A. Yehoshua - A Woman in Jerusalem

The darkness thickened. The road, though otherwise a relatively good one, was full of potholes. The emissary, turning to glance at the boy whose handsome face was now invisible, saw that the journalist had switched on his light and was making notes.

“If not for that smear job of yours,” he said without anger, “I’d be in a warm bed now instead of bouncing around in the cold.”

“In bed? So early?” The journalist smiled and shut his notebook. “That’s a bit of a stretch. It’s eight p.m. here, which means the Sabbath has just ended in Jerusalem. From what I know, that’s your bar time, not your bedtime.”

“You even trailed me to the bars?”

“I didn’t. He did.” He pointed to the photographer. “He needed a picture.”

“He should have taken a better one.”

“What’s wrong with the one he took? It’s realistic.”

“Look who’s talking about reality,” snarled the human resources manager.

“I believe in it and aim for it. Why should you care about your picture in the paper? No one will think more or less of you because of it. Only your actions will determine that. To tell the truth, I’m beginning to think more of you myself.”

“You are? I’m honoured!” The resource manager was sarcastic. “Finally, I stand a chance with you. Just what is it you think so much of, may I ask?”

“Your ability to discern the plot of this story.”

“Which is?”

“Bringing this cleaning woman to a grave in her native village. That’s the kind of humanity I feel proud of. I feel proud of my own too, of course.”

“Just a minute. What does your humanity have to do with this?”

“Whose if not mine? Don’t dismiss what I’ve done this time. Over the years I’ve written dozens of angry articles. I’ve attacked people and institutions. Until now, I never accomplished a thing. The libel suits I was threatened with may have been dropped, but those who threatened me went on looking right through me. They read what I wrote and said, ‘No comment.’”

“That’s what I told the owner to say, too.”

“It’s to his credit that he didn’t listen to you. This is the first time an article of mine, dashed off late at night, has changed anything. It led not only to an admission of guilt from a large bakery, but to action. Believe me, that’s made me an optimist again. An idea born in my brain has us all headed for the ends of the earth in an armoured vehicle. You must admit that for a weasel, that’s not bad … By the way, take a look at these tripods. You’re an ex-military man — what do you think they were for? They must be from the First World War. You’ll see, my friend! You’ll see what I make of all this! The editor has promised me a third of the issue if I bring him a story with some punch …”

“I hope you’ll at least acknowledge that it’s courtesy of the company you slandered.”

The weasel laughed good-naturedly.

“I may — and then again, I may not. So what if all this was paid for by a company that will only increase its profits as a result?”

“I thought you took pride in being objective.”

“Objectivity is a point of view. If you have it, nothing can destroy it. I’m here to report on how a businessman came to regret the callousness with which his company treated its workers and decided on a goodwill gesture of atonement. But since he also knows that if the gesture isn’t publicized it hasn’t happened, he’s saddled you with a photographer and a journalist to make sure his atonement is remembered on earth as well as in heaven. And with my help it will be, because I’ll write that there are still decent men in this depraved world who can accept legitimate criticism. You yourself are not only a private individual in my story, you’re a symbol. An aloof executive, a former army officer oblivious of the fact that a cleaning woman killed by terrorists went on collecting her pay packet, is now on his way to do penance, braving a winter storm on an expedition to a far land where he will beg forgiveness on bended knee.”

“Hey, go easy …” The human resources manager laughed. “If you don’t watch it you’ll end up on bended knee yourself, with your photographer taking a picture.”

“Now that’s an idea!” The journalist liked it. “If I can fit it into the story — why not? We’ll lift the lid of the coffin and give our readers a glimpse of death itself. An artistic one, shot with a zoom lens from a distance …”

“Don’t you dare!”

“What’s wrong now?”

“I’m warning you!” The resource manager’s amusement had turned to anger. “Don’t you dare think of opening the coffin … do you hear me?”

“But why get worked up? I beg to remind you that having that woman on your payroll doesn’t make her your personal property … Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but you’re here as an escort, just like me. If she belongs to anyone, it’s to her son. He signed for her and he’ll decide. Suppose the grandmother wants to open the coffin for a farewell look, who’ll stop her? With all due respect to your expense account, you’re not the boss here.”

Anger was now becoming feverish hatred.

“I’m warning you! Don’t you dare! Don’t print more crap in that goddamn newspaper of yours!”

“But why get worked up? What’s the paper to you? Do you ever read it?”

“Never. The first thing I do on Friday morning is toss it out without opening it.”

“There you are! So what do you care what’s in it? Not that you aren’t missing things, believe me. Precisely because we know that most of our readers aren’t interested in local news and only look at the rentals and used-car ads, we sometimes run surprising features, good investigative reporting on little-known subjects.”

“I believe I’ll go right on missing them.”

“That’s your right. Just hand me that satellite phone of yours, if you don’t mind. I want to know if my son is back from his school hike.”

“I’m not handing you anything. You’ve already drained my battery with all your talk. The consul had no outlet to recharge it. There are more important things than your son’s hike. I’ve told you: you’re here strictly as an accessory. I was generous enough to let you and your photographer tag after me, but that’s over with now. From now on you’ll keep your distance, is that clear?”

The weasel winced in the circle of his reading light. For the first time the emissary felt that he had managed to hurt this pudgy fellow, on whose unshaven chin a thin strip of beard had appeared.

A heavy silence descended on the vehicle. From afar, its big wheels and high-set lights made it look like a hovering spaceship. The boy had disappeared among the bags and suitcases, his long limbs folded into them. The human resources manager, weary and dejected, turned his back on the journalist, spread out his legs, and hung his scarf on a tripod. The consul removed his wife’s red cap; his steel-grey curls blew in the wind. The resource manager kept his eyes on the green dials until he dozed off to the sound of the powerful engine.

2

The engine’s silence woke him. He opened his eyes and found himself deserted. The other passengers were stretching their limbs outside, at a junction with road signs. It was nearly midnight. He stepped outside, and was surprised to see that the starry sky was bright and clear despite the biting cold. They had stayed ahead of the storm, and the two brothers, conversing quietly while one lit a cigarette from the glowing tip of the other’s, had reason to feel pleased as they affectionately kicked the vehicle’s big wheels. The consul, waving hello with a snowy branch, was in a good mood, too. He was observing the photographer, who had taken advantage of the break to shoot the vehicle from every angle. The boy, blue with cold but wide awake, was copying the Cyrillic letters of the road signs into the journalist’s notebook.