A Woman in Jerusalem

PART TWO The Mission

1

Only in a dream, he thought, could his mother’s voice be his secretary’s. Then he opened his eyes and realized that it was his secretary, in the apartment, demanding to enter his bedroom, so she could retrieve the cleaning woman’s keys. Was her baby still strapped to her? He looked forward to the prospect of planting another kiss on the warm, bald, little head. Knowing, however, that she was at the door and about to turn the knob, he jumped out of bed to defend his privacy. In the past twenty-four hours, his secretary had taken too many liberties. Still, it was late, almost ten. The old man’s wine had put the crowning touch on a hard day’s work. It was his mother’s fault, too. She should never have lowered the blinds or drawn the curtains.

He dressed quickly and asked his mother to shut the living room door. Even a fleeting glimpse of him on his way to the bathroom was more than he wanted his secretary to catch. He didn’t intend to exchange a word with her before he had washed and shaved. But he did ask his mother about the snow.

“What snow?”

“Don’t tell me it’s gone.”

She hadn’t heard of any snow. There was not a trace of it outside.

When he entered the living room a short while later, washed and shaven yet still embarrassed by the crates and cartons of his possessions that testified to his transient state, he found his secretary, dressed for work and looking official, interrogating his mother.

“What’s going on here?” he interrupted.

Naturally, she hadn’t come on her own initiative, she told him. She had been sent by the owner, whose unrelenting feelings of guilt made him want to play a more active role in the unfolding saga. The manager was late for work, so he had sent for the keys to the woman’s shack, which he wanted to see for himself before deciding on his next move.

“He wants to see that pathetic little room? What on earth for?”

His protests were meant just as much for his mother, who seemed to have become his secretary’s accomplice. The secretary, who was delighted to be out of the office, dismissed them with a wave of her hand.

“Why shouldn’t he see it? What are you trying to spare him? Let him know how his employees live. As long as he’s still alive, a little connection to reality won’t hurt him.”

He checked an impulse to rebuke her. The fact was that her new critical approach — not only towards him and the night shift supervisor but also, he now saw, towards the owner — made him like her all the more. With a fond look he inquired whether her baby had arrived home safely last night.

“Of course he did.”

“I have to tell you, I was genuinely worried he’d be smothered.”

“That’s one worry I absolve you of.”

“You should have brought him with you today, too.”

“If you find him that amusing, I can bring him to the office every day. Provided you look after him.”

“I’ll be glad to. I’d rather chase babies than corpses.”

As if her baby had been placed in sudden danger, she stiffened and turned pale. Glancing at her watch, she put down the coffee his mother had served her, sat up in her chair, and dramatically held out her hand for the keys. The resource manager, however, refused to yield them. Ordering her back to the office, he announced that he would personally escort the owner to the shack.

And so that same crisp, clear morning, the old man appeared in the market neighbourhood, dressed in an ermine coat that added to his stature and hale look. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, the crest of his royal pompadour had sprung back to life; he showed no sign of the previous night’s fatigue. Accompanied by his office manager, he followed the solemn resource manager down alleys and lanes until they reached a yard. In broad daylight it had lost all mystery and looked tawdry with its piles of boards and junk. A light film of white assured the resource manager that he hadn’t imagined the snow.

He took the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door like a practised estate agent, guiding the two others inside. A dim, greenish light fell through a heavy, checked curtain that he hadn’t noticed before. “Have a look around,” he said glumly. “It’s just an alcove. I haven’t touched a thing, except for some laundry I took down from a line and put in the sink, to keep it from getting mildewed. Actually, I shouldn’t have done that either, because only next-of-kin are supposed to handle her belongings. We had better leave it to National Insurance. They are the specialists.”

But the old man was in no mood to heed such advice. His large eyeballs glistened with curiosity, as he walked over to a little table covered with the same fabric as the curtains and unceremoniously lifted a bowl resting on it, examining and even sniffing at it. Then he asked the office manager to open the drawers of a chest and rummaged through them with uninhibited thoroughness, inspecting the dead woman’s clothing and even getting down on his knees to examine the shoes in the bottom drawer.

“All in all, there’s not much here,” he said, summing up his impressions. “And what there is looks old and worn. Even so, we’ll offer to deliver it to the survivors.”

The office manager, who had worked for the owner for many years, nodded doubtfully and stole a look at the resource manager. The resource manager said nothing. He resented this juggernaut of a man turned loose in the same room in which, seated in the straw armchair the night before, he had felt such unusual grief as he repeated the murdered woman’s name.

The old owner continued to rummage. After unsuccessfully attempting to decipher the title of a book in Cyrillic characters, he wandered to the kitchenette, studied an electric kettle, turned over a frying pan to contemplate its bottom, sorted out the knives and forks, and moved on to the lingerie that had lain in the sink overnight. Rolling up the sleeves of his fur coat without ceremony, he finished the resource manager’s work, wringing out the flimsy panties, nylon stockings, slip, and floral nightgown and carefully spreading them in a bright panoply over the armchair to dry. “We need a good photograph of her,” he declared.

The office manager gave a start. “Why?”

“For our bakery’s memorial exhibition. It shouldn’t be only for employees killed in action. Terror victims deserve to be there too.”

The resource manager had had enough.

“I’m warning you again,” he said, turning sternly to the hyperactive old man. “We mustn’t poke around here. And we certainly mustn’t take anything. Our company has no personal claims on this woman. We’re in enough trouble because that old puppy fell in love. Why look for more?”

The owner was unimpressed.

“Yulia Ragayev.” His voice quivered in the greenish light. “What kind of a name is that? Does it sound Jewish to you?”

“Who cares?” The resource manager was getting cross. “All that matters is that she’s still on our payroll.”

The owner turned to look at the employee, who was nearly fifty years his junior. “What’s botherng you?” the old man asked quietly, yet forcefully, putting a hand on the resource manager’s shoulder. “What are you getting so worked up about? Have I said what matters and what doesn’t? You’re right. The important thing is that she’s still on our payroll. That’s why we’ll give her the consideration she deserves. But we can’t bury her properly if we don’t know where she comes from.”

2

At first we didn’t notice he was there. When we did, we assumed he must be from the secret service, one of those characters who turn up now and then to scrounge for information, for another intimate detail or two about the dead,not all of whomare always innocent passers-by. We didn’t bother to talk to him. He seemed happy enough in his corner, listening carefully to social workers, pathologists, psychologists, assessors, and municipal clerks, all of whom had something to say about the dead, the injured, and their families. Believe it or not, we still have cases ten or more years old whose files we haven’t been able to close.

Yet after a while our curiosity got the better of us and we asked him who he was and whom he represented. He apologized for crashing our meeting, which he had only done, he said, to reveal to us the identity of a terror victim. He spelled her name and recited her visa number as if it were his own ID.

At first we didn’t realize what this woman had to do with him. Neither her name nor her number meant anything to us. But then someone remembered the unidentified body from the previous week’s bombing, which had since been overshadowed by a subsequent one. We had been certain that this body had been transferred to Central Pathology and that we were no longer responsible for it. Now we learned that it was still in Jerusalem. An article that had appeared, or was about to appear, in a local weekly had led this well-meaning man to make the identification. He repeated the name and visa number.

Naturally, we wondered about him. Was he a relative? A friend? A neighbour? Perhaps a lover? Such people sometimes surface posthumously. We’ve run into all of them before. Yet in this case it was none of the above. To our surprise, the man had not even known the deceased. He was the personnel manager of the Jerusalem bakery in which the victim, an unattached temporary resident, had found work as a cleaning woman. For days no one had noticed she was missing, and the company now wished to make up for the oversight by helping with the funeral arrangements.

