A. Yehoshua - A Woman in Jerusalem

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.

11

And so, swallowing the last of his no longer hot tea, the supervisor gropingly told his story. The resource manager said nothing. Only once, noticing that the kitchen workers had finished setting the tables for breakfast, did he plead with a hand signal for their patience until the confession, which he did not believe would be long, was complete.

In theory, he should have been right. The man confessing was a mechanically minded fellow who had come to the bakery straight from the Ordnance Corps without continuing his education. Although he could have opened a small business of his own, he had preferred to take a low-paying job that gave him the opportunity to learn the ropes of the baking trade. From job to job and division to division, he had been promoted steadily until his appointment six years ago to night shift supervisor. This was the busiest and most important of the shifts, the only one that baked for the army, which demanded a high level of quality control …

The lights were going out in the cafeteria. One by one, the workers left for home. Only two, an old Jewish waiter and a young Arab dishwasher, stayed behind to lock up. The supervisor, still extracting a first thread from the tangle of his story, was candidly describing the fascination that the swan-necked cleaning woman had had for him. It was this fascination, he now understood, that had allowed him to dismiss her and keep her employed at the same time.

It certainly hadn’t been her looks. As one senior staff member to another, he swore again that nothing had happened between them. It was a purely emotional matter, the exact nature of which he seemed reluctant to describe, as if that might make his guilt or sorrow grow. Their first meeting, which had also been their longest, had had to do entirely with work. It had taken place in late autumn or early winter, after the woman had been transferred, at her request, to the better-paying night shift.

The supervisor had a strict rule: no matter where new workers came from or what their previous experience had been, he personally briefed them on all safety regulations. And the cleaning crew were briefed the longest, not only because they were generally the least educated and least attentive, but also because they cleaned everywhere and everything. They had to be warned of the dangers of the ovens and the milling blades, the cantankerous dough mixers and the intricate conveyors.