portion of the original key money, which had become part of the overall absurdity.


It is therefore of great importance to Ima that during the trial period we maintain our presence in the apartment—in other words, that of an immediate relative. Under the terms of the key-money agreement, we're not allowed to sublet the place.


Beyond the stalking lawyer, Ima is worried about the apartment itself. The front door and lock are in bad shape, and replacing them in this interim period makes no sense, especially since it's easy to slip into the apartment from the floor above and the floor below, through the utility porch or the bathroom window. You may ask who would want to break into such an old apartment. What would they find there anyway? So let's go back to Pomerantz, the nice Hasid who promised when you were young to permit you to play the harp in the Holy Temple if you turned into a handsome lad. The middle son of the Pomerantz family, Shaya, the one who was friendly with you, became a religious fanatic and moved to Kerem Avraham, and of course has countless children, and the two oldest often come to visit their grandparents and loiter in the stairway. Once Ima secretly invited them to watch a children's show on her TV, and they immediately became zealous devotees of the tube. Ima quickly realized her mistake and refrained from ever inviting them again, but they found a way to get in uninvited, and maybe managed to make a copy of her house key. In any event, when she's not at home they apparently go out through Pomerantz's bathroom, shimmy down the drainpipe, enter Ima's apartment through the bathroom window and turn on the TV, and not only to children's programs. Ima caught them once, but took pity and kept quiet, maybe because she has no grandchildren of her own in Jerusalem, but the little bastards took no pity on her, and soon enough she caught them again. Sometimes they break into the apartment at night when she's sleeping. The lust for television drives them mad, and it's a good thing she warned them her kitchen isn't kosher, because otherwise they might raid the refrigerator.


And for this reason too, during the trial period (of only three months) someone responsible must stay on the lookout, and we have nobody other than you.


As a practical matter I see the situation as follows: I understand that you used your annual vacation at the time of Abba's death, and now you can only take a leave of absence without pay. And we thought, Ima and I, how this could be done without causing you financial damage, which I will get to in a moment.


But first the fundamental question: can your orchestra make do without a harpist? You once explained to me that your job consists of two parts, playing the harp and serving as an orchestra librarian, as not every musical work requires a harp, including, oddly enough, the big symphonies by Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, Schubert and Haydn. Am I right? You told me that the inclusion of harps in orchestras happened later, with such Romantics as Berlioz, Mahler, Bruckner, Tchaikovsky and others. Am I right? After all, from the age of three I learned to internalize everything you told me. Yes, Nogati, yes.


And if this is the case, would it not be possible to plan your orchestra's repertoire in such a way that in your absence they would play classical works that do not require a harp, and to postpone the more modern works till after your return.


Don't get angry—you know your brother and his manipulative imagination. I make a pretty good living from it.


Now, as to the economic side of things. Neither Ima nor I wants this experiment to cost you money, and would in no way approve your dipping into your savings to fund your leave of absence. I know you live frugally, and I also know, of course, that you have no legal right, or desire, to sublet, for such a short period, your rented studio apartment, the charming little flat we saw when we visited you in Arnhem.


Which leads us to the question of your Israeli finances. The Jerusalem apartment, of course, is yours free; electricity, water, gas and phone bills are deducted monthly from our parents' account. I will set up an open account for you at Rosenkrantz's grocery, so you'll have a full supply of staples. But you will doubtless have other expenses. Transportation, dinners out, theater, concerts. So we were thinking, Mother and I, to place at your disposal 8,000 shekels for the three months. And if you need additional funds, there'll be no problem.


I'm nearly done. I suspect you are someplace between shocked and furious. But Abba is dead, Ima is left alone, and I, Honi, your little brother, am trying to find a good solution for her, so we will not agonize, I and maybe you too, with guilt over abandoning her, albeit as a result of her own free will and stubbornness, leaving her alone in an old Jerusalem apartment, dependent on the kindness of strangers and weirdos.


I await your answer—if possible, reasonable and practical—preferably by e-mail, not phone, so we won't cut each other off.


Your loving brother, Honi


A
ND INDEED HIS SISTER
did not phone, but replied by e-mail.

My very dear brother,


Let's leave the subject of the repertoire of the Arnhem Philharmonic to the orchestra's management. By the way, Mozart wrote a concerto for harp, flute and orchestra, and I am to be the soloist, but lucky for you, it's not scheduled yet.


Regarding the experiment you have imposed on Ima—since you've defined my thinking on the subject so well, who am I to deny it?


Nevertheless, I will not abandon you to deal alone with the obligation you've undertaken. Let's get through the experiment as you've planned it and to which Ima has agreed. If it ends successfully, all well and good—I too will be reassured and happy. If not, we will both hang our heads in humility, and reconcile ourselves to her desire to end her life at the same place Abba ended his. You will be absolved of any guilt before God and man. That way you can also forgive me for leaving Israel.


In short, I agree to live in the Jerusalem apartment for three months, but I totally reject the insulting suggestion that you and Mother pay me a “per diem.” Let me be clear: I will not take a penny from you and Ima. I don't need to. I have my own resources, and even if I take a small loan from my bank in the Netherlands, no problem. I'm in my prime, I have a job, and can cover any expenses.