The man’s request that we allow the bakery to be of assistance, discreetly and without publicity, was more than welcome; it lightened our otherwise gloomy meeting. We immediately directed him to another room with a representative of the Immigration Ministry, who elicited all he knew about the dead woman and took down his phone number and address for further contact. Later we learned that he was divorced and living with his mother — hardly an earthshaking revelation.

The representative of the Immigration Ministry, a woman with flashing eyes and fluent but accented Hebrew, led her visitor to a side room. Since he refused to part with his yellow folder, she had to copy out the deceased’s personal details and CV. When she did not react to the cleaning woman’s picture, he took the liberty of asking if she thought the woman was beautiful. “Why shouldn’t she have been?” she answered, none too logically, shutting the folder and handing it back to him — a gesture that made him aware of the scent of her perfume. A shiny cell phone appeared in the palm of her hand; into it she relayed his information to her office. “You’ve done your part,” she said to the resource manager. “We’ll locate her family and find out how they want us to proceed.”

The resource manager gripped her hand lightly. “Just a minute,” he said. “My part isn’t over yet. I represent a large company that wishes to be involved in this tragic matter and can afford to be. It’s in our interest. Our public duty requires us to value every employee, even a temporary cleaning woman. We wish to make it clear that we expect to participate with the government in paying our last respects. You see, we’ve been attacked in the press and even accused of inhumanity.”

“Inhumanity?” She regarded him curiously. The resource manager, who did not want yet another woman to go unremembered, made a mental note of her delicate features while he briefly summarized the article due to appear. Of course, he left out the night shift supervisor’s infatuation. It was all just a clerical error.

“Perhaps we’re overreacting,” he said. “But in times like these, we have to be strict with ourselves and not just with others.”

He took down the phone and fax number of her office and, most important, the number of her little cell phone, which quickly vanished into her handbag.

3

The administrative wing was silent when he arrived at his office early that afternoon. His secretary’s coat and handbag were not in her room. A note on his desk said: “The baby isn’t well. Back tomorrow.” She was lying, he thought. Nothing was wrong with the baby. She was taking her revenge for the keys.

He leafed through the papers on his desk. After all the horror stories he had heard that morning at the National Insurance meeting, the usual personnel problems seemed dull and trivial. Not until he stepped into the corridor to ascertain why everything was so quiet did he remember, on hearing muffled voices behind the owner’s upholstered door, that a conference had been scheduled to discuss a step-up in production due to a closure imposed on the Palestinian territories — a measure that invariably meant an increase in the consumption of bread, as opposed to more expensive foods. The destruction by the army of several small Palestinian bakeries suspected of harbouring bomb makers had only added to the shortage.

He hesitated before opening the door of the smoke-filled room, where the entire senior staff was gathered around a table set with refreshments — shift supervisors, marketing executives, engineers, transport directors, and several secretaries to record the proceedings. Perhaps, he thought, he could slip inside without arousing attention. But the old man noticed him at once.

“Well, well, at last!” he exclaimed. “We need you. Your secretary has disappeared, and I’ve made a botch of calculating the cost of extra help.”

Although the resource manager signalled that he would prefer to sit in a corner, the owner insisted that he be seated next to him, and immediately asked him about the National Insurance meeting. Once informed of the government’s promise to locate the dead woman’s family and arrange for her funeral, he relaxed and returned to the subject of bread.

Conscious of the night shift supervisor’s anguished gaze, the resource manager took a pen and calculator from his pocket and was soon demonstrating his proficiency at estimating the overhead costs of adding new workers, costs that could be kept down by juggling the bakery’s shifts. What more do you want from me, he addressed the supervisor mentally. Didn’t I refuse to look at that dead woman’s face to avoid the slightest complicity with you? With two sharp pen strokes he crossed out the owner’s provisional and totally unrealistic figures.

After the meeting, he returned to his office to work out a more accurate projection. When he phoned his secretary to check on some data, he was told that she was not at home. In a deep, sleepy voice her older son, who seemed to have only the vaguest recollection of having a baby brother, said he didn’t know where she was.

The light grew dim outside his window as he worked. The dead cleaning woman was forgotten. So were her lingerie, stockings, flowery nightgown, and thin slip that the owner had set out to dry. So were the National Insurance people and the dozen claylike corpses in the morgue on Mount Scopus. All faded into oblivion as he wrestled with the problem of reorganizing the bakery’s three shifts.

Outside, without warning, it began to hail. For a moment he sat there, transfixed by the white pellets striking his desk. Then he slowly rose to shut the window and phoned his ex-wife to make another date with his daughter. She, however, claimed not to know where the child was or when she would return. “What do you want from her now?” she asked impatiently. “Your day with her was yesterday. If you had someone substitute for you, that’s your problem, not mine. She and I have plans to spend today and tomorrow together. You can wait for your turn again next week.”

“You’re being vindictive. We had a terrible accident here. I told you. An employee of ours was killed …”

She hung up.

He returned to his calculations, but his concentration had gone. His ex-wife’s success at packing more and more violence into her sentences was positively frightening. Taking out the phone numbers he had copied down, he dialled the young lady from the Immigration Ministry. Her cell phone identified him at once.

“You’ll have to be more patient,” she scolded by way of saying hello. “We’ve only just managed to trace the name of the woman’s former husband, her son’s father. We’re looking for someone at the embassy to track down his address and arrange to have him informed in person. We’ve had bad experiences with phone messages getting lost, so please bear with us.” She hoped that the authorities would know by the end of the day what to do with the body.

“Of course,” he apologized warmly. He dealt with human resources himself and knew these things took time. But that wasn’t why he was calling. There was something important he had forgotten to mention. The woman’s keys were in his possession. He had been given them by the morgue. If anyone at the Immigration Ministry or National Insurance had need of them, he wanted her to know that he had them.

But the Immigration Ministry did not need the woman’s keys. The one urgent matter was deciding where to bury her. Her clothing and personal effects could wait.

“You might try looking for the man who came with her to this country.”

“Her Jewish friend, you mean …”

“Precisely. You’ve done your homework. Friend or lover.”

“Lover?” She had a refreshing laugh. “What could we do with a lover? We need a next-of-kin who’s legally responsible. The only one we know of is her son.”

“Isn’t he a bit young?”

“Young people can participate in decisions, too, you know.”

“You’re right. How could I have forgotten him? Yes, that’s logical. We’ll have to locate him. Just keep me — I mean us — in the picture.”

“Don’t worry. We can use every bit of assistance. You’re in our computer.” Graciously, she ended the conversation.

Today’s world, the resource manager reflected, could be run perfectly well by secretaries, computers, and cell phones. He was about to return to his figures when he was summoned to the owner’s office.

The owner was out, having gone for a medical examination. At his computer sat his office manager, composing the company’s response to the weekly. The editor had agreed to display it in a sidebar if it was kept to eighty words.

Looking over her slim, hunched shoulder, the human resources manager read with a sinking heart and eyes blurred with anger.

I wish to thank the distinguished journalist for his shocking and instructive exposé of our company’s shameful oversight regarding the death of one of our temporary employees in the recent market bombing. A thorough investigation has revealed the failure to be due to administrative and human errors by our personnel manager. In his name and mine, and that of the entire staff, I wish to apologize and express my deep sorrow. I have given him instructions to cooperate closely with National Insurance in all arrangements and matters of compensation having to do with the dead woman and her family.

He pointed a finger at the screen and counted the words under his breath.

“Ninety-nine,” he said. “Since we’re limited to eighty, I’ll tell you exactly what to do. Delete that unfair, inaccurate, unnecessary sentence that makes me want to scream. Here, this one blaming me for what happened. You’ll be left with exactly the right number of words.”

