A. Yehoshua - The Extra

“Why should I be angry?”

“That I signed you up as a patient. But if that bothers you, how about just a relative of a patient?”

“No, it actually doesn’t bother me to be an imaginary patient for a few days. It’ll be restful. But tell me, what’s your connection with the business of extras? A partner? Relative? Consultant?”

“C-c-confidential adviser, that’s the title.”

He suddenly seizes her hand and brings it to his lips, and she feels his relief. Is he helping her because he hasn’t given up on the idea of getting her into bed before she goes back to Europe? And though his hopes are slim, she doesn’t, deep down, dismiss him out of hand. But she doesn’t want it to happen soon; otherwise, he won’t leave her alone. Maybe just before she leaves, as a souvenir of her stint as an Israeli extra, and after all, no stuttering baby will be born as a result.

She finished the soup but didn’t touch the bread. “It was excellent. You revived my soul. The battle with the little kid wore me out.” And as the boy puts a saucer on their table and lights the faux-yahrzeit candle, she has a flash of suspicion that she didn’t find him here by accident. That his policeman’s instincts told him she would be here. And without any complaint, with a pleasant smile, she asks whether it was by chance that she found him here.

“No, n-n-not by chance.”

“Really?”

“This afternoon I was on my way to your place to offer you an unusual job as an extra, for right now. When I got to your street, I saw from a distance that you were leaving the building, and I didn’t want you to s-s-suspect that I was hanging around your s-s-street with any intentions. So I followed you — after all, I’m an expert in t-t-tailing people. Then I saw you were heading for the shuk , and from the way you walked past the stalls, I could see you weren’t looking for fruits and vegetables, but a meal, at this place, because I knew you had been here once for lunch. You got s-s-slightly lost in the alleyways, and I got here before you and waited.”

“WAITED FOR WHAT?”

“To make you a rare offer, with decent pay, in f-foreign currency, but you need to give an answer right away — y-yes or no.”

“Yes or no to what?”

“To be an extra, for a few hours this evening, in a documentary now filming in Jerusalem.”

“An extra in a documentary? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

“Absolutely. In a documentary, we expect real people and not actors and extras. But sometimes there’s a p-p-problem that calls for the assistance of an extra.”

“Meaning what?”

He tells her about a group of American students making a film about a professor from their university, an American psychiatrist originally from Israel, named Granot. This man grew up in Jerusalem, and as a youth was hospitalized for a while in an institution for the mentally ill, after which he went to study in the United States, where he became a prominent professor and thinker in his field. To put together this film portrait, focusing on Granot’s theories and ideas, his students decided to take him on a sort of “roots” journey to Jerusalem, to meet with his elderly parents, family members and some friends, so that stories about his youth will flesh out and add color to the portrayal of his character and thinking. And of course the filmmakers hope that a few swords will be crossed and scores settled, typical of encounters with parents and relatives.

“So why do they need an extra?”

“In p-p-principle everything will b-b-be r-r-real,” he stutters copiously, taking a deep breath to recover and regain control of his speech. “Except for the one important character, who was supposed to come to the shoot at his parents’ home, a girl the professor was involved with in his youth and apparently was hospitalized because of her. Just this morning she canceled her participation under p-p-pressure from her husband, who vehemently objected to his wife appearing in this kind of slightly psychiatric film. But the director feels it would be a shame not to have her in it, so they decided to bring in an extra in her place, to be present at the encounter even if she said nothing, and perhaps the professor would want to say something to her, anything, because this documentary doesn’t have a written script. It’s all spontaneous and r-r-real.”

“Very strange.”

“Yes, even for a veteran like me. In any case, this afternoon the casting agency called me and others for help in finding a w-w-woman more or less your age who would be a stand-in for a r-r-real woman.”

“Who is not supposed to say or do anything?”

“Of course, this is a true-life film, and no one has c-c-control or advance knowledge of what will happen.”

“Which could end up as a complete fiasco.”

“You’re right, but you still need to give an answer, yes or n-n-no, otherwise they’ll find s-s-someone else.”

“How much are they paying?”

“Three hundred dollars for a few hours. Very respectable for a silent e-e-extra. Apparently their university has a lot of money, or the professor is important. So, yes or no?”

She studies the policeman’s face. Is he telling her the whole story, or leaving out some important detail?

“All right, Elazar. My adventure with those two little boys unnerved me, I doubt I’ll get any sleep tonight, so why not impersonate some character, a real one for once, and be well paid? But on one condition: they drive me there and back.”

“But of course,” he says happily. “I’ll t-take you both ways, because I’m curious to see how they’ll cook you into the meal.”

She laughs. “And don’t you, as the confidential adviser, need to be paid?”

“I don’t need monetary compensation. But if you invite me for a bowl of soup before you return to Europe, I w-w-won’t refuse. So let’s check and make sure they haven’t already hired someone.”

He dials his cell phone, puts it close to his ear and speaks almost in a whisper in simple English, his happy eyes stammering too:

“It’s o-o-ours. I mean, y-y-yours.”

Midevening now, and Jerusalem is slowing down. In a matter of minutes Elazar drives her to the Talbieh neighborhood, which boasts the president’s house, the residence of the prime minister and the Jerusalem Theatre, just up the street from the former leper hospital. For the fun of it, he circles twice around Salameh Square, then heads down Marcus Street, ending up at a long and narrow street named Lovers of Zion, lined for the most part with old, stately houses made of stone.

In the garden of such a stone house with a front porch are gathered a few people whose connection with the film is as yet unclear. Elazar whispers to her that this was once the home of a philosopher with a big white beard, Martin Buber by name, and cannot resist telling her a story about how the police were once called in because of a demonstration that blocked the street — a crowd of students, friends, neighbors and sundry admirers who had come to congratulate the professor on his eightieth birthday, and sang and shouted, floated balloons and threw their hats in the air. And when a policeman asked Buber if he needed help, he replied, in a heavy German accent, “You can best help me if you leave at once, so no one will think I need police protection.”

Beside a green gate stands a camera tripod along with lighting equipment. In a large, brightly lit living room, on a well-worn sofa, in the soft breeze of a small fan, an elderly couple sit side by side, looking anxiously at a lens pointed at them like a machine gun by a tall American student, while a fuzzy microphone, affixed to a long pole held by a slender young woman, floats above them. The protagonist of the film, Professor Jacob Granot, a man in his fifties with curly gray hair in a black suit and bow tie, stands facing his parents and looks doubly anxious, both for the good name of the parents who had him put away in his youth, and for the truth itself.