Even so, if by chance, and only by chance, any idea for my employment should arise in your fertile and manipulative imagination, I'll be happy to consider it—not to earn a few pennies, but so as not to be bored. That's it in a nutshell.


Your loving and loyal sister, Noga


“N
O SECRETS, YOU SEE
, just a slightly complex explanation of how I landed in this line of work. My brother, who has connections with movie and TV production companies, as well as advertising agencies, offered it to me—so I don't get bored during the three months I'm protecting my parents' apartment in Jerusalem, and to earn a little money. Also, it's an excellent opportunity for me to reconnect with forgotten places and experiences, and discover things I didn't know existed. And at the same time get to know all kinds of old and new Israelis and realize that they can be nice, like you, Mr. Elazar.”

The extra gallantly takes her hand in his, touches it to his lips and laughs.

“You being paid a d-decent wage?”

“I don't know. My brother gets the money and transfers it straight into my old bank account, which we resurrected.”

“You're not m-married?”

“I was.”

“And children?”

“I didn't want any.”

“Didn't want or couldn't have?”

“I could have, but I didn't want to.”

He peers at her appreciatively. Her frankness is appealing, and he would like to continue his investigation, but she gracefully turns to the window, as if trying to figure out where they are going.

The minibus had turned left from the highway onto a side road winding toward the broad wadi that runs from Ein Kerem to the Valley of Elah. From there the minibus climbed toward the Jerusalem corridor villages of Nes Harim and Bar Giora, finally arriving at a regional school, transformed that day into a film location. And as the extras stretch their legs and are treated to coffee and cake with other crew members and actors too, one of the crew turns to Noga:

“If you're Noga, how come you forgot to do what they asked you to do?”

“Who asked, and what did I forget?”

“I told your brother to tell you to come today wearing red—a dress, pants or sweater—because it's important for us to film the jury in a variety of colors.”

“I didn't forget, because I didn't know, and next time, ask me directly. My brother is a brother, not an agent.”

A young, pretty woman who overheard the rebuke undid a red wool scarf from her neck and draped it around Noga's shoulders. “Here,” she whispered, “give it back at the end of the day, and if you forget—no problem.”

From there the group of thirteen was led inside the school, whose students were off for the Lag b'Omer holiday, and down a corridor to the gym, where ladders and other equipment were wrapped in black cloth that lent a somber, mysterious air to the courtroom. Twelve extras were asked one by one to sit in two rows of chairs behind a low plywood divider—the backup thirteenth extra took a coffee break—and Noga now noticed that they varied not only in age and ethnic origin, but in the style and color of their clothing.

She was put in the front row, and Elazar, the veteran extra, was exiled to the end of the second row. Was this because of his perennial visibility, his years of gliding from film to film, plot to plot? And yet the mighty figure of the retired judge, so familiar from tacky TV commercials, was selected for a conspicuous spot in the front row, perhaps because they had pegged him from the start as the one who would read out the verdict.

And as the film crew unwinds electrical cables and sets down a track for the camera, she pulls the woolen scarf to her neck, inhales its pleasant scent and closes her eyes with fatigue. In Arnhem, she plays music at night and goes to bed late and wakes up late. The camera had not yet entered the gym, but instructions were already given. “You are here to listen,” a young man explained, “but sometimes, when we give you a signal, please whisper something to the person next to you, doesn't matter what—we won't record the whisper and don't need it, all we need is your lips moving. We're filming without sound. And because this is meant to be a long and important trial, taking up about twelve full minutes of screen time, which is a lot in a two-hour movie, we will shoot you in different kinds of light—morning, afternoon, evening, to convey through you the sense of time passing. For this reason, we'll film you separately, with no courtroom, without the prosecution and defense lawyers or the woman defendant. In any case, you must show attention and interest—you're supposed to pass judgment on a serious accusation. In the screenplay there is no text of your deliberations, but we'll take you to a room and shoot you from a distance, talking and arguing, without sound.”

“Excuse me, young man,” asks the judge, “are you aware that in the Israeli justice system there are no juries?”

“Obviously we're not that ignorant. This trial takes place in a foreign country. The movie is a coproduction.”

“Which foreign country?” insists the judge. “Maybe there are no juries there either.”

“It hasn't been decided yet. We're considering three countries. It also depends on funding. The world today is global, sir, and so also modular. In a film today you can move countries around like Legos.”

T
HE LITTLE APARTMENT
at the assisted living facility was already vacant, but its management had to agree to schedule a three-month trial period that would suit the orchestra in the Netherlands. Although the harpist had been granted permission to take a leave of absence to help her mother in Israel decide where to live out her life, the performance date of the Mozart Concerto for Flute and Harp remained an open question. Noga implored the orchestra's managers that the part of the soloist, which she knew by heart, be reserved for her until she returned, but had not been given unequivocal assurance. It was thus important to ask Manfred, the orchestra's first flutist, to look out for her interests in her absence.