He ran his finger across the lines on the screen, this time counting out loud.

The office manager turned to look at him. She had a gentleness that set her off from the brash young secretaries.

“But how can I? If there’s an apology with no explanation, we’ll be admitting our inability to locate the source of our error.”

“In that case,” he hissed, “do me a favour and skip the sidebar. You can publish a full response in next week’s edition — an accurate and detailed one. I’ll dictate to you verbatim the full story of an elderly night shift supervisor’s cowardly infatuation with a lonely foreign worker.”

“God, no!” She laid a restraining hand on his arm. Her pale, wrinkled face had the remains of an ancient, forgotten beauty. “We couldn’t possibly say anything so embarrassing.”

“But why accuse me?”

“In the first place, I’m not accusing you. He is.”

“Then why is he picking on me?”

He was doing it, said the office manager, because he wanted the resource manager to be his full partner. Hadn’t he promised to make the woman his business? Then let the blame be his business, too. After all, not only was it in his jurisdiction, he was still young — here today and gone tomorrow, if offered a better job elsewhere. Who would remember any of this when he was gone? It wouldn’t harm him to take some of the responsibility. The owner, on the other hand, wasn’t going anywhere — at least not until the Angel of Death delivered the coup de grâce, as he once put it. His world began and ended in this room, from which he could see the chimneys built by his ancestors. He mustn’t be left with the guilt, especially since he was already so tormented by it.

The resource manager listened attentively. Instead of arguing, he felt his outrage yielding. Although he had known the office manager to be an efficient organizer, he had never imagined her to be capable of an original thought. For a moment his mind dwelt on her tall, jaunty husband, whose eyes twinkled with humour. Was it he, with his rugby-ball head, who was behind all this? What, he asked her, changing the subject, were her husband’s impressions of his daughter?

“He told you. She has too many gaps in her education.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said impatiently. “I’m not talking about maths and trigonometry. I’m talking about her.”

The old office manager smiled awkwardly. How much time, she parried, had they spent with her?

But the resource manager was insistent. “I liked your husband,” he said. “He’s a real person.”

Her lined face lit up with pleasure. She looked down at the desk, choosing her words carefully.

“I think that he … like me … thinks your daughter is a lovely child and far from … unintelligent. It’s just that …”

“What?”

“She seems to give up too quickly, to surrender without a fight …”

“Give up on what?”

“Herself … the world … perhaps you too. It’s self-destructive. My husband says you have to fight for her harder, not to despair of her so easily.”

“Despair of her?” The human resources manager was startled. Yet before he could protest, they had slipped past his defences. “I see,” he sighed. “I understand … in fact, I agree. He’s right.”

Anxious to get away from this tactful, truthful woman, he dropped his objections to the response to the local weekly.

4

In the Old Renaissance, we heard the jingle of his cell phone. If we hadn’t alerted him to it, he would have missed an important call, because he left at once and didn’t return. That’s how it is with our customers’ cell phones. We bartenders are so used to the deafening music the proprietor blasts us with that we no longer hear it, so we do hear the cell phones. Usually this particular customer (he’s been a regular these past months) is so tied to his phone that he always puts it down right next to him, bright and shiny, between his beer and his peanuts while waiting for the women to show up. This time, though, he forgot to take it from his overcoat, which we’ve never seen him wear before. Did he actually think it was going to snow just because it was forecast?

Anyway, he’s sitting in his corner with two girls, the one who has a smile for everyone and the good-looking junkie the owner can’t get rid of, and an older man, that cultivated fairy who likes to talk to him, when his coat starts making these sounds. It was obvious he didn’t hearit and we yelled, “Hey!Don’t youknowyour own cell phone?” He jumped up as if bitten by a snake and answered in the nick of time. “Hang on a second, Miss,” we heard him shout, “there’s this awful music here.” He ran outside, then came back after a while and asked for his bill. We haven’t seen him since.

The call had come from the representative of the Ministry of Immigration; she had remembered to keep him in the picture. Despite the late hour, she thought he should know the latest developments. The ex-husband had been informed and was demanding that the woman be buried in her native soil. Although he had neither the time nor desire to arrange for the funeral of someone he no longer cared about, he wanted it done for his son’s sake. He personally didn’t care if they buried his former wife where she had died. Yet since he had had the good sense to get their son out of “that hellhole,” as he scathingly referred to Israel, he felt the boy deserved to have his mother’s grave nearby rather than in a distant and permanently dangerous place.

“That’s the latest,” the efficient immigration ministry representative told him. She had already passed the information on to the National Insurance hotline, along with a request to have the body transferred immediately to Central Pathology, which alone was equipped to prepare it for a long journey. Barring unexpected complications at either end, it should be on its way in forty-eight hours, on a late Friday-night charter flight.

“I see you people know how to get things done.” Shivering from the cold, the human resources manager praised her with professional objectivity. Then, pressing the phone to his ear, he retreated to a side street to hear better and to avoid the curious stares of the pub’s security guard.

“Yes, we do,” the immigration ministry representative replied with a contented sigh, the golden traces of the exotic voice of her childhood accentuated for him the dreams night brings. Alas, she continued, in the past three years her section of the ministry had amassed much experience — although, to tell the truth, it was rare for a body to remain unidentified for so long. It had taken ten days from the time of the bombing to find her next-of-kin. That was far too long. It smacked of chaos and was bad for the country’s image. Now they had to make up for lost time, which was why she must know immediately whether the resource manager and his superiors still wished to be involved, even though the government could finish the job without them. There was a budget for such things and a competent staff, and since nobody in the woman’s country had heard of the bakery or of any blunder on its part, there was no need for compensation or even an apology. If the resource manager and his company wanted to drop out now, no one would think any the worse of them. If they wished to be part of it, however, National Insurance and her ministry were both in favour of that. It was a lot to have to carry the burden of so much bereavement by themselves. She would appreciate an answer by tomorrow, plus a practical proposal if that answer was yes.

He promised to give her one. “By the way,” he added, “you must know that there’s a mother, too. She lives in a village somewhere …”

“Yes, we do know. We even looked her village up on the map. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Contacting her now will just cause further delays — and we have already had too many. We’ve asked the ex-husband to get in touch with the mother and he said he’d try. Communications are poor there in winter. For the moment, I’d advise leaving her out of it. We can try getting her to the funeral in time.”

“Right.”

With a plan for the company’s proposal now taking shape in his mind, the resource manager allowed himself a glance at the sky, which was bathing him and the street in a radiant light. A full moon had unexpectedly broken free of the winter clouds and seemed to be cruising the heavens as if driven by a brisk breeze. He thought of the cleaning woman and her thin folder that lay in the trunk of his car. At this very minute burly men would be entering the morgue on Mount Scopus, removing her from her refrigerated compartment, wrapping her and tying her to a stretcher, and carrying her in the moonlight to an ambulance, or perhaps a plain pickup truck, for transportation to the Central Pathology Institute near Tel Aviv, her first stop on her long voyage home. He thought of the twelve claylike corpses pledged to science, and of the lab technician’s request for an identification.

Which he had refused to give.

Thinking it improper.

Like the night shift supervisor’s infatuation.

So that now he would never see the woman at all.

He had an urge to drive to Mount Scopus in the hope of catching a glimpse of her after all. Even were he to get there in time, however, he had forfeited his right. And so, getting into his car, he dialled the owner in order to bring him up to date and let him know of the need for a decision. This time, however, the housekeeper was determined to protect the old man’s sleep.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked her.

