A. Yehoshua - A Woman in Jerusalem

“Get to the point,” his ex-wife said.

“I may be away for three days. That means I’ll miss next Tuesday again. I’d like to switch to today on a one-time basis.”

“We have plans for today.”

“Let me have just an hour, or even half an hour. I want to say a proper goodbye before I go. This isn’t a holiday or a pleasure trip. It’s a long, hard mission on the country’s behalf. Who knows that the next explosion in the street won’t get you or me?”

“Speak for yourself.”

“All right. It may get me.”

She yielded and gave him three-quarters of an hour to be with his daughter — provided, of course, that his daughter agreed and had the time for it.

A few hours later, he climbed the steps of the building into which he dreamed he had flung a nuclear weapon, rang the bell, then let himself in with his key. His daughter was sound asleep in her school uniform, her schoolbag tossed on the floor and one red rubber boot still on her foot. Loath to wake her despite his limited time, he looked at her slender figure, which since the divorce had seemed to refuse to mature, with both tenderness and concern. In the kitchen he found a clean plate beside a knife and fork, still waiting for the lunch she hadn’t eaten. He took some food from the fridge, put it on the stove to warm, and stood on a chair to reach a small storage space, searching for his old army boots, among other items, which he had put away there, after his discharge.

“What are you looking for, Abba?”

Her face bore the traces of sleep.

“A pair of good boots.”

“What for?”

He told her about his mission and the snow and ice that awaited him.

“Wow! I’d love to go with you.”

He climbed down from the chair and gave her a big hug. How he’d love to take her! But he couldn’t — and even if he could, her mother wouldn’t permit it.

He climbed back on the chair and found the boots, which were in good condition. Then he polished them while his daughter dutifully ate her lunch. Now and then he asked her a question about school or took a morsel from her plate. Although she hadn’t the vaguest notion of what the gaps in her education were, the solved maths problems and the office manager’s English composition had got her good marks.

“Why don’t you send me that cute old couple more often?” she asked with an unfamiliar impishness. “They can do my homework all the time.”

“They’re not so old. Couldn’t you see how on-the-ball they were?”

“Sure I could. Maybe that’s because they’re still in love.”

Surprised, he patted her curly head. “You know what? You’re pretty on-the-ball yourself.”

He could tell from the way her face lit up how seldom he had ever bothered to praise her. Snuggling close to him, she asked about the cleaning woman. He was frank — he described the article due to appear the next day and the supervisor’s strange falling in love. Eyes wide with fear, she smiled in spite of herself at his account of his night in the morgue and his refusal to look at the dead woman, even though her beauty was considered special by all who saw her picture.

“Wow!” she repeated excitedly. She wanted to hear more about his trip and to know how much money the woman’s son would get.

That, he answered, would have to be decided once he got there. He had no idea what the local currency was worth.

She let out a sigh. How she would have liked to go with him! Not just because of all the snow, but also to see the woman’s son. Was he good-looking like his mother? To think he had lived right here in Jerusalem …

They talked on and on. Groping his way, he sought to assure her that he would never give up on her and that she should never despair of him. The afternoon sun outside the window was sharpening its palette of colours as the day grew brighter. His daughter’s simple but honest questions and his candid replies had forged a new closeness between them. When his ex-wife came home early, he didn’t grumble or complain. Hanging his boots over one shoulder, he simply said, “All right, I’m off. You didn’t give me as long as you said you would, but that just made every minute worth more.”

He phoned his secretary from his car to ask what was new in the office and whether anyone had phoned for him. As usual, however, she had taken advantage of his absence to escape to her baby. The office manager wasn’t in, either. Dialling the switchboard operator, he was told she had no idea where they were. It was as if the entire staff had taken the day off along with him. In the end, he reached the office manager on her cell phone and let her know how seriously he had taken her advice and how his daughter had responded.

There was a new tone of respect in her voice. “I’m so glad you called,” she said. “Imagine where we are now. In her room!”

“Yulia Ragayev’s?”

“Yes. My husband is helping me sort her clothes and belongings. Where are you? If you’re in the neighbourhood and have a few minutes, come see what we’ve set aside for you to take and what goes into storage. We don’t want you to complain that we’ve saddled you with too much.”

This is turning into a collective mania, the resource manager thought with a grin, setting his car on a course for the market. The old man has flipped out and is taking everyone with him. Even the ever-brighter sun, dipping westwards as it tinted the Knesset building in the Valley of the Cross with a coppery wash, seemed to be celebrating his mission. By now he was familiar with the dead woman’s neighbourhood and drove confidently into its maze of teeming streets.

It was his third visit in the past forty-eight hours. The checked curtain had been taken down from the open window, which now flooded the shack with the glow of the winter afternoon and the smells of the neighbours’ cooking. The room had been turned upside-down. Bread cartons from the bakery lay on the floor, filled with the items chosen for storage. A handsome leather suitcase on the table held those reserved for the resource manager.

“I hope you haven’t given me her underwear and nightdress too,” he said with a crooked smile. “Let’s not go overboard.”

The office manager let him inspect the suitcase as though he worked for airport security. Thorough as always, she explained each item. Folded at the bottom was a long white dress, perhaps the woman’s wedding gown. Next came five embroidered blouses and a pair of expensive leather boots. The checked curtain had been deemed worthy of repatriation too, because of its high-quality fabric. It had been used to wrap the Cyrillic book and the wall sketch. On top of the pile lay a packet of papers, and next to them the dead woman’s reading glasses and a small copper bell that chimed pleasantly when rung.

“Tell me,” the resource manager inquired. “Have you by any chance found a good snapshot of her for our memorial corner?”

They hadn’t. There was only a small album with several old photographs, which he decided to take in his hand luggage. Mounted on heavy paper and looking like old postcards, these were snapshots of a young woman: in some, she stood on a porch, looking out at a distant field; in others, she sat in a room, holding a half-naked baby. She did not resemble the computer image etched in his memory.

“These photos look old,” he said. “Her ex-husband can tell us if they’re of her. She might be the baby and this could be her mother. The tilt of the eyes is more pronounced in the baby …”

He blushed, and added with a slight stammer, “After all, I … I don’t suppose it matters. It’s all absurd anyway. In two days’ time, we’ll bury her and be done with it.”

The husband’s look of compassion turned to one of concern, as if there might be gaps in the resource manager too. What measures, he asked practically, had been taken to ensure efficient communication when he was abroad? He advised taking a satellite phone. “If the old man has given you a blank cheque,” he said, “don’t scrimp. A satellite phone costs more to use, but you can count on getting through. Anyone travelling to a strange and unreliable country in midwinter, especially with a corpse in a coffin, ought to be in touch with more than just the netherworld.”