A. Yehoshua - A Woman in Jerusalem

He debated whether to tell her, then did.

“At her place? Why?”

He explained as briefly as possible.

“And you were able to open the door?”

“Of course.”

“What did you hope to find there?”

“Nothing. I’m just having a look around. I’ve been thinking. Maybe the company should be a bit more generous. Someone has to pay for shipping her belongings to her family …”

“Be careful. Don’t touch anything.”

“Why would I touch anything? What’s there to touch? Hang on a minute, mother, hang on …”

The final bars of the symphony seemed to have taken the audience by surprise. The polite, weary applause from the transistor sounded at first like an idling engine. Only gradually, as if the listeners wished to spare the musicians’ feelings, did it pick up. The resource manager hoped that the concert had not exhausted the old man. He wanted to give him a full report tonight. Cautiously he turned up the volume, waiting for the name of the work to be announced. Yet all he heard was the applause, still rising and falling softly. Although a kind soul tried cheering the orchestra, or perhaps himself, with a long cry of “Bravo,” his remained a voice in the wilderness. It was late, and everyone wanted to go home.

“Just a minute, mother … hang on …” He reluctantly returned to the phone before she could get too indignant.

“What’s wrong? Is anyone with you?”

“No. Who could be with me? I was just waiting to hear the name of a symphony played on the radio.”

“Is there anything else you want from me?”

“Anything I want from you ?” He was startled. “Not that I can think of.”

“Well, then, good night.”

“I won’t be late.”

“You’ll come when you come.”

Before his hunch could be confirmed, the musical broadcast was interrupted by the hourly news. The human resources manager switched off the radio.

The rain was beating down again on the roof of the shack. He was tired. Still , he thought to brace himself, if I ’ ve gone to suchlengths not to disappoint the old man,I can’t let him down now. His car and driver are waiting for him at the concert hall, and he’ll be home soon. If I were a bit kinkier, I might be tempted to take a nap in this bed and cover myself with the blanket. But I am who I am. I’m not a lover, or in love, or a beloved. I’ll just fold the blanket neatly and move on.

19

Half an hour later, he phoned the owner and found him at home. “After Bruckner’s Eighth,” he inquired, “are you up to listening to me?”

“Why the Eighth?” the old man marvelled. “It was the Ninth.”

“Ah,” the manager said, hastening to correct himself while displaying his knowledge. “The unfinished one.”

“Unfinished?” The old man had apparently not bothered to read the programme notes. “How unfinished can anything be that lasts over an hour?”

“Think carefully,” the resource manager said. “You heard only three movements. If that constipated man, with all his spiritual doubts and struggles, had finished the fourth movement before he died you’d have had to sit through another hour … What do you say, then? Do you have the patience for the report you’ve been waiting for? Or are you desperate to go to sleep?”

“I already slept at the concert,” the old man joked. “And at my age, there’s no need for sleep anyway. If you’re still on your feet, come on over. Just give me a few minutes to get organized. Meanwhile, I’d like a yes or no answer: are we guilty or not?”

“Responsible is more like it.”

“Responsible for what?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said dryly, cutting short the conversation.

It was nearly one o’clock when he arrived at the large luxury apartment. He had been there only once, many years before, during the old man’s week of mourning for his elderly wife whom the resource manager had never met and who may not even have been old. The living room had been filled with condolence callers, and the human resources manager, after mumbling a few obligatory words, had retreated to a corner and sat by an illuminated glass cabinet filled with vivid clay and plaster models of the many kinds of bread and baked goods produced by the company during its long history.

Tonight, when he was the only guest, he found himself drawn to the same cabinet. The housekeeper, a small, dark-skinned, white-haired Indian, took his hat, scarf, and gloves and went to call the old man. Did the owner’s choice of this woman, the human resources manager wondered, indicate that he considered himself too old for sex?

It took a while for the owner to appear. For the first time since the resource manager had known him, he really did look old. His bath had clearly done nothing to revive him. His tall figure was stooped. The royal pompadour was damp and limp. Dark rings circled his eyes and his face was pale. His feet, clad in old slippers, were dry and veiny. For a moment, the resource manager had the unsettling thought that his boss might be naked beneath his bathrobe. The symphony must have left him feeling drained. Besides wanting to know what his manager had discovered, he seemed anxious to recharge his batteries with the younger man’s energy. He filled two glasses with red wine.

“Well?” He raised his glass in a toast. “Is everything clear now? You’ve identified her? She really did work for us? Tell me what you know.”

The resource manager took a sip of the excellent wine and silently handed the owner the thin and by now somewhat dog-eared folder. “Before I tell you anything,” he said, “have a look.”

The owner reread the newspaper article with an expressionless face; carefully followed the lines of the computer printout with a long, wrinkled finger; and turned to the CV written in the resource manager’s hand. Picking up the photograph, he rose, switched on a standing lamp, and went to peer nearsightedly at the cleaning woman, as if seeking to bring her back to life.

The resource manager poured himself some more wine. “Would you say she was an attractive woman?” he softly probed, as he moved to return the folder.

The unexpected question made the owner snatch the folder back for another look. “Attractive? It’s hard to say. Perhaps … but what makes you ask? She has breeding, wouldn’t you say?”

Once again the resource manager felt a pang, as if something had been stolen from him forever.

“Breeding?” The word somehow offended him. “What do you mean? What do you see?”

The owner chuckled at the question. “I’m not sure. There’s something foreign about her, something … Asiatic, even though she’s fair.”

The resource manager had to tell everything. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through,” he blurted. “I’ve been to the morgue on Mount Scopus. In fact, I’ve just come from there. They wanted me to identify the corpse. I refused. Tell me: Am I responsible for someone I’ve seen only once in my life? But I found a better solution. Would you like to hear about it?”

The owner sank deeper into his chair and touched the younger man’s knee as if to calm him. “Come,” he said, moving the bottle of wine out of reach. “It’s late. Let’s start from the beginning. One thing at a time.”

The resource manager was reluctant to forgo the wine. A new thought was forming in his brain. Just look at this old man, he reflected. As wealthy as he is, he insists on being employed by his own company so that he can draw a salary on top of all his profits — none of which will keep him from dying sometime soon. Who knows if he’ll be succeeded by a human being like himself or by a faceless board of directors?

He had a feeling of warm intimacy, as if he were in the company of an elderly cousin who, because he had reached the last stage of his life, could be told everything. And so, after praising the wine and wheedling a third glass, he launched into his story, starting with the owner’s half-scolding declaration “No choice” and ending with switching off the lights in the dead woman’s threadbare shack.