“I know and I remember you, sir,” she answered in her polite Indian English. “But I’m not to disturb the master tonight.”

He must be sleeping off his medical examination, thought the resource manager. If he tires so easily, perhaps he’ll also tire of this business and let me be — although, he could just as well turn me into a scapegoat …

Sounds of shooting came from his mother’s apartment. He entered cautiously, sure she had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Yet she was wide awake and smiling, wrapped in a heavy quilt, enjoying an old Hollywood thriller.

“How come you’re home so early?” she asked.

“Early?” He glanced with a snort at his watch, went to his room, undressed, put on his flannel pyjamas, went to the kitchen to slice himself a big piece of cake, and returned with the plate to the living room. Perhaps he could still get involved in the movie.

“So how come you’re home?”

He told her of the decision to return the woman’s body to her homeland so that her son would have a grave to visit.

“That makes sense,” his mother said. “That’s why you’re home early?”

“No. I mean, yes. I’m afraid the old man may ask me to accompany the coffin. He’s trying to use me to clear his conscience.”

“What do you care? You’ll accompany the coffin and see a new part of the world.”

“In midwinter? In freezing weather?”

“What of it? This morning you were upset because the snow you thought you saw last night was gone. You’ll have all the snow and ice you want there.”

He looked at her, half annoyed and half amused.

“Tell me something. Are you trying to get rid of me? Am I a nuisance to you here?”

“A nuisance, no. But it’s painful to be reminded.”

“Reminded of what?”

“The broken home you’ve left behind.”

5

That night he dreamed he was tossing an atom bomb into his old apartment — a minibomb the size of a ball bearing that could be gripped with his fingers and looked like a toothed, stainless-steel cog. Despite its film of lubricating oil, it was pleasant to hold. With a swift movement he flung it up at the apartment. At first he felt alarmed by what he had done, even if he had no regrets. Yet when he saw that his wife and daughter were unharmed and alive somewhere else, he calmed down. Still, their eyes were red and inflamed, and their resentment made conversation difficult. They’ll get over it, he reassured himself, going to inspect the damage. He felt sorriest for the loss of the family albums. A doorman or guard standing in a corridor formed by the debris kept unauthorized persons from ascending to the wrecked upper floors. He was a heavyset, middle-aged man in a double-breasted suit and Mafia-style fedora, and he had set up a small table with a kettle, a plate, and some silverware. With a hand he barred the dreamer’s approach.

The human resources manager awoke, turned over on his other side, and dreamed another dream, which he forgot at once.

He was early for work. Going straight to the owner’s softly lit office, he said in a businesslike tone: “Here’s the latest. I wanted to tell you last night, but your housekeeper wouldn’t let me. As I expected, the woman’s husband — her ex, that is — wants her sent back so her son can attend the funeral. He won’t let the boy come to Jerusalem; he thinks this country is a hellhole. Her body was transferred to the Central Pathology Institute last night to be prepared for the journey. I don’t know how that’s done, but I can find out if you’re interested. Our consulate there will look after the body once it arrives. They are experts in such things. We simply have to decide where we stand in all this and whether we drop out or continue — and if we continue, how. Both National Insurance and the Ministry of Immigration want an answer this morning.”

The old man nodded. His mind seemed already made up. Yet the resource manager went on talking. Now he spoke with emotion.

“Wait. Don’t say anything yet. I read your response to the weekly. It was unfair and inaccurate and it made me furious. But then I thought: to hell with it, who cares? Let it stay as it is. I throw that weekly in the garbage without looking at it, so what difference does it make to me what’s there? If placing the blame on me — that is, on the human resources division — is any comfort to you, I’ll grit my teeth and bear it. I heard you had a major medical examination yesterday. Even though I hope — in fact, I’m sure — that the results will be negative, meaning positive from your point of view, I’ve decided to spare you the aggravation of another argument.”

The old man, having shut his eyes to concentrate on what his favourite young manager was saying, permitted himself a slight smile.

“First of all, thank you. I share your hope, though not your certainty, that the results will be positive — that is, negative, medically speaking. But believe me, even if I were lying on my deathbed, no conversation or argument with you could be aggravating. Behind the executive façade, I see in you a responsible young fellow who can be talked to man-to-man.”

The human resources manager shifted in his chair.

“And now,” the owner went on, “you’ll inform National Insurance and the Ministry of Immigration that our firm will send a representative to accompany our murdered worker to her funeral. In addition, we will make a contribution, or whatever you wish to call it, to her orphan, over and above what he has coming from the government. If the boy’s grandmother attends the funeral, she’ll get one too. We’ll even donate a modest sum — why not? — to the ex-husband, in compensation for his time spent in hell. Believe me, I have the money for it. Too much. I never thought I’d be as wealthy as I’ve become, especially since the start of all this terror, which makes the whole world want bread and cake. Why not be generous?”

“So as to atone for a cruel and pointless infatuation.”

“Cruel? Do you think so?” The old man seemed surprised. “Well, if it was, we’ll atone for that too. But who is going to do it? Who’ll represent us at the funeral? The answer is obvious. The ideal candidate is sitting across from me. After all, before you separated from your wife and daughter you were happy to be a travelling salesman. What’s one more round of travel for you, especially since this time you won’t be selling anything? You’ll only be giving — and handsomely.”

“Excuse me,” the human resources manager said sharply. “I didn’t separate from my daughter. That was an unkind thing to say.”

The owner, aware that his remark had been uncalled-for, looked mortified. Of course! He should never have made it. How could he have been so addlebrained? Rising to his full height, he walked over to the resource manager, seized both his hands, and bent to ask for forgiveness. As if anyone would willingly separate from his child! It was a foolish slip of the tongue, one more sign of advancing senility. Perhaps the resource manager should take a day or two off, not just to prepare for his trip, but to get away from a doddering old man like himself.

He opened his wallet, took out one of its many credit cards, and handed it to the resource manager with a code number. He could spend whatever he saw fit without itemization. Meanwhile he, the owner, would get in touch with National Insurance and with the editor of the weekly — why not? — to let them know about the resource manager’s mission. He would also ask his office manager to go through the dead woman’s possessions. Anything of material or sentimental value would be packed and shipped with the coffin. The rest would be stored, pending its final disposal, at the bakery. He would simply need the keys to her room.

The resource manager took a key ring from his pocket and removed two keys. “What about those employment figures?” he inquired.

“Never mind them. Your secretary will finish getting them together. As of now, you’re temporarily relieved of all your duties in the human resources division. Concentrate on your trip. You’re no longer a manager but an emissary. A very special one.”

And why not, thought the emissary. What’s wrong with a little vacation? These past two days he hadn’t had a free minute. And even a short trip, especially since he might extend it after the funeral, demanded preparation. His first stop on leaving the bakery was a nearby bookshop, where he bought a guidebook to the cleaning woman’s country, complete with a map. Next, he ordered a big breakfast at a café and spread the map out on the table. After finding the provincial capital and the grandmother’s village, he phoned the representative of the immigration ministry.

“I don’t know if I should be telling you this,” he said, “but since you kept me in the picture, I’m returning the favour. Our company is sending me with the coffin, both for symbolic and practical reasons, so that I can give the son — and the grandmother too, if she gets there in time — a contribution. You said there’s a late Friday night flight. I’ll be on it. I was just wondering who’s accompanying the coffin at your end. Will it be you or someone else? I wanted to coordinate …”

“Who’s accompanying the coffin?” The representative of the immigration ministry sounded nonplussed. “No one is accompanying it. It will fly by itself. Our consul has promised she’ll be at the airport.”

“The consul is a woman?”

“Yes. An excellent one, too. She was born there and has good connections with the authorities. Believe me, this isn’t the first coffin we’ve sent her.”

