A. Yehoshua - The Extra

On the morning of the concert Noga tried to decide what to wear onstage. Should it be the black silk dress, whose hem nearly reached the floor but which left her neck, shoulders and arms bare, or should she go with a delicate black pantsuit, purchased in Israel, which she felt accentuated her slenderness and flexibility? She was tilting toward the elegant black silk, befitting the formality of a concert to which notables had been invited. But her shoulders seemed bulky to her compared with the younger women players’, so she combined the two outfits: to hide her shoulders and arms, she will wear the jacket of the pantsuit over the long silk dress.

But is the black of the two outfits the same black? She didn’t feel herself competent to judge this, so she enlisted her landlady, a great admirer of her tenant, to view the combination and render an opinion. And the landlady, whom Noga had invited to the concert, was adamant. Even if the Dutch black does not clash with the Israeli black, Noga must wear only the long dress and leave her shoulders and arms exposed. Yes, she too noticed that they had thickened a bit during her vacation in Israel, possibly the result of hearty meals and juicy fruit, yet at the same time, perhaps from the desert sun, they have a rosy golden sheen not easily acquired in the Netherlands. So why conceal an attractive body that will blend with the beauty of the harp?

It was impossible to exclude Christine from the farewell concert, despite the anger directed at her, and she too turned up that evening in a long black dress, albeit of slightly threadbare wool. The appearance of the two harpists in their long dresses encouraged interest in a complex piece of music.

During the intermission Noga asked the conductor if there had been an answer from Japan. “Not yet,” said the maestro, but with cheerful optimism promised that the entire Japanese army had been deployed to find a substitute. “We will not give up the sea after we polished every one of its waves.” Indeed, the Debussy was received with surprising warmth and enthusiasm at the farewell concert, even though it was not an audience of the usual music lovers, but of municipal workers and members of trade organizations, including transit employees and industrial workers, plus excited high school kids and German students from across the border. And since the printed program, distributed free at the door, explained why La Mer had been selected for the Japanese tour, the Dutch were flattered that such a large and strong nation as Japan, whose technology had conquered the world, was in need of inspiration from a small, modest people in a spiritual and artistic contest with a cruel sea.

Knowing that the farewell concert would be attended by the general public, some receiving free tickets, Dennis van Zwol asked the musicians to play the Haydn symphony at an especially sprightly tempo, but with the Debussy he would allow no compromises. During the many exhausting rehearsals, the orchestra had perfected various refinements, and any deviation from them would ruin the musical flow.

Having gotten past her torment over leaving the tour, Christine was newly serene. She no longer bothered to hide her pregnancy, and under the long wool dress that smelled slightly of camphor, the bulge that would force the Belgians to grant full European citizenship to her partner was clearly visible.

The dialogue between the two harps was executed flawlessly in the concert’s second half. Sometimes the first sang out and the second answered, sometimes they sang in unison, till the second subsided and the first went on to trill another phrase. The breathtaking glissandi played by the two evoked the sparkling foam of the waves, cresting and ebbing. The conductor was focused on them, and they felt his constant presence. Since the harpists sat on a riser above the other strings, the eyes of the audience were fixed on them even as they rested, waiting for the moment when the two women, with perfect timing, would tilt their gilded, regal harps toward their hearts and spread their fingers on the strings.

The cheers at the conclusion of the Debussy were loud and long. Backstage, a chattering crowd of friends and relatives said their goodbyes to the musicians. Christine was upset and parted from Noga in tears. She too had yearned to travel with the orchestra instead of returning this very night to a small apartment in Antwerp with the knowledge that perhaps until the birth of her child, and perhaps thereafter, she would have no opportunity to perform. Moreover, it was reasonable to assume that an orchestra that had been dealt so severe an inconvenience would never again invite her to play. The father-to-be showed up at the concert not in overalls but in a suit and tie, and interpreted the musical struggle between the wind and the waves in his own fashion, perhaps as a port worker.

He studied Noga with a friendly look, and at the moment of parting dared to hug her, feeling the chill of her bare shoulders. She sensed he bore her no grudge over the words they had exchanged, and thought of telling him about the dear father who feared the death of his daughter in childbirth. But was this man the right audience for such a strange confession?

ONLY AFTER SHE RETURNED from the concert to her apartment did Noga begin to fear that the following day, amid the rush of preparation for the long journey, she would not have time to say a proper goodbye to her mother. It’s late now in Israel, but she knows that the lonely mother would be pleased to wake up and hear her voice. But the phone rings in Jerusalem with no reply, giving rise to a new worry. Were we too hasty to rule out assisted living? She calls her brother, a sound sleeper, and her sister-in-law Sarai, who tinkers with her eccentric paintings into the wee hours, answers and reassures her: “Your mother hasn’t vanished. She’s here, sleeping in the kids’ room. She arrived two days ago, supposedly because she missed the children, but it’s really because she’s worried.”

“About whom and what?”

“Hard to know,” Sarai says. “Maybe herself, maybe you.”

“Me? About what?”

“Not clear. Maybe your trip? I’ll wake her up. She’ll be happy to hear your voice, and you can find out what’s eating her.”

“No, no, don’t wake her,” says Noga, flustered. “I only wanted to say goodbye, but if she’ll still be there tomorrow morning…”

“She’ll be here, she’ll be here. She doesn’t seem in any hurry to go back to Jerusalem.”

“In that case, I’ll call before we leave for Japan.”

“Japan… Japan…,” sighs the sister-in-law. “Wonderful. I envy your freedom.”

“Don’t exaggerate. It’s not about freedom, it’s just a path to the music I’m starving for.”

“But you at least have an orchestra to help you satisfy your hunger. I’m all alone here, wrestling at night with my unfulfilled artistic ambition.”

“But you have your children to make you happy.”

“They don’t always make me happy, and even when they do, they’re not relaxing.”

Noga is sorry that her work as an extra didn’t leave her more time to spend with her sister-in-law.

“Maybe after we get back from Japan you can come for a little vacation here and leave Honi and Ima to look after the children.”

“Thanks. But so long as your mother doesn’t let go of Jerusalem, she won’t really be able to help us.”

After she hangs up, Noga finds it hard to fall asleep. Lacking an extra bed to seduce the elusive slumber, she swallows a sleeping pill, hoping to awake refreshed, ready for the trip to a distant land where she may or may not be called upon to perform.

Under the influence of the pill she plunges into solid sleep, and in the depths she meets her father, who since his demise has appeared in none of her dreams, but here he is, lying innocently in the electric bed, unaware that it was built after he had died. But is this the childhood apartment she had been assigned to protect? The waves of the dream wash over familiar furniture and kitchenware, lingering on the cumbersome television that won the hearts of the little boys. Yet the flat has undergone a major upheaval: the living room has expanded and her childhood bedroom has shrunk, and a thick, tangled tree she has never seen thrusts its branches through a window that never existed.