A. Yehoshua - A Woman in Jerusalem

“But she didn’t produce anything. She was a cleaning woman.”

“And isn’t our cleaning staff part of the production line?” the old man scolded. “You’re the last person I’d expect to hear that from.”

“Look, this is getting to be silly. I’m not lugging cakes and breads thousands of miles.”

“You won’t have to lug anything. You’re simply in charge of the shipment. The consul will be expecting you and will see to everything. I’ve spoken to her and she’ll happy to be of service.”

The resource manager threw up his hands. There could no longer be any doubt. Atonement was turning into lunacy.

“A well-intentioned lunacy, though,” the owner said. He smiled, steered the resource manager back to the noisy living room, and signalled to the chauffeur that it was time to set out for the airport. The chauffeur seemed so at ease with the owner’s family that the resource manager wondered if he might be a distant cousin or illegitimate grandson. The astonishing thought occurred to him that perhaps the old man was intending to adopt him too.

8

At the check-in counter he was handed, along with his boarding card, an envelope from the Ministry of Immigration. A note attached to it, addressed “To the Personnel Manager,” said, “As per your request to be kept in the picture.”

Touched, he went to sit in a far corner of the departure hall. I’m about to find out things about that woman that she never knew herself, he thought, opening the envelope and extracting with a momentary qualm a photocopy of the Central Pathology Institute’s medical report. Written in the Cyrillic alphabet, its crowded lines suggested that it was more than just a death certificate. Most likely, it contained a description of her embalming.

The white pop of a flashbulb interrupted him. A passenger standing with his back to him had just taken a picture of the departure gate.

The charter flight was operated by a foreign airline. It was half full and offered only one class of service. Seated in the front, he surveyed the passengers filing by him, hoping to spot one who looked capable of both reading the medical report and keeping it confidential. Judging by their bags and packages, most of those boarding the aeroplane were either guest workers going home on holiday or new immigrants revisiting their native land. Even if he found someone to read the report, what were the chances that person could explain it to him in comprehensible Hebrew? And so he changed his mind and sat back in his seat, just as the passenger with the camera — now slung around his neck — passed him with a companion, a vaguely familiar-looking man who flashed him a smile.

And what did it really matter? What in the report might he need to know? The only detail of consequence was how long the body could remain unburied, which was in any case a problem for the consul, not for him. After takeoff he folded the document, stuck it in his pocket, released his safety belt, ate some of the tasteless meal, and switched off his reading light. He was unable, however, to relax. Suppose the consul wasn’t at the airport to greet him — what would he do then? Although the medical report endowed him with a measure of authority, he wasn’t sure it would be wise to display it.

He thought about the dead passenger in the baggage hold, which might be directly beneath him. Once again he whispered her name, as he had done that night in her shack. Yulia Ragayev ,he murmured sternly, though not without pity. Yulia Ragayev, what more must I do for you?

He rose and went to the toilet, glancing at the other passengers as he passed down the aisle. Most were asleep beneath their blankets. Even those with earphones seemed to be listening to the music in their dreams. As he groped his way in the darkness, a man rose from his seat and threw an arm around him, blocking his progress.

“You called me a weasel?” It was the photographer’s companion. “Well, then, here I am, the whole beast from head to tail. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. This is my photographer. In the end we’ve met in the skies — and in a completely new spirit. We’ve come to cover your mission of atonement for our paper. Don’t worry, this time we’re on your side. We definitely won’t bite.”

A sleeping passenger opened his eyes and groaned. The resource manager stared down and said nothing. He wasn’t surprised. In fact, he had suspected as much. Shaking off the journalist’s embrace, he said in a steely voice:

“The honest reporter, eh? We’ll see if you’re capable of it. I’m warning you, though — you and your photographer had better steer clear of me.”

Before the journalist could reply, he found himself pushed lightly backwards. Continuing to the toilet, the resource manager locked the door and stared hard at the mirror. Had it been possible to use the satellite phone, he would have called Jerusalem to protest at the two stowaways. And yet he couldn’t deny that their presence also pleased him. The old man must have offered to pay their way. Anything to assure that his restored humanity be on the record, if only in a Jerusalem weekly that few read and even fewer thought about.

The resource manager put his shaving kit on the sink, lathered his face, and ran a razor over it. A predawn shave to make himself look presentable to his troops had always been his habit in the army.

Uh-oh! Here comes another coffin. Quick, go and get an officer to decide what to do with it before it’s too late again! Should we send it back to the plane until there’s someone to receive it or should we do it the honour of taking it to the terminal? Could someone please tell us what’s happening over there in the Holy Land? Who are all these dead they keep sending us? Is it some kind of money-making business?

Now the passengers are disembarking. In shock from the cold, they run for the little bus. Did that coffin come with family or friends, or with some government official, so that we don’t have a repeat of the last time, when one arrived by itself and sat for two months with no one to claim it? In the end we had to bury it ourselves, next to the runway.

Still, even if none of us wants to admit it, it’s just as well that something happens now and then to break the boredom. A town like ours can get pretty depressing; our little airport never sees the fine ladies and gentlemen who fly around the world in the movies. We’re in the sticks out here. There are five flights a day and each takes off again right after landing. The passengers disappear quickly. At our airport there are no shops, no businesses. Eventhe little caféthat opens for each flight shuts down again at once. The only exercise the waitresses get is in the officers’ beds. And how long can anyone drag out the pointless inspections of the new arrivals and their luggage? A coffin, you have to admit, is more interesting and comes with some action. Provided, of course, that it’s disposable.

But here comes the officer, jumped out of bed with a new medal on his chest, bought last week in the market. He’s telling the policeman on duty to move over so that he can check the passports himself and sniff out any rat. It takes someone with experience to pick out at a glance the culprit who’s trying to slip away.

9

Well, what of it, thought the emissary when he was taken out of line and asked — most politely, to be sure — to report to the baggage terminal. The consul will soon come to relieve me of this responsibility that I should never have taken upon myself. And if she’s late, I have my satellite phone. Besides, I’m not alone. The journalist and his photographer don’t have a story without me.

He was not and never had been a coward, neither in the army nor in his travels as a salesman, and so it was with confidence that he descended to the baggage terminal in the basement of the airport — a converted military base — and strode down its narrow corridors. With an expression of amusement he followed an officer into a grim-looking cubicle that might have been a room for transit, interrogation, or even detention. Putting down his carry-on bag, he took the liberty of sinking into a chair, as if he had just covered the distance from the Holy Land on foot, meanwhile hastening to wave his three baggage stubs as a way of requesting the rest of his luggage. Only when the leather suitcase and two cartons arrived and he identified them with a nod did he consent to show the document in his possession. Whatever was in it, he assumed it would be enough to begin the negotiations that the consul would conclude.