“Just a minute. I still don’t get it. Since when can you put a coffin on an aeroplane as though it were a suitcase? Suppose something happens to it?”

“What could happen? If the plane crashes, the body in the coffin is already dead.”

“That’s true. But still it seems strange that I’ll be its only escort.”

“You’re not an escort. You’re simply on the same flight. Even if you wanted to be one, it’s only after you land.”

“What about documentation?” His mind was not yet at rest. “There has to be official confirmation of some kind.”

“There will be. It’s usually given to the head steward or the pilot. But if it will make you feel better, we’ll be glad to let you have a copy.”

6

By now he was not only disappointed but also worried. What is this, he asked himself. I’m being saddled with a dead woman as if I were her best friend or close relative.

But when he left the café, his mood brightened. The Jerusalem skies had cleared and it was getting warmer. He went to the bank and withdrew a hefty sum in foreign currency, using the owner’s credit card. On his way back from the travel agency to his mother’s place, he couldn’t resist a detour that passed his former apartment building. It was still standing, untouched by his dream. At midday he phoned his ex-wife and said: “Listen to me before you hang up. I know it isn’t my day today, but tomorrow night I’m going abroad with the coffin of that cleaning woman. Our company wants me to represent it at the funeral and make a contribution to the orphan. In addition —”

“Get to the point,” his ex-wife said.

“I may be away for three days. That means I’ll miss next Tuesday again. I’d like to switch to today on a one-time basis.”

“We have plans for today.”

“Let me have just an hour, or even half an hour. I want to say a proper goodbye before I go. This isn’t a holiday or a pleasure trip. It’s a long, hard mission on the country’s behalf. Who knows that the next explosion in the street won’t get you or me?”

“Speak for yourself.”

“All right. It may get me.”

She yielded and gave him three-quarters of an hour to be with his daughter — provided, of course, that his daughter agreed and had the time for it.

A few hours later, he climbed the steps of the building into which he dreamed he had flung a nuclear weapon, rang the bell, then let himself in with his key. His daughter was sound asleep in her school uniform, her schoolbag tossed on the floor and one red rubber boot still on her foot. Loath to wake her despite his limited time, he looked at her slender figure, which since the divorce had seemed to refuse to mature, with both tenderness and concern. In the kitchen he found a clean plate beside a knife and fork, still waiting for the lunch she hadn’t eaten. He took some food from the fridge, put it on the stove to warm, and stood on a chair to reach a small storage space, searching for his old army boots, among other items, which he had put away there, after his discharge.

“What are you looking for, Abba?”

Her face bore the traces of sleep.

“A pair of good boots.”

“What for?”

He told her about his mission and the snow and ice that awaited him.

“Wow! I’d love to go with you.”

He climbed down from the chair and gave her a big hug. How he’d love to take her! But he couldn’t — and even if he could, her mother wouldn’t permit it.

He climbed back on the chair and found the boots, which were in good condition. Then he polished them while his daughter dutifully ate her lunch. Now and then he asked her a question about school or took a morsel from her plate. Although she hadn’t the vaguest notion of what the gaps in her education were, the solved maths problems and the office manager’s English composition had got her good marks.

“Why don’t you send me that cute old couple more often?” she asked with an unfamiliar impishness. “They can do my homework all the time.”

“They’re not so old. Couldn’t you see how on-the-ball they were?”

“Sure I could. Maybe that’s because they’re still in love.”

Surprised, he patted her curly head. “You know what? You’re pretty on-the-ball yourself.”

He could tell from the way her face lit up how seldom he had ever bothered to praise her. Snuggling close to him, she asked about the cleaning woman. He was frank — he described the article due to appear the next day and the supervisor’s strange falling in love. Eyes wide with fear, she smiled in spite of herself at his account of his night in the morgue and his refusal to look at the dead woman, even though her beauty was considered special by all who saw her picture.

“Wow!” she repeated excitedly. She wanted to hear more about his trip and to know how much money the woman’s son would get.

That, he answered, would have to be decided once he got there. He had no idea what the local currency was worth.

She let out a sigh. How she would have liked to go with him! Not just because of all the snow, but also to see the woman’s son. Was he good-looking like his mother? To think he had lived right here in Jerusalem …

They talked on and on. Groping his way, he sought to assure her that he would never give up on her and that she should never despair of him. The afternoon sun outside the window was sharpening its palette of colours as the day grew brighter. His daughter’s simple but honest questions and his candid replies had forged a new closeness between them. When his ex-wife came home early, he didn’t grumble or complain. Hanging his boots over one shoulder, he simply said, “All right, I’m off. You didn’t give me as long as you said you would, but that just made every minute worth more.”

He phoned his secretary from his car to ask what was new in the office and whether anyone had phoned for him. As usual, however, she had taken advantage of his absence to escape to her baby. The office manager wasn’t in, either. Dialling the switchboard operator, he was told she had no idea where they were. It was as if the entire staff had taken the day off along with him. In the end, he reached the office manager on her cell phone and let her know how seriously he had taken her advice and how his daughter had responded.

There was a new tone of respect in her voice. “I’m so glad you called,” she said. “Imagine where we are now. In her room!”

“Yulia Ragayev’s?”

“Yes. My husband is helping me sort her clothes and belongings. Where are you? If you’re in the neighbourhood and have a few minutes, come see what we’ve set aside for you to take and what goes into storage. We don’t want you to complain that we’ve saddled you with too much.”

This is turning into a collective mania, the resource manager thought with a grin, setting his car on a course for the market. The old man has flipped out and is taking everyone with him. Even the ever-brighter sun, dipping westwards as it tinted the Knesset building in the Valley of the Cross with a coppery wash, seemed to be celebrating his mission. By now he was familiar with the dead woman’s neighbourhood and drove confidently into its maze of teeming streets.

It was his third visit in the past forty-eight hours. The checked curtain had been taken down from the open window, which now flooded the shack with the glow of the winter afternoon and the smells of the neighbours’ cooking. The room had been turned upside-down. Bread cartons from the bakery lay on the floor, filled with the items chosen for storage. A handsome leather suitcase on the table held those reserved for the resource manager.

“I hope you haven’t given me her underwear and nightdress too,” he said with a crooked smile. “Let’s not go overboard.”

The office manager let him inspect the suitcase as though he worked for airport security. Thorough as always, she explained each item. Folded at the bottom was a long white dress, perhaps the woman’s wedding gown. Next came five embroidered blouses and a pair of expensive leather boots. The checked curtain had been deemed worthy of repatriation too, because of its high-quality fabric. It had been used to wrap the Cyrillic book and the wall sketch. On top of the pile lay a packet of papers, and next to them the dead woman’s reading glasses and a small copper bell that chimed pleasantly when rung.

“Tell me,” the resource manager inquired. “Have you by any chance found a good snapshot of her for our memorial corner?”

They hadn’t. There was only a small album with several old photographs, which he decided to take in his hand luggage. Mounted on heavy paper and looking like old postcards, these were snapshots of a young woman: in some, she stood on a porch, looking out at a distant field; in others, she sat in a room, holding a half-naked baby. She did not resemble the computer image etched in his memory.

“These photos look old,” he said. “Her ex-husband can tell us if they’re of her. She might be the baby and this could be her mother. The tilt of the eyes is more pronounced in the baby …”

He blushed, and added with a slight stammer, “After all, I … I don’t suppose it matters. It’s all absurd anyway. In two days’ time, we’ll bury her and be done with it.”

