A. Yehoshua - A Woman in Jerusalem

He silently signalled the consul and the drivers to step ahead of him. The journalist and the photographer were already inside the church and had seized the best vantage points. Although he had forbidden him to take pictures, the human resources manager was sure that the photographer would strike silently, without his flashbulb, to fill the pages between the rentals and the used-car ads. The weasel and the rattlesnake hadn’t made this journey together in order to miss their true subject: the alluring face of Death.

The last villagers disappeared through the large wooden door of the church. The human resources manager did not follow them. He turned and walked down a narrow path to the little village graveyard. At its end was an ice-covered wall that seemed to mark the limits of the universe.

There wasn’t a sound. He wandered past new and old tombstones, looking for a fresh grave. None was visible. The old woman must be insisting on the coffin’s return to Jerusalem. Perhaps the villagers, afraid of her wrath, were planning to bury it secretly, at night.

A sound of voices reached him from the church, along with a thin, stifled wail. Then came the deep baritone of the village priest. It began with words and changed to music, to a slow, ancient, ecstatically chanted dirge. The villagers joined in, piercing the emissary to the quick. Although he knew a place of honour had been prepared for him and he would have liked to express his condolences, he was determined to remain outside. He did not want to see her, not even from a distance.

It’s time to say goodbye, the human resources manager whispered, wiping away a cold, unexpected tear. He paced back and forth by the icy wall, touching it warily, while the old woman’s complaint went on pursuing him. Did we make a mistake? Were we too hasty? An engineer like that doesn’t come to Jerusalem just for work. She comes because she feels that the shabby city is hers too. Her Jewish lover gave up and left, and she stuck it out. If the night shift supervisor hadn’t fired her out of love, she would still be working in our bakery.

He was too distraught to tell whether he was trembling from cold or excitement. If it was noon in this place, it was 10 a.m. in Jerusalem. He took out his satellite phone and dialled the company owner.

The office manager was delighted to hear the human resources manager’s voice. She had been thinking of him, she said. Had he reached his destination? Was he already on his way back? Everybody was asking when he would return.

“Soon,” he said softly, astonished once again by how close the phone made her sound. Right now, he needed to talk to the old man.

“Have you forgotten that it’s Wednesday?” She was surprised that he hadn’t remembered. “He’s on his weekly tour of the bakery.”

“In that case,” the manager said, “put me through to him there.”

“Wouldn’t you rather wait until he returns to his office?”

“There’s no time,” he said firmly. “We have to make some decisions.”

She transferred the call to the bakery. Above the old man’s gnarled voice, he could hear the purring of ovens and the rattle of production lines.

“I have something urgent to discuss with you.”

“Ah, my dear fellow! I’ve been looking forward to this conversation. But I’m in the middle of making the rounds with the shift supervisors. Can’t it wait?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s hard to concentrate with all this noise.”

“Yes, sir, I can hear it. It doesn’t bother me, because there’s not a sound where I am. I’m standing by an icy wall with nothing beyond it. It feels like the end of the world. It’s comforting to know that the bakery is still running. But perhaps you can’t hear me.”

“Don’t worry about that, young man. I’m used to the sounds of the bakery. I’ve been hearing them since I was an infant at my parents’ knees. It’s like the sound of waves to a fisherman.”

“Well, then, I’ll get to the point. It’s complicated. We have some decisions to make. The grandmother returned to the village this morning. Right now she’s looking at the open coffin and confirming it’s her daughter.”

“I thought that might be necessary. I should have warned you that you might have to look, too.”

“I didn’t look at anything, sir. Nor do I intend to. There’s no need. That woman is inside me by now. I even dream about her.”

“As you wish, my friend. You know that I trust your intuition. When will the funeral take place?”

“That’s just it. We’ve got to the painful part, but not to the end. You were right to worry about that. It turns out that the end hasn’t ended. The old woman doesn’t want to bury her daughter in the village. She’s upset that we didn’t bury her in Jerusalem. She says it’s her city, too.”

“Hers? How?”

“That’s a good question. We’ll have to think about it.”

“But who the devil is she, this grandmother?”

“An old woman. I’d say about your age. And she’s strong and stubborn like you. This morning she came back from a pilgrimage dressed as a monk. It was a sight for sore eyes.”

“But what is it you want from me now?”

“I want your agreement to our bringing the cleaning woman back to Jerusalem.”

“Back to Jerusalem! How can we?”

“We can and we will. There’s no choice.”

“Excuse me. We have no jurisdiction. It’s up to the government and National Insurance.”

“The government has washed its hands of the matter. Even if we could pressure it, there is no way they can now make arrangements for the return of a dead temporary resident who believed in Jerusalem more than Jerusalem believes in itself. The two of us — you, the owner of a large company, and I, your loyal employee — may be private individuals, but with our vision and initiative …”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No, sir. Not at all. It takes more than that to drive an old hand like me out of his mind. My mind couldn’t be clearer. It’s as clear as blue skies and a wall of ice.”

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying. Maybe this noise is affecting my hearing after all. Please stick to the point. Are you proposing to return to Jerusalem with the coffin? How can you?”

“Why not? We have to bring the car and trailer back anyway. The aeroplane that flew us here also flies the other way. And if you’re concerned about time running out — for the woman, that is — you needn’t be. Time isn’t running in the coffin at all. We’ve been assured it’s been brought to a stop.”

“But suppose I say no. What will you do then?”

“I’ll bring her back at my own expense. I’m not a wealthy man, but I’ll manage. As your human resources manager, I’m authorized to grant myself a small company loan. The question, sir, is rather: what will happen to your precious humanity? Who will restore it? Do you want the weasel to write that you backed out at the last minute?”

“Now you’re threatening me.”

“Threatening? Oh, no, sir. I’m your loyal employee. I’m just surprised that a man of your wisdom and experience didn’t realize that a journey like this could benefit a city we’ve despaired of.”

“Benefit how, you absurd man? With another grave?”

“Another grave and two new residents, an old woman and a handsome young man.”

“You’re proposing to bring them too?”

“Why not? Isn’t it their right?”

“Right? Right?” The old owner’s shouts drowned out the sound of the ovens. “What right are you talking about?”

“That, sir, is something we’ll figure out. As always, I am at your service.”

Haifa, 2002–3

Now an award-winning feature film