A. Yehoshua - A Woman in Jerusalem

He told it like a detective story, with a beginning, a middle, and an end, knowing that it would be impossible to reveal the whole truth. The night shift supervisor’s motives, which had set the plot in motion, would have to remain obscure. Feeling the marvellous wine settle inside him, he was careful to avoid both too much confusing detail and too much oversimplifying generalization. When at last he reached the heart of the matter, he defended the supervisor as though pleading for his own self.

The owner listened patiently, benevolently, letting the resource manager tell the story as he wished. His bathrobe was as ancient as he was. A missing button afforded a glimpse of a dry, waxy body whose thin skin was crisscrossed by blue veins.

The resource manager plunged ahead. He described the corpses he hadn’t flinched from looking at, especially the bearded homunculus, and went on to speak of the woman’s rumpled bed. With a smile, he apologized for having made it. It was something he’d felt he had to do.

“My compliments,” the owner said with an approving glance. “You didn’t cut any corners tonight. It’s beyond anything I had expected. I must have frightened you this afternoon when I threatened to find someone else if you refused to carry out this task …”

“That wasn’t your only threat,” the resource manager said reproachfully. “You also hinted I’d be out of a job.”

“Did I?” There was no knowing if the old man’s surprise was feigned or if he had merely forgotten. “That article must have upset me greatly.”

“I wonder who you had in mind. To replace me with, I mean?”

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “There’s no shortage of candidates. But why should I replace you when you’ve demonstrated once again how resourceful you are — especially when you don’t want to disappoint me.”

The human resources manager agreed with this description. “That’s true. It’s just as you say. I hate to disappoint. That should help you to understand why I didn’t want to let my daughter down tonight. It’s enough to have let down her mother.”

“She wasn’t let down at all,” the old man crowed. “She was delighted with the substitutes I found for her. My office manager phoned me before the concert to let me know what a good time she and her husband had.”

“She did?” The resource manager felt cheated. “Then you already knew what I’ve told you …”

“Some of it. While you were following the progress of my concert, I was following yours. I even phoned the hospital during the interval, but no one could tell me if you’d been there.”

“No one could have. But what made you do it?”

“I wanted to see if you were making headway. You still don’t realize how upsetting it is to be called inhuman. What is left to us if we lose our humanity?”

“Who else phoned you?”

“The night shift supervisor.”

The resource manager was startled. “He did? But when, during the concert?”

“No. Just now, before you came. That’s why you had to wait. He couldn’t get over his talk with you. He felt the need to confess to me, too. He wasn’t sure what you thought of him.”

“But why not? Wasn’t I fair to him?”

“Too fair. He was much harder on himself than you were on him. But I know him from way back. I’m the last person to be taken in by his sentimentality. He’s been with us for over forty years. He was hired by my father when he was a young technical sergeant just out of the army — a good-looking fellow who attracted not only the girls he worked with but older women too. We were constantly bailing him out of trouble. He caused scandals even after he was married and took a long while to settle down. That’s why we put him on the night shift: it’s quieter there and the workers are tired and have no time for escapades. A few years ago he became a grandfather. He even asked me to be the godfather to one of his grandchildren. And now he falls head-over-heels for some poor Tartar, so much so that he has to fire her to protect himself! While leaving her on the payroll, of course …”

The resource manager felt weak from exhaustion. He needed to end this, to return to his mother’s, shower, and go to sleep.

“So what line shall we take?” he asked, with the last of his strength. “What should our response be?”

“No line at all.” The old man was pale with emotion. “We won’t put up any defence. We’ll accept the blame, apologize, and offer compensation.”

“For what?”

“For the indignity we caused. For firing someone without reason. For our personnel division’s ignorance. That’s how we’ll end all this. Not with some left-handed apology that will just make that son of a bitch dig deeper. We won’t offer any version of our own. We’ll simply say: ‘It’s all true. It’s our fault. We ask forgiveness and wish to atone.’”

“Atone?”

“Yes. Fully. That’s what’s called for. I suppose we’ll either have to ship her overseas for burial or bring her relatives to a funeral here. We should consider helping her son, too. Her belongings need to be disposed of. Above all, the compensation must be generous.”

“But what business is it of ours?” the resource manager protested. “It’s the responsibility of the government. We’re not to blame for the bombing. Let the government take care of it.”

“The government will do what it has to. And we’ll stand in for her family and make sure that it does. Of course, the article is nasty. But nasty isn’t always wrong. I could cry thinking of that woman fighting for her life without a single one of us even knowing. And then lying unidentified in the morgue, because even our night shift supervisor doesn’t notice she’s missing! Listen, my friend. I don’t want to apologize. I want to do penance. I’m eighty-seven years old and I have no time for polemics. I won’t let my or my ancestors’ reputation be tarnished.”

“You feel that strongly about it?”

“That strongly.” The old man raised his voice fiercely, pleased to see the little Indian peer worriedly out from the kitchen.

“But why?” The resource manager no longer knew what he was objecting to. “That woman got an extra pay packet and you treat it as a sin calling for religious expiation.”

“Let it be religious expiation. So what? What’s wrong with that?”

The resource manager tried to make light of it. “I believe Bruckner’s music has left you wallowing in Christian guilt.”

“Don’t. I slept through most of it.”

“That’s when our subconscious is most easily affected.”

“If it’s my subconscious you’re worried about,” the owner replied, reaching into his robe to scratch his chest, “don’t expect it to rely on the government.” He was clearly enjoying the conversation. “Yes, I want expiation. I can afford it. And I have just the person for it …”

“Meaning me?”

“Naturally. Who else? Wasn’t it you who asked to change the name of the personnel division to human resources division ? Your humanity matters to you, too. That’s it in a nutshell, my friend. You promised me today to make that woman … what did you say her name was?”

“Yulia Ragayev,” the resource manager whispered, exhausted, suddenly aware of where things were heading.

“Right. So just make Yulia Ragayev your business a while longer until you can give her a proper funeral. You’ve put hard work and good judgment into this, and there’s no reason for you not to continue. We’ll show this city that we’re not ducking anything and that we deserve forgiveness, even from that journalist. Mark my words: the weasel will faint when he sees how contrite we are. Take the long view, my friend. We have no choice but to see this through. And don’t worry about expenses. You’ll have all the money you need. I’ll be at your disposal day and night, just as I am now …”