The husband’s look of compassion turned to one of concern, as if there might be gaps in the resource manager too. What measures, he asked practically, had been taken to ensure efficient communication when he was abroad? He advised taking a satellite phone. “If the old man has given you a blank cheque,” he said, “don’t scrimp. A satellite phone costs more to use, but you can count on getting through. Anyone travelling to a strange and unreliable country in midwinter, especially with a corpse in a coffin, ought to be in touch with more than just the netherworld.”

When we saw that God had made a miracle and brought back the man, who was now carrying a suitcase, we all shouted, “Abba, Abba, come quick! The man’s in the yard, go and see what he wants.” Father put a bookmark in his Talmud and ran to ask when he could visit Yulia at the hospital. But the man was annoyed and said, “What kind of a neighbour are you not to know that she was killed in the market bombing ten days ago?” He had told us she was only injured, he said, because he didn’t want to frighten us.

Every one of us six sisters (we’re all for one and one for all!) saw our father turn pale and start to tremble. He took the death of our lonely neighbour very hard, as if she had been his best friend. Oy vey, we thought — noneof ussaid it out loud — it’s worse thanwe imagined. If our father is so sad, he must have been in love with that foreign woman. And though now we pray to God to avenge her blood, the sooner the better, it’s a good thing for mother, who is always so sad, that our nice, beautiful neighbour is dead.

7

On Friday morning he awoke earlier than usual and full of foreboding. Although he’d been determined to throw out the weekly without looking at it, his anger and curiosity got the better of him.

Not a word in the article had been changed. It was the same nasty piece he had read originally. Beneath a blurry photograph of him, like a knife in his heart, was the caption: He oweshis jobto his divorce. Yougoddamn weasel,he whispered. You and your goddamn editor.

The owner’s response, in a black-bordered sidebar, was the same ninety-nine words he had seen over the office manager’s shoulder. Do not suppose, my dear and obedient lady, the resource manager thought, that all your English compositions and solved maths problems will keep me from making you pay for this …

He was about to throw the paper away when he noticed that there was indeed something new, a note from the editor expressing satisfaction with the owner of the company’s admission of guilt and promise to make amends. The editor wished to praise his very accomplished and courageous old friend by publicly disclosing that he had for years been supplying the weekly with newsprint at a favourable price. Although it was common to accuse the paper of sensationalism, what better proof could there be of the pure professionalism of its motives? What better defence of his own integrity than his willingness to criticize a company he depended on? The weekly would follow up on the bakery’s apology and generous pledge in its next issue.

This encomium for the old owner only heightened the resource manager’s resentment. The next issue? No, thank you. Count him out. He wasn’t giving any follow-ups. They could print their filth without him.

He crumpled the article, along with the rest of the newspaper, into a big ball and tossed it into the large wastepaper basket he had bought for the apartment on moving into it. “Don’t worry,” he told his startled mother. “It’s not your regular paper. It’s the weekly with that idiotic piece I showed you on Tuesday. I didn’t think you’d want to read it again.”

A seasoned traveller like him didn’t need to prepare extensively for this trip, so he had time to drop by the office. As the administration wing was mostly deserted on Fridays, he found no one there to tell about his mission. The old man’s office was empty, too, except for a young typist taking down voice mail messages.

Before returning to the parking lot, he decided to see what was new in the bakery. Perhaps the night shift supervisor had been moved to the day shift to chill his ardour. Without having to be told, he asked for and put on his white cap and smock. Yet except for one, all the ovens were cold and empty and the production lines mostly silent. But the cleaning staff were out in force. Friday was the day when, besides tidying up as usual, they also scrubbed the machinery, in preparation for the full resumption of work on Saturday night. If that old puppy hadn’t fallen in love, the resource manager thought, there would be one more cleaning person here now, an earnest, lonely woman in her prime, with stunning Tartar eyes. No one on the work floor now lived up to her image.

Before leaving he took two warm loaves of hallah from a crate, remembering the special taste of the bread the night shift supervisor had given him. He would charge those to the owner too.

He returned home, ate lunch, put on his track suit, turned out the lights in his room, and lay down for a nap, even though he would be forgoing his weekend bar-hopping tonight. He had a 4 a.m. flight to catch to a cold, foreign land, and though he had a gift for dozing on aeroplanes, a few extra hours’ sleep wouldn’t hurt.

Indeed, he slept soundly, without disturbing dreams. The presence of his mother, asleep in the next room, made his slumbers even calmer. Rising, he packed his old carry-on bag, a small suitcase that could be taken as hand luggage, like an extension of himself, though it also had a secret compartment for extra capacity. He considered packing his overcoat in the suitcase with the woman’s belongings; but decided against blurring the line between the living and the dead (besides, if he forgot his coat and left it in there, it would become part of her estate). Then he drank a cup of English tea with his mother, eating a slice of the bakery’s bread instead of his usual cake; and went off to a downtown café for his weekly meeting with two married friends of his. This meeting was their way of reliving their bachelor days before taking up the family obligations of the Sabbath.

The winter was back. An overcast sky sprayed thin rain. He returned to his mother’s and put on his army boots, thinking, I’ll consider this one more stint of reserve duty, then went to see the owner of the company. It was eight o’clock and the house was full of guests: grey-haired sons and daughters, fat grandchildren, and tall, stringy great-grandchildren. News of his mission must have preceded him, for he was received with warmth when introduced to a representative selection of the owner’s offspring. Then the two of them closeted themselves in a small library with a desk and couch, over which copies of the weekly were shamelessly scattered. The praise lavished by the editor on his newsprint supplier had banished all the accusations of inhumanity from the owner’s mind.

In response to his request, the resource manager was given a handsome leather case with a satellite phone — or did it work by starlight? — that came with a charger and a list of useful phone numbers, including that of Central Pathology, in case he was asked difficult questions. “Never fear and feel free to use it,” the old man commanded him, though every call would set him back five dollars per minute, not including the VAT. “Don’t economize for my sake. I’ll want to be part of every decision. My bank manager has informed me that you’ve already withdrawn a handsome sum. I like that. It’s the right approach. Always tell yourself: ‘The owner of the company is loaded. His family won’t starve when he dies.’”

He laid a cautious hand on the younger man’s overcoat, as if to see if it offered sufficient protection against the cold. Satisfied with its quality, he turned his attention to the question of a hat. Would his emissary like an old fur one. It looked cumbersome, but it might come in handy in a snow-storm.

The resource manager declined. “Then at least,” said the owner, “leave your car in my garage. I’ll have my chauffeur drive you to the airport and help you with the extra packages.”

“What extra packages? All her things are in the suitcase.”

“Hers, but not ours. We’re sending her family a symbolic gift: a carton of stationery, notebooks, and binders, and another of cakes, rolls, and our finest breadcrumbs and croutons. Let her friends and family, and especially her son, know where she worked and what she produced.”

“But she didn’t produce anything. She was a cleaning woman.”

“And isn’t our cleaning staff part of the production line?” the old man scolded. “You’re the last person I’d expect to hear that from.”

“Look, this is getting to be silly. I’m not lugging cakes and breads thousands of miles.”

“You won’t have to lug anything. You’re simply in charge of the shipment. The consul will be expecting you and will see to everything. I’ve spoken to her and she’ll happy to be of service.”

The resource manager threw up his hands. There could no longer be any doubt. Atonement was turning into lunacy.

“A well-intentioned lunacy, though,” the owner said. He smiled, steered the resource manager back to the noisy living room, and signalled to the chauffeur that it was time to set out for the airport. The chauffeur seemed so at ease with the owner’s family that the resource manager wondered if he might be a distant cousin or illegitimate grandson. The astonishing thought occurred to him that perhaps the old man was intending to adopt him too.

