A. Yehoshua - The Extra

Twenty-six steps and not thirty-two lead to the door of the old apartment. In which case, she thinks, scowling, why does a person who always prided himself on his precision need to add six stairs to embellish his suffering for the sake of her instrument? She heads back down, again counting the stairs, to double-check the number.

The gathering dusk prompts the lighting of the street lamps, and the colors of fruits and vegetables glisten in the storefronts on Emek Refaim Street. Baby carriages cross the street in midblock and hold up traffic. Men look at her for long moments, and she imagines herself again as an extra, only this time without a camera or director or story — standing by herself and for herself. She would like to further explore this pleasant, secular neighborhood, but she needs to start packing her bags and prepare for her departure, and the light rail is far away, so she hails a taxi and asks the driver on the way home to stop for a moment in the Valley of the Cross. But the driver doesn’t know where he can stop in a valley paved long ago with fast roads, yet he does know where the monastery still stands, and how to approach it.

“Exactly. Get as close as you can, stop for a bit, then continue.”

And he does, and for a few minutes she and the cabbie look at the old, dark monastery, a little light burning in its tower.

Did I forget to shut off a light? she asks herself as the taxi turns into her street and she spots a light in the apartment — or could it be the little tzaddik misses me?

As she enters the kitchen, Uriah stands up. His face is tense and tormented, and the fluorescent light intensifies its pallor. The jacket he wore in the morning is gone, in its place a faded but familiar sweater.

“Wait,” she says. “Before you apologize—”

“Explain,” he corrects her.

“You should know that I just got back from our rented apartment in the Greek Colony, and I counted the stairs twice that you complained about this morning, so you should know that it’s not thirty-two steps but twenty-six.”

“You forgot to add,” he says calmly, “the stairs inside the apartment.”

“Inside the apartment?”

“Beyond the front door there were six more steps.”

And in a flash the six interior steps come back to her, padded with old carpeting, and small pictures on the wall that she believed added a special charm and enhanced their marital intimacy.

“Yes, you’re right. I forgot.”

“Not by chance, not by chance,” he mutters. “But it’s unimportant, and I only wanted to explain—”

“Don’t explain. I knew you’d hold on to the key my parents gave us, and had no doubt you’d be able to pick it out among all your other keys. Which is why I told my mother three days ago, ‘Uriah won’t need to ask permission to come in here.’”

“But I wanted to ask permission, only you weren’t here. So I thought I’d simply leave the key.”

“And stay around to protect it.”

“Only because this morning I promised to let you know when the time had come.”

“Which time?”

“The time I would tell my wife everything I hid from her.”

“And what did she say?”

“She cried. The anger and shock dissolved into a long cry.”

“And you?”

“I cried with her.”

“You’re an honest man. You’re a faithful husband. It’s a shame I lost you so easily. But how did you explain to her the fever you’ve been running ever since Honi told you I was here?”

“I said I’d given you up a long time ago, but was furious about my unborn child.”

“Yours, or ours?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. Any child of yours, wherever he comes from — I’m taking him.”

“But what would such a child give you, if you’re not a part of him? You already have your two children.”

“He will give me what will be in him of you. It doesn’t matter what — a birthmark, a dimple, the shape of an ankle, maybe a smile, hair color. Little things, physical and mental, that you might not even be able to identify, but they are precious to me, which your music had stolen from me.”

“The music?”

“The playing.”

“And what did your wife say about this child?”

“She cried.”

“And didn’t say anything?”

“No. But I know that if she believes that this would quell my fever and restore my calm, she would be ready to adopt a child of yours to raise along with our kids.”

“And that way she would merge herself with me.”

“Perhaps.”

“But there is no such child, and there won’t be one. You understand. You know.”

“I know and understand.”

“It’s too late.”

“I know that too. Actually I feel it.”

“If you know everything, why did you come?”

“To return the key to your mother and keep my promise to tell you that the time had come and I didn’t hide anything from my wife.”

“And you still didn’t think to look at my childhood harp, which you ran away from this morning, and which Honi will throw away tomorrow or the next day.”

“Wrong again. I took off the cover and looked at it, to try and understand its power.”

“And did you?”

“I saw a unique and unusual instrument, a primitive shaatnez , a hybrid of harp, guitar, banjo and more. I can see why your father, who knew nothing about music, wanted to get it for you, not in a music store but an antiques shop. It can’t make music now, many strings are missing, and those that are left are loose and bent, so how could I understand why it enslaved you?”

“You can’t. And neither you nor I can resurrect the dead, so go back to your wife and don’t torment her anymore with the illusion that you can turn back the clock.”

SINCE THE RESIDENTS of the old folks’ home in Tel Aviv include some very old ones, soon to depart this world, the management tried to provide the healthy and charming lady from Jerusalem with a pleasant and comfortable stay, so that she might cast her fate with the residence and enhance its image. But as it became clear that the little perks and luxuries, the lectures and the concerts, had not produced a decision in favor of Tel Aviv, and that the popular lady would soon be leaving, everyone was sad, and Honi, feeling guilty for his mother’s decision, at the last moment spread idle promises of a repeat experiment. Thus their arrival in Jerusalem was delayed, and the savory lunch prepared for them by the daughter was turned into a half-eaten dinner.

Honi wears a look of dejection. “Don’t worry,” says his mother, “you won’t have to rush here for every little inconvenience. I’m surrounded by plenty of poor Orthodox people who’ll be happy to take care of me for a few pennies.”

“And for the same nickel they’ll bring you back to religion.”

“Not me. Abba and I managed to hold our own, and God made us stronger in the process.”

As her three heavy suitcases are hauled to the apartment one by one, she makes a tour of the three big rooms and marvels: “What’s this, Noga? Was I really such a good mother that you spruced up the apartment for me?” “Yes, you were great,” says Noga, “because you always made me feel free.” Tears gleam in the eyes of the old woman, whose emotions are usually blocked by irony. As Noga smiles at her mother’s tears, her brother storms through the resurrected apartment, grousing about the weak lighting and checking out Abadi’s bolt. “This is not a bolt,” he sneers. “It’s a parody of a bolt. If you had a dog here, that would stop the bastards.”

“Au contraire,” the mother says, laughing, “a dog will appeal to them a lot more than Israeli television.”

“No need to worry,” says his sister. “No more kids. Shaya personally brought his son to apologize.”