The Extra

Sixteen

ABADI ROSE QUICKLY to the occasion. Having stayed in touch with the family, he knew about the experiment and even hoped it would succeed, but had not understood why they needed to summon the daughter from Europe. “No reason to worry about the empty apartment,” he said. “I’ll be happy to stop by every so often to see that all is in order. What’s left there to steal? Everything is old, nothing to tempt a thief.” They had to explain to him that what they feared was the elderly lawyer looking for any excuse to liberate the apartment, and if a stranger like Abadi were to start dropping by, it would only strengthen his claim.

Now Abadi walks through the apartment and is astonished by its emptiness. “It’s bold of your mother,” he says, “to get rid of so many possessions without being sure she was leaving Jerusalem for good.”

“She’ll come back,” says Noga to the gentle, melancholy man, whom she recalls as a passing shadow among the many visitors during the week of shiva. “I know her well. We’re soul mates.”

“So the experiment, bottom line, is just for Honi?”

“Yes, so he can be reassured that he has no choice, that till my mother’s final day of clarity he’ll be tied to the city that makes him very angry.”

“And you?”

“I love Jerusalem, but I don’t come here much.”

“That’s an easy way to love.”

“Easy and successful. But come see, Mr. Abadi, how you can support this love, because the little haredim are driving me mad.”

“I’ll help on one condition — that you call me Yosef and not Mr. Abadi.”

“Yosef. There, I said it.”

And he goes to the front door, whose lock had seen better days. But in order to replace it with a reliable lock, one would have to replace the entire doorpost. It would therefore be best to wait until the experiment in Tel Aviv is resolved, and in the meantime the Jerusalem apartment will be protected by an ordinary bolt. Abadi, at home in this house, makes for the kitchen, opens the father’s tool drawer, takes out a folding ruler, screwdriver and pliers, and returns to the front door to remove rusty nails before taking measurements.

From there he goes to the bathroom and stretches nearly all of his flexible body out the little window into the black of night, to estimate the distance to the drainpipe and the gutter. And again, since the window lock has disappeared entirely, and since only if Tel Aviv loses the experiment will it be worth hiring a carpenter to build a new window, all she needs now is a simple hook, which admittedly could be pried open from outside with a screwdriver, which would be a criminal act, not just a prank by kids who slide down the building’s drainpipes for fun and accidentally land in their neighbor’s bathroom.

She follows him around the apartment, studying him with appreciation. His movements are unhurried, his words level-headed, practical, and it’s clear why her father liked him. After all, he is the talented inventor of the electric bed.

“You know, I myself sleep in it part of the time.”

“Why only part of the time?”

“Because sometimes, in the middle of the night, I miss my childhood bed.”

“Are you aware of all the possibilities offered by this electric bed?”

“I should hope so. I have the quick fingers of a harpist, and your bed doesn’t have forty-seven strings or seven pedals.”

He laughs. “Not quite. But I do think it has a few possibilities you haven’t discovered. This was originally a hospital bed designed for gravely ill patients, designed to meet many needs, but so a healthy person could also enjoy it, I installed an upgraded electrical mechanism. Come on, I’ll teach you, because I’m not sure you’re aware of all the options.”

“What I know is enough for me. I’m only here for a short time.”

“Even so, it’s a shame you won’t enjoy it more.”

His excitement is almost childish, but was apparently appreciated by her father, who had appointed him as his successor at the water department. And so, after writing down the measurements for the bolt and the hook, Abadi strides into her parents’ bedroom, sheds his shoes, sprawls on the bed and begins to jiggle its controls, elevating and lowering its sections, activating internal vibrations, raising the whole bed levitation-like and finally tipping it over like a canoe, ejecting the recumbent man, who lands on his feet.

“You see?” he says, his eyes sparkling. “You didn’t know it could do that!”

“True,” she admits.

“So come here and I’ll show you how.”

It’s hard to say no to such enthusiasm, and she too removes her shoes and carefully lies down on the bed, and he bends over her, and she can feel his steaming breath, which steams not for her but for his machinery, and he gently takes her hand and guides it to a hidden lever, slick from machine oil. But when she pulls, nothing budges, and a furious gargle emanates from the engine box.

“The machine is rejecting me.”

“Impossible.” He places his hand on hers, to pull harder, but still nothing moves, and the same furious gargle is heard. He then slides under the bed to patch a frayed connection. But something goes awry: there is a sharp pop and the apartment is plunged into darkness.

“Be careful,” she says softly.

“It’s okay,” he assures her, and springs nimbly to his feet. “Don’t move. I know where to find the fuse box.”

And he goes to restore the light.

The bedroom windows are open to the clear summer night. The moon is late to appear, but stars are shining. The electric lights in the neighboring windows are dim, frugal. Her eyes can make out the objects around her, though she has yet to rise from the bed. She is waiting for the light to come back on. But Abadi is finding it difficult to replace the fuse in total darkness. “Your mother doesn’t have any candles?” he calls out to Noga, who remains as immobile as the electric bed she lies on.

“What for? She doesn’t light Shabbat candles. But the upstairs neighbor has a million candles. Maybe you should go up there.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Pomerantz. She’s the grandma of the little bastards. I have no strength for her right now.”

He walks out but does not even try the light in the stairway, despairing of that one too. She sits up in the bed but can’t bring herself to leave it. A light begins to flicker on the stairs. Abadi descends, carrying a candle of majestic proportions. She hurriedly gets up to greet him and sees he is not alone. The two boys are following him down with lighted Hanukkah candles in their hands. Brazenly they enter the flat through the open door and stand at attention before the dark, silent TV screen.

“That’s it.” She laughs. “No more television.”

“It’ll come back,” the older boy says quietly, and the little tzaddik turns his angelic face to her, adding, “With God’s help.”