8

At the check-in counter he was handed, along with his boarding card, an envelope from the Ministry of Immigration. A note attached to it, addressed “To the Personnel Manager,” said, “As per your request to be kept in the picture.”

Touched, he went to sit in a far corner of the departure hall. I’m about to find out things about that woman that she never knew herself, he thought, opening the envelope and extracting with a momentary qualm a photocopy of the Central Pathology Institute’s medical report. Written in the Cyrillic alphabet, its crowded lines suggested that it was more than just a death certificate. Most likely, it contained a description of her embalming.

The white pop of a flashbulb interrupted him. A passenger standing with his back to him had just taken a picture of the departure gate.

The charter flight was operated by a foreign airline. It was half full and offered only one class of service. Seated in the front, he surveyed the passengers filing by him, hoping to spot one who looked capable of both reading the medical report and keeping it confidential. Judging by their bags and packages, most of those boarding the aeroplane were either guest workers going home on holiday or new immigrants revisiting their native land. Even if he found someone to read the report, what were the chances that person could explain it to him in comprehensible Hebrew? And so he changed his mind and sat back in his seat, just as the passenger with the camera — now slung around his neck — passed him with a companion, a vaguely familiar-looking man who flashed him a smile.

And what did it really matter? What in the report might he need to know? The only detail of consequence was how long the body could remain unburied, which was in any case a problem for the consul, not for him. After takeoff he folded the document, stuck it in his pocket, released his safety belt, ate some of the tasteless meal, and switched off his reading light. He was unable, however, to relax. Suppose the consul wasn’t at the airport to greet him — what would he do then? Although the medical report endowed him with a measure of authority, he wasn’t sure it would be wise to display it.

He thought about the dead passenger in the baggage hold, which might be directly beneath him. Once again he whispered her name, as he had done that night in her shack. Yulia Ragayev,he murmured sternly, though not without pity. Yulia Ragayev, what more must I do for you?

He rose and went to the toilet, glancing at the other passengers as he passed down the aisle. Most were asleep beneath their blankets. Even those with earphones seemed to be listening to the music in their dreams. As he groped his way in the darkness, a man rose from his seat and threw an arm around him, blocking his progress.

“You called me a weasel?” It was the photographer’s companion. “Well, then, here I am, the whole beast from head to tail. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. This is my photographer. In the end we’ve met in the skies — and in a completely new spirit. We’ve come to cover your mission of atonement for our paper. Don’t worry, this time we’re on your side. We definitely won’t bite.”

A sleeping passenger opened his eyes and groaned. The resource manager stared down and said nothing. He wasn’t surprised. In fact, he had suspected as much. Shaking off the journalist’s embrace, he said in a steely voice:

“The honest reporter, eh? We’ll see if you’re capable of it. I’m warning you, though — you and your photographer had better steer clear of me.”

Before the journalist could reply, he found himself pushed lightly backwards. Continuing to the toilet, the resource manager locked the door and stared hard at the mirror. Had it been possible to use the satellite phone, he would have called Jerusalem to protest at the two stowaways. And yet he couldn’t deny that their presence also pleased him. The old man must have offered to pay their way. Anything to assure that his restored humanity be on the record, if only in a Jerusalem weekly that few read and even fewer thought about.

The resource manager put his shaving kit on the sink, lathered his face, and ran a razor over it. A predawn shave to make himself look presentable to his troops had always been his habit in the army.

Uh-oh! Here comes another coffin. Quick, go and get an officer to decide what to do with it before it’s too late again! Should we send it back to the plane until there’s someone to receive it or should we do it the honour of taking it to the terminal? Could someone please tell us what’s happening over there in the Holy Land? Who are all these dead they keep sending us? Is it some kind of money-making business?

Now the passengers are disembarking. In shock from the cold, they run for the little bus. Did that coffin come with family or friends, or with some government official, so that we don’t have a repeat of the last time, when one arrived by itself and sat for two months with no one to claim it? In the end we had to bury it ourselves, next to the runway.

Still, even if none of us wants to admit it, it’s just as well that something happens now and then to break the boredom. A town like ours can get pretty depressing; our little airport never sees the fine ladies and gentlemen who fly around the world in the movies. We’re in the sticks out here. There are five flights a day and each takes off again right after landing. The passengers disappear quickly. At our airport there are no shops, no businesses. Eventhe little caféthat opens for each flight shuts down again at once. The only exercise the waitresses get is in the officers’ beds. And how long can anyone drag out the pointless inspections of the new arrivals and their luggage? A coffin, you have to admit, is more interesting and comes with some action. Provided, of course, that it’s disposable.

But here comes the officer, jumped out of bed with a new medal on his chest, bought last week in the market. He’s telling the policeman on duty to move over so that he can check the passports himself and sniff out any rat. It takes someone with experience to pick out at a glance the culprit who’s trying to slip away.

9

Well, what of it, thought the emissary when he was taken out of line and asked — most politely, to be sure — to report to the baggage terminal. The consul will soon come to relieve me of this responsibility that I should never have taken upon myself. And if she’s late, I have my satellite phone. Besides, I’m not alone. The journalist and his photographer don’t have a story without me.

He was not and never had been a coward, neither in the army nor in his travels as a salesman, and so it was with confidence that he descended to the baggage terminal in the basement of the airport — a converted military base — and strode down its narrow corridors. With an expression of amusement he followed an officer into a grim-looking cubicle that might have been a room for transit, interrogation, or even detention. Putting down his carry-on bag, he took the liberty of sinking into a chair, as if he had just covered the distance from the Holy Land on foot, meanwhile hastening to wave his three baggage stubs as a way of requesting the rest of his luggage. Only when the leather suitcase and two cartons arrived and he identified them with a nod did he consent to show the document in his possession. Whatever was in it, he assumed it would be enough to begin the negotiations that the consul would conclude.

Absorbed in reading, the officer absentmindedly fingered his new medal. A red ribbon, tied to his cap by his latest lover, dangled before his eyes. It was impossible to tell whether he found the document intriguing or simply too difficult to follow. Just then, though, the deep silence in the cubicle, which was definitely beginning to seem like a detention room, was broken by footsteps and the sound of something heavy being dragged. Cries of warning mingled with stifled laughter. The door burst open and the coffin entered slowly, gripped by four policemen under the direction of an old porter.

The resource manager shut his eyes and breathed deeply. Just keep calm, he told himself. Think of the funny story this will make one day. The bars have now closed in Jerusalem. If that woman I was hoping to meetcame lookingfor me,she’s found someone else by now. But that’s all right, too. I’m on a short, simple mission and I only need to wait patiently for the consul. She’ll come, no doubt about that. I’ve mentioned her twice to this officer, who has almost finished reading the letter. Even if her name meant nothing to him, her title speaks for itself. “Consul” is an international wordand an old one. There were consuls in Roman times.

The officer rose and folded the document. He briefly debated what to do with it, then returned it with a slight bow, said something in his own language, and signalled to the resource manager that he would return shortly, then departed, after unexpectedly locking the door behind him.

The human resources manager rose and took out his satellite phone, which he had shielded until now from possibly covetous eyes. Trying not to look at the coffin, which seemed to loom larger and larger, he dialled the consul. The line was crystal-clear and the call was answered by the consul’s husband, who, it turned out, also served as her aide-de-camp. His calm baritone inspired trust: it was the voice of an old, experienced hand. “Ah, it’s you! At last! We’ve been waiting for a sign of life from you. It’s a good thing those two journalists told us you were on the plane. Otherwise, we’d have thought that you’d missed the flight and the coffin had come without you. Don’t worry, though. We’re here in the airport. Everything is under control. My wife inquired why you had been separated from the other passengers. It’s actually quite simple. There’s nothing mysterious or personal there. A few months ago there was a problem with a coffin from Israel that no one came forward to claim. In the end, they had to bury it themselves. That’s why, when you made the mistake of saying you were this coffin’s chaperone, they were determined to keep you close by.”

