A. Yehoshua - A Woman in Jerusalem

“I am not the only one who feels guilty, sir, am I?”

“If that’s how you wish to interpret my generosity, so be it. Just don’t worry about money. You have unlimited credit.”

“Things are very cheap here, but they still have a way of adding up.”

“I’m relying on your judgment … on your instincts.”

“Don’t rely on them too much, sir. My intuition has taken to dreaming. Are you awake enough to listen to a wonderful dream I had?”

The old man seemed to shudder. “No! Your phone costs too much to dream over it. You were told to go on a short mission. If it turns out to be a longer one, that’s fine with me. Just don’t go off on any tangents …”

“We’re already on one.”

“How’s that?”

“A minor one. To a former army base that’s now a tourist site.”

“What kind of base?”

“A nuclear command post from the Cold War. Our drivers heard great things about it and decided to use our rest time for an educational tour.”

“You’re talking to me from a nuclear command post?”

“No. We haven’t visited it yet. We’ll do that in the morning. I’m out in the open now, next to the coffin. It’s cold, but not unbearable. I’m facing east because the dawn has planted a rosy kiss there.”

“A rosy kiss?”

“Actually, the mist makes it pink.”

“Watch out, young man, watch out! You’re leaving me more worried than I was at the beginning of this conversation. Don’t go off on any more tangents or tours at my expense. And remember, that woman won’t last forever, not even in the cold.”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten her. We have a document from the Pathology Institute that says we have lots of time.”

“Listen!” The old man’s apprehension was growing by the minute. “Don’t rely on any documents. Trust your instincts. And remember that you’re an emissary, not a general. I want you to stay in close touch with me from now on. And don’t waste your battery on foolish conversations, yours or anyone else’s.”

6

At first he thought he had identified the exact point at which the sun would rise — a bare, snow-covered crag between two rounded hills — because the rosy glow was brightest there. Yet the loitering sun surprised him by appearing far away, from behind a distant mountain, flooding the wooded valley with a cloudy yellow light.

If the ground I’m standing on, thought the human resources manager, is one big nuclear shelter, there must be visible or concealed air vents. Looking for them, he noticed instead, beyond some distant trees, silhouettes and smoke. These belonged, he saw as he approached, to a group of vendors or gypsies setting up a market in a clearing. Was it for local inhabitants or tourists? Or might it be — but why not? — solely for him, the utter stranger, an emissary from afar who had risen early because he feared another dream?

Slowly, he made his way through the trees. Although the appearance of a mute foreigner caused the stall holders to pause in what they were doing, this did not keep him from inspecting the merchandise they had taken from their sacks and crates. The still-fresh memory of his dream of their countrywoman, whom he was returning to her native soil, was like a protective bubble around him. He strolled past heaps of potatoes, carrots, and winter squashes, red-rinded cheeses, pink, skinned suckling pigs, furry rabbits in their cages, freshly baked rye breads of different shapes and sizes, old household utensils, glasses, plates, embroidered tablecloths, linens, colourful dresses, icons, statuettes of saints. Smells of cooking enveloped him.

Only now did he notice, by signs glimpsed through their scarves and heavy coats, that most of the vendors were women. Now some smiled at him and softly called out their wares. Although he had no local currency, he was certain they would accept anything he offered.

But what should he buy? What was typical of the region? Perhaps he should wait for the consul’s husband to help him tell the real from the fake. Meanwhile, he would have something to eat — something hot, even scalding, to fortify him against the death that had hovered in his dream. At the far end of the clearing, steam rose from a large pot. A woman of uncertain age, wearing a tatty fur coat, stirred the pot while singing hoarsely to herself. He couldn’t be sure whether she was retarded or belonged to some exotic Arctic race. Next to her, swaddled like a gift package, a baby lay on a thick woollen blanket. What did its sweet little face, peering from beneath its bonnet, remind him of?

The emissary, lured by an excess of initiative to the ends of the earth, recalled how five days previously he had followed his secretary’s baby as it scuttled down the corridor and rapped with its dummy on the old owner’s door, so that he’d had to scoop it up in a quick embrace. If only he could touch the reality of the warm little body in front of him long enough to shake off his dream! Yet as no mother would lend her baby to a mute stranger, he took out a bill and pointed to the dark contents of the pot, which appeared to be some kind of stew.

The woman gave him a worried look. Muttering something, she refused to take the money. But Tartar stew was what he wanted and he laid the bill down insistently, reached for a metal mug by the pot, and handed it to her to fill. There was a warning buzz from the vendors around her — for her or for him, he couldn’t tell. Since she continued to hesitate, he dipped the mug in the pot himself and slowly downed the thick liquid. Although he knew from the first sip that he was drinking an unusual brew, he went on draining it for its warmth. I needn’t worry, he told himself. I ate all kinds of swill in the army and was none the worse for it.

Peasants and stall holders had surrounded him, gawking as he emptied the mug. Some were scolding the woman and trying to overturn her pot. Yet she did not seem intimidated. Brandishing an iron ladle, she kept them at bay while laughing heartily and breaking into a little song. The human resources manager, regarding her more closely, decided that she suffered from Down’s syndrome.

Well , he thought, comfortingly, even if she fed me carrion, I’ll puke it up in the end. But the baby is a lost cause. I can’t play with it in front of all these anxious women. It’s time to move on.

Several women followed close behind him. Although he could feel their fear on the back of his neck, he made no sense of it. Quickening his pace, he hammered on the iron gate. The soldiers recognized him and let him in, shutting the gate behind him.

He swallowed it before we understood what he wanted. There was no way to warn him because he couldn’t speak our language. That’s why we followed him, to tell the soldiers he had to throw up. The problem is that they don’t open the gate any more unless you have a ticket. What an army! Our parents worked themselves to the bone digging a shelter for the imbeciles who ranthis country, and now we have to payto visit it!

What will happen to him now? He doesn’t know what he’s eaten or who made it. In the end they’ll accuse us of poisoning him and shut down the market. We were too kind to that madwoman, all because of her baby. No more! You’ve made a mockery of us long enough, you lunatic! Say goodbye to your pot and your fire and take your baby that doesn’t know its father and go sing to it by the lake. And watch out that some wolf or fox doesn’t eat it by mistake.

At first he thought the stew had a fishy saltiness. Then it was a cloying sweetness. Furtively, so as not to offend the guards, he spat on a rock. His spittle, though tasting like blood, was green.

I should have swallowed it more slowly, he scolded himself. Nevertheless, he had faith in his digestive system. When all the cooks in the army had failed to poison him, how could a market vendor succeed?