A. Yehoshua: A Woman in Jerusalem

The manager, suddenly aware of a new contradiction, asked: “If you felt so sorry for her, why didn’t you wait for her to find a new job first?”

“How do you know she didn’t?”

“Because she was broke. There was nothing in her shopping bag but rotten fruit.”

“That’s ridiculous.” The supervisor flushed. “Who can tell after a bombing what’s rotten and what isn’t? Take my advice and drop it. Don’t mess with a rotten journalist. In the end, no one will remember …”

The manager regarded the supervisor in silence. Before the night is out I’ll surprise the old man yet, he told himself, feverishly toying with a new thought. He removed his net cap and handed it to the supervisor, who stuck it in his pocket with the secretary’s. Then, waving good night, he headed back through the large, warm work space and out to the administration building. At the exit he was besieged by the cleaning women, eager to hear about their co-worker’s death. Yet what could he tell them? No more than they could tell him. It was a large bakery with many corners, and each one of them worked alone. The dead woman, a temporary who feared for her job, had worked harder than the rest of them and never stopped to chat with anyone.

Outside it was still stormy. A convoy of army trucks pulled into the bakery’s large yard and arranged themselves in a hissing row at the loading platforms. The human resources manager fought a sudden urge to ask the workers if they, too, like the secretary, had found the woman beautiful. He didn’t want to be wrongly suspected, especially concerning someone who was dead.

Lifting the collar of his thin overcoat, he ran back to the administration building.

6

He returned to his office. Once again he thought of informing the bakery’s owner of his progress. Once again he refrained. He would keep his plans to himself and let the old man fret for his humanity.

He dialled the weekly and asked to speak to the editor. The man’s secretary, sounding as efficient and energetic as his own, replied that her boss was away and would not be available for the next twenty-four hours. He was taking a badly needed break and had gone off to commune with himself, leaving even his cell phone behind. Perhaps she could help the caller?

Once again it struck the resource manager how keen some people were to step into their superiors’ shoes. Introducing himself, he inquired discreetly whether she knew anything about the article.

Indeed, she knew all about it. In fact, she considered herself a party to the affair, having been the one to suggest to the editor that he warn his friend, the owner of the bakery. Moreover, it was she who had urged the old man to submit his explanation and apology by tomorrow, when it would have the greatest impact.

“But that’s just it!” the resource manager said excitedly. “We’re not apologizing for anything. We’re only explaining.” The entire accusation was based on a mistake. A preliminary investigation had revealed that the dead woman, although she had once worked at the bakery, had not been employed there at the time of the bombing. Hence the company and its human resources division had been neither callous nor negligent. If the editor had indeed left without his cell phone, which he rather doubted, he would advise her to wield the authority vested in her by cancelling the article’s publication.

“Cancel it?” The secretary sounded as shocked as if she had been asked to cancel tomorrow’s sunrise. Absolutely not. It was out of the question. And besides, what was the resource manager so worried about? The article would appear, with the company’s response in a sidebar, and the weekly’s readers would decide for themselves.

“But that’s absurd!” the resource manager protested angrily. “Why expose your readers to more horror stories in times like these?”

The secretary stuck to her guns. With all due respect to the resource manager’s desire to acquit his company of blame, she wasn’t authorized to cancel or postpone an article without the author’s permission. If it was that crucial, the resource manager should contact the author directly and convince him to make changes. He had all night long to do it in.

“That weasel?”

“Weasel?” Her surprise was gleeful, vivacious. “Ha, ha, I like that! Does that come from knowing him personally or just from his writing?”

“From having read this single, ridiculous piece.”

“Well, you’ve captured him perfectly. He doesn’t look like a weasel — far from it — but that’s just what he is: quick, slippery, and able to crawl into any hiding place to attack you by surprise. But tell me,” the editor’s secretary went on as though declaring her credo, “who keeps us on our toes if not the weasels? Every newspaper needs at least one. Only one, though … that’s quite enough, ha, ha …”

As a token of her appreciation, she was even ready to give him the weasel’s phone number.

Seated in the dark, empty administration building, with the bantering conversation having got him nowhere, he lapsed into gloom. Why on earth was he being so stubborn? What was he fighting for? To cover up the night shift supervisor’s blunder? Or was it to show the old owner that he, his former star salesman, was still on top of things and the last person who should ever be threatened with dismissal? Or — he could feel the thought grope its way to the surface — was it to reclaim the dignity of an engineer come from afar to be a cleaning woman in Jerusalem. To let her know — her and whoever had loved her — that her suffering and death hadn’t gone unnoticed because of anyone’s callousness?

He switched on his desk lamp and slowly studied her computer image. Was she beautiful? It was hard to tell. He shut the folder and phoned home to ask about the dance lesson.

There was no answer. His daughter’s substitute parent could be reached only on her cell phone. Every bit as lively as the two secretaries, she told him in her faint British accent that the dance lesson had ended a quarter of an hour ago. They weren’t yet back in the apartment because his daughter had left her homework at a friend’s house and they had to drive there to retrieve it.

“Again? On a rainy night like this?”

“What can I do about it? The rain is indeed inconsiderate.” But there was no reason to be upset, said the office manager, tactfully defending the child’s inattentiveness. She was waiting for her in a nice café. In fact, she wasn’t even alone, because her husband was co-parenting with her. He was sitting by her side right now, having a beer. The resources manager could take his time — all night, if he wanted — to answer the scurrilous charges. She and her husband were used to teenage girls. They had a granddaughter the same age in America.

“All night?” Her generosity with his time annoyed him. “What for? Everything is wrapped up.” He would soon come home to release them, he said, proudly declaring that he had tracked the dead woman down. Her name was Ragayev and a short but successful interrogation in the bakery had revealed the “termination” of her job. Although the company had indeed issued the pay slip that had put the journalist on the scent, she was no longer employed there at the time of the bombing. He was going to try to have the article cancelled, which in the editor’s absence meant contacting the author.

The office manager reacted enthusiastically. Cancellation was the best solution — far better than a response on their part. It was just the thing to restore the old man’s peace of mind. “Insist on it,” she urged the resource manager. “We’re taking good care of your daughter. You promised to make this woman your business — do it. Get hold of the journalist now …”