A. Yehoshua - A Woman in Jerusalem

The human resources manager awoke, turned over on his other side, and dreamed another dream, which he forgot at once.

He was early for work. Going straight to the owner’s softly lit office, he said in a businesslike tone: “Here’s the latest. I wanted to tell you last night, but your housekeeper wouldn’t let me. As I expected, the woman’s husband — her ex, that is — wants her sent back so her son can attend the funeral. He won’t let the boy come to Jerusalem; he thinks this country is a hellhole. Her body was transferred to the Central Pathology Institute last night to be prepared for the journey. I don’t know how that’s done, but I can find out if you’re interested. Our consulate there will look after the body once it arrives. They are experts in such things. We simply have to decide where we stand in all this and whether we drop out or continue — and if we continue, how. Both National Insurance and the Ministry of Immigration want an answer this morning.”

The old man nodded. His mind seemed already made up. Yet the resource manager went on talking. Now he spoke with emotion.

“Wait. Don’t say anything yet. I read your response to the weekly. It was unfair and inaccurate and it made me furious. But then I thought: to hell with it, who cares? Let it stay as it is. I throw that weekly in the garbage without looking at it, so what difference does it make to me what’s there? If placing the blame on me — that is, on the human resources division — is any comfort to you, I’ll grit my teeth and bear it. I heard you had a major medical examination yesterday. Even though I hope — in fact, I’m sure — that the results will be negative, meaning positive from your point of view, I’ve decided to spare you the aggravation of another argument.”

The old man, having shut his eyes to concentrate on what his favourite young manager was saying, permitted himself a slight smile.

“First of all, thank you. I share your hope, though not your certainty, that the results will be positive — that is, negative, medically speaking. But believe me, even if I were lying on my deathbed, no conversation or argument with you could be aggravating. Behind the executive façade, I see in you a responsible young fellow who can be talked to man-to-man.”

The human resources manager shifted in his chair.

“And now,” the owner went on, “you’ll inform National Insurance and the Ministry of Immigration that our firm will send a representative to accompany our murdered worker to her funeral. In addition, we will make a contribution, or whatever you wish to call it, to her orphan, over and above what he has coming from the government. If the boy’s grandmother attends the funeral, she’ll get one too. We’ll even donate a modest sum — why not? — to the ex-husband, in compensation for his time spent in hell. Believe me, I have the money for it. Too much. I never thought I’d be as wealthy as I’ve become, especially since the start of all this terror, which makes the whole world want bread and cake. Why not be generous?”

“So as to atone for a cruel and pointless infatuation.”

“Cruel? Do you think so?” The old man seemed surprised. “Well, if it was, we’ll atone for that too. But who is going to do it? Who’ll represent us at the funeral? The answer is obvious. The ideal candidate is sitting across from me. After all, before you separated from your wife and daughter you were happy to be a travelling salesman. What’s one more round of travel for you, especially since this time you won’t be selling anything? You’ll only be giving — and handsomely.”

“Excuse me,” the human resources manager said sharply. “I didn’t separate from my daughter. That was an unkind thing to say.”

The owner, aware that his remark had been uncalled-for, looked mortified. Of course! He should never have made it. How could he have been so addlebrained? Rising to his full height, he walked over to the resource manager, seized both his hands, and bent to ask for forgiveness. As if anyone would willingly separate from his child! It was a foolish slip of the tongue, one more sign of advancing senility. Perhaps the resource manager should take a day or two off, not just to prepare for his trip, but to get away from a doddering old man like himself.

He opened his wallet, took out one of its many credit cards, and handed it to the resource manager with a code number. He could spend whatever he saw fit without itemization. Meanwhile he, the owner, would get in touch with National Insurance and with the editor of the weekly — why not? — to let them know about the resource manager’s mission. He would also ask his office manager to go through the dead woman’s possessions. Anything of material or sentimental value would be packed and shipped with the coffin. The rest would be stored, pending its final disposal, at the bakery. He would simply need the keys to her room.

The resource manager took a key ring from his pocket and removed two keys. “What about those employment figures?” he inquired.

“Never mind them. Your secretary will finish getting them together. As of now, you’re temporarily relieved of all your duties in the human resources division. Concentrate on your trip. You’re no longer a manager but an emissary. A very special one.”

And why not, thought the emissary. What’s wrong with a little vacation? These past two days he hadn’t had a free minute. And even a short trip, especially since he might extend it after the funeral, demanded preparation. His first stop on leaving the bakery was a nearby bookshop, where he bought a guidebook to the cleaning woman’s country, complete with a map. Next, he ordered a big breakfast at a café and spread the map out on the table. After finding the provincial capital and the grandmother’s village, he phoned the representative of the immigration ministry.

“I don’t know if I should be telling you this,” he said, “but since you kept me in the picture, I’m returning the favour. Our company is sending me with the coffin, both for symbolic and practical reasons, so that I can give the son — and the grandmother too, if she gets there in time — a contribution. You said there’s a late Friday night flight. I’ll be on it. I was just wondering who’s accompanying the coffin at your end. Will it be you or someone else? I wanted to coordinate …”

“Who’s accompanying the coffin?” The representative of the immigration ministry sounded nonplussed. “No one is accompanying it. It will fly by itself. Our consul has promised she’ll be at the airport.”

“The consul is a woman?”

“Yes. An excellent one, too. She was born there and has good connections with the authorities. Believe me, this isn’t the first coffin we’ve sent her.”

“Just a minute. I still don’t get it. Since when can you put a coffin on an aeroplane as though it were a suitcase? Suppose something happens to it?”

“What could happen? If the plane crashes, the body in the coffin is already dead.”

“That’s true. But still it seems strange that I’ll be its only escort.”

“You’re not an escort. You’re simply on the same flight. Even if you wanted to be one, it’s only after you land.”

“What about documentation?” His mind was not yet at rest. “There has to be official confirmation of some kind.”

“There will be. It’s usually given to the head steward or the pilot. But if it will make you feel better, we’ll be glad to let you have a copy.”

6

By now he was not only disappointed but also worried. What is this, he asked himself. I’m being saddled with a dead woman as if I were her best friend or close relative.

But when he left the café, his mood brightened. The Jerusalem skies had cleared and it was getting warmer. He went to the bank and withdrew a hefty sum in foreign currency, using the owner’s credit card. On his way back from the travel agency to his mother’s place, he couldn’t resist a detour that passed his former apartment building. It was still standing, untouched by his dream. At midday he phoned his ex-wife and said: “Listen to me before you hang up. I know it isn’t my day today, but tomorrow night I’m going abroad with the coffin of that cleaning woman. Our company wants me to represent it at the funeral and make a contribution to the orphan. In addition —”