A. Yehoshua - A Woman in Jerusalem

“Do you think I know? My husband can tell you exactly. I’d say there are at least five hundred kilometres of difficult terrain between us and this boy’s grandmother.”

“Five hundred kilometres? That’s not so bad …”

“Possibly more. Don’t hold me to it. It could be six. ”

“Six hundred is doable, too. How long will it take? Two days at the most.”

“You’ll never do it in two days. Get that out of your head. You’re in the wrong world again. The roads here are terrible.”

“Let’s say three. Even four. I’m taking this boy to his grandmother.”

“And what will we do with it while you’re taking him?”

“Do with what?”

“The coffin.”

“We’ll take it with us. There’s no choice. We’ll bring the woman back to the village she was born in. The boy and his grandmother will bury her there. Isn’t that the right, the natural thing to do?”

“It’s a noble idea!” exclaimed the weasel, who had been following the argument with interest. “It’s absolutely the right thing to do.”

“Will you come with us?”

“Of course.” The weasel smiled. “While steering clear of you, of course.”

“Yes. Do that.”

The consul, however, looked askance at this unexpected proposal. The visitors from Israel did not know what kind of country they were in.

“Why look for trouble? Let’s bury her here. We can bring the grandmother to the grave next summer. Our consulate has no budget for your trip.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll pay for it. It’s cheaper than a helicopter.”

“Especially a nonexistent one.”

Relieved at having at least shot down the helicopter, the consul turned to the ex-husband, who was anxiously awaiting an explanation. The boy and the driver listened, too. As the father frowned and shook his head in disapproval, his son slipped free of him and skipped lightly to the emissary, his face bright with excitement. Full of emotion, he leaned towards the hand of the head of personnel which he brushed lightly with his Tartar eyes before planting a grateful kiss on it. Then he straightened up: he was almost as tall as his startled benefactor. Behind him, the greenish fog through which the nearby city gleamed, was lifting. With this new warmth in his veins, the emissary felt the cold’s iron grip weaken. Uncertain how to respond to the wordless gratitude of a youngster labelled a juvenile delinquent, he touched the pilot’s cap and smiled in bewilderment, as the photographer popped another flash-bulb.

11

The consul was still upset. Apart from wanting her breakfast, she had counted on getting rid of the corpse that same morning. There was a small church near the cemetery in which she had planned to hold a ceremony before noon, followed by a lunch for the mourners at the government’s expense; beyond that her responsibility did not extend. Now the human resources manager had made her call everything off. She urgently needed to consult her husband. If only he had been there, he might have nipped it all in the bud.

Going to the locked door of the terminal, she shook it more vigorously than would have been permitted to someone without diplomatic immunity. It was opened by a policeman, to whom she explained that a next-of-kin had been found, a young man who was prepared to claim the coffin and vouch for its burial in his mother’s village. The policeman went to wake the officer — who, only too pleased to return the woman to her native soil, hurriedly put on his uniform and produced the requisite forms. Since the young man was none too adept at reading or writing, the consul helped him fill these out. Then the papers were presented to the ex-husband for his approval.

Meanwhile, the imminent arrival of another flight and its subsequent takeoff had brought the little airport back to life. Departing travellers and welcome parties mingled noisily and the small buffet opened its doors, filling the air with cigarette smoke and the smell of coffee and pastries. With a reassuring whirr of propellers, a converted military transport touched down smoothly on the tarmac, and the policemen dusted off their uniforms and donned their caps. Soon the disembarking passengers were pushing baggage trollies through the terminal, among them — lo and behold! — the consul’s husband. Smiling and spruce-looking, his steely curls piled high on his head, the freed hostage wheeled out a trolley with the leather suitcase and the two gift boxes from the bakery.

“Where’s the coffin?” the worried consul asked.

“The coffin,” her husband sighed, “we will have to carry out. Now that they know we’re taking it, they want nothing more to do with it. I suppose it must unnerve them … not that I’m any judge. I’ve never felt more peaceful than I did beside it.”

“Let’s first fortify ourselves with something to eat and drink,” the consul said.

Her shrewd husband, however, advised otherwise. “That can wait until we get home. The coffin has to be moved before the airport shuts down again. We don’t want a new officer go through the whole thing again.”

He explained the task to the engineer and his son and asked the resource manager, “What do you think? There are four of us, not counting my wife. Can we manage by ourselves without the driver?”

“Why send for the driver,” the emissary replied, “when the two men who got me into this predicament are standing here doing nothing?”

The journalist and the photographer good-naturedly agreed to lend a hand. Then the five adults and the boy descended to the cubicle in the basement. Resourcefully finding a way to fit the coffin through the narrow door, they started up the stairs bearing it on their shoulders, dutifully following the instructions of the consul’s husband. The coffin was heavy. Having spent time with it in private, the resource manager was not alarmed by the coffin’s metal edge that cut into his shoulder, although he could sense the boy’s nervousness as he came into contact with it for the first time. The youngster would have lost his grip and stumbled, bringing them all down with him, had not his father pushed him out of the way.

The five of them climbed on, the consul’s husband and the dead woman’s ex-husband holding up the coffin’s front end, the journalist and the photographer carrying the rear. In the middle, by himself, was the emissary, the human resources manager of the company that had forgotten the woman’s existence. Anyone less expert than the old farmer, who directed them in two languages at once, might not have brought them safely up the stairs. They proceeded carefully, taking each step and turn with care. A sour smell accompanied them. The resource manager was not sure whether it came from the coffin or from the unwashed body of the boy, who had chosen to stick close to him and once or twice to reach out a helping hand.

“If I’m not steering clear enough of you,” the weasel panted behind him, “don’t complain. This was your idea …”

The human resources manager snorted. Unable to turn around, he could think of no rejoinder. He had to keep his eyes on the stairs, at the top of which, as they neared the exit, the light was growing brighter.

We were waving goodbye to the departing passengers when a metal coffin passed by on the shoulders of five pallbearers. We watched them carefully place it in a van and asked with a catch in our throats: Who died? Where? Where is the body being taken?

When we were told it was a local woman murdered in Jerusalem, we crossed ourselves and prayed for her eternal rest and resurrection. One of the pallbearers, a photographer, hastened to record our prayer with his camera.

12

The old van’s wheels spun in the snow, then broke free. The consul and her husband sat by the driver. The coffin was in the back. On one side of it were the boy and his father — who, though relieved of all responsibility for its burial, still hoped for compensation. On the other side, more intimately than he would have liked, the resource manager sat squeezed between the weasel and the photographer. Those two still hadn’t got over their good fortune in the dramatic new turn their story had taken.