“I didn’t say anything. They already knew — don’t ask me how. But it doesn’t matter. Just get us out of here.”

“Us?”

“Me and the coffin.”

“Of course. In a jiffy. We’re just waiting for a signed commitment from the family as to the time and place of the funeral. The coffin can’t be released without it.”

“But her husband … I mean her ex …” The flustered emissary had begun to stammer. “Isn’t he with you?”

“Of course. He’s right here. He’s prepared to go to the cemetery and do the honours right now. But he’s not the problem. It’s his son, who is refusing to cooperate. The boy insists that we wait for his grandmother. He doesn’t want his mother buried without her.”

“But where is she? Why didn’t you bring her too?”

“That’s the whole point. She lives far away and doesn’t know that her daughter is dead. She went on a pilgrimage to a monastery several days ago and can’t be informed until she gets back.”

“But that will take time. How do you know when, or even whether, she can get here? Who gave the boy the right to decide?”

“He’s the next-of-kin. He’s authorized to sign for the coffin and its burial.”

“How can he be authorized at his age?”

“He is. Apart from the grandmother, he’s the only blood relation.”

“But how old is he?”

“Thirteen or fourteen, though he looks older. He’s not a child any more. And unfortunately, he’s a complicated type. There’s a delinquent side to him. It’s hard to know what’s going on inside him that’s making him so stubborn. He may be trying to extort additional benefits from our government. In any case, we can’t do anything without him.”

“But what about me?”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere in the baggage terminal. In a room with the coffin.”

“With the coffin? Those dumb police have gone too far. I’m terribly sorry … why didn’t you tell me before? The consul will have you released at once, or at least transferred elsewhere.”

“It’s no big deal. Just try to do it quickly.”

“Of course. The bastards have taken you hostage to cover their asses. But don’t worry, we’ll get you out of there. If they need a hostage, I’ll take your place.”

“I’m not worried. I’m fine and in no hurry. Just don’t forget me.”

“Of course we won’t. This is an excellent phone connection. Your voice sounds as if it were inside my head.”

“That’s because I’m using a satellite phone that doesn’t depend on the mercies of the local system. It’s plugged right into the sky.”

“Well, then, you have no cause for concern. Just give me your number.”

The conversation having ended, the resource manager went over to the coffin. He had now devoted three whole days to this woman, labouring faithfully on her behalf after giving his impulsive word to make her anonymous death his business. So far he had kept it. Now, in a locked room, the two of them had finally met. Although it wasn’t the face-to-face encounter proposed to him in the morgue, it seemed intimate enough. It’s a pleasure to meet you, he smiled. I’m the manager of the bakery’s personnel department, better known as its human resources division — and you, Yulia Ragayev, having worked as a cleaning woman there, have all the rights of a terror victim as defined by National Insurance.

He placed a firm hand on the coffin to see what it was made of and to test the strength of its joints. A sleeping angel, the lab technician had called her. Was that just to goad him into identifying her, or had that expert on corpses truly detected in this one a rare, soul-stirring beauty? Now, it lay a few feet from its captive chaperone, itself a captive in the strangest of limbos, trapped between worlds, detained in a baggage terminal that was no longer in his country and not yet in hers. If he could open the coffin, he would gladly take a farewell look. Perhaps a close-up view would tell him if the Tartar eyes were real or imagined. The state of her body would not deter him. He was young and could take it. He had the pluck and imagination to reconstruct her beauty even if it was gone.

But suppose that the coffin, which had been pushed against the wall, was locked on its far side? And the room’s single window tall and set high in the wall, did not look as if it could be opened. What if there was a bad smell? He decided that it would be best to take his leave of her with words alone, in a musing, questioning eulogy. What did you want from us, Yulia? What did you hope to find in the hard, sad city that killed you? What kept you there when you could have gone home with your only son?

Had the lid of the coffin lifted and the woman inside it sat up to reply, he would not have been fazed. After all, he had everything she might need. Her good clothes were in the suitcase for her; there was also cake and bread if she was hungry, and even notebooks, pens, and pencils she could use to jot down her impressions of dying while they were still fresh …

The satellite phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was the consul’s husband again, still worried about him. “If you’re feeling anxious, relax. We haven’t forgotten you. If we can’t get the little pain-in-the-ass to sign, we’ll find someone to relieve you by the coffin.”

“I’m not anxious and don’t you be, either,” the resource manager replied. “I never thought this mission would be simple. Take all the time you need. I’m fine for now.”

He looked for the light switch. Unable to find it, he put the two cartons on top of the suitcase, propped his feet on them, covered his eyes with the black eye mask he had been issued on the aeroplane, and lay back to get some rest.

10

The eye mask did its job, which was fortunate, because it took the consul’s husband a while to get him released. The suspicious officer, fearful of being saddled with another coffin, was loath to exchange his foreign hostage for a local one.

The resource manager was dozing when he felt a friendly hand on his shoulder. It belonged to the consul’s husband, a sturdy man of about seventy with a head of grey curls, who had come to keep his promise. An ex-farmer with hearty looks and a bluff manner, he seemed to have come straight from the fields. Pulling off his boots and shaking the snow and mud from them, he removed several layers of clothing, spread them casually on the coffin, took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, whipped out the weekend edition of a Hebrew paper that had arrived on the flight from Tel Aviv, and declared his readiness to settle in for the duration. Only then did the officer, persuaded the substitution was genuine, permit the emissary to exchange the gloomy terminal for a foggy morning.

Climbing back up to the ground floor, he found himself locked in a second time, the small airport having been shut down between flights. A key had to be sent for before he could exit and join the group waiting for him beneath a small canopy. A flashbulb popped as he cautiously made his way between banks of black slush. He looked up to see the grinning photographer. He was not, he thought ruefully, going to have much privacy on this trip.

The tall consul, dressed in a black fur coat, a red woollen cap, and galoshes, made him think of a fairy godmother — or of an old peasant, like her husband, magically transported from some penurious henhouse or barn to a position of state. Underneath the canopy, which stood in an icy expanse devoid of a single building or tree — or anything at all except an old, one-winged military aeroplane — she embraced him warmly, apologized for the treatment he had received, declared that the authorities’ apprehensions were nevertheless not unfounded, and introduced him to the deceased’s husband, Mr Ragayev, a tall, gaunt engineer with dull eyes in a haggard face. His obsequious bow suggested that he had been informed by the consul or her husband, or perhaps even by the weasel, of the compensation sent by the bakery from the land of horrors he had left behind. And yet even though he had since remarried he seemed in no mood to forget the grief and insult meted out to him by the woman who had abandoned him and was now returning in a metal box. Since she was deaf to his complaints, he was forced to voice them to her chaperone.

“Tell him to be quick,” the resource manager whispered to the consul, who was translating. A brightening dawn flung glittering swords at a low, leaden sky. He was only now beginning to grasp what the arctic cold of this country was like. Moreover, the consul was finding it difficult to be concise, since she felt compelled to defend the country she represented against the ex-husband’s bitter reproach that that country had irresponsibly extended the visa of a woman to whom it would offer only poverty, solitude, and death. Once that peculiar friend of hers had fled back home in disappointment, the gaunt engineer complained, his ex-wife should never have been allowed to remain only to perish in a blood feud that was none of her concern. And the most absurd part of it (the consul was translating as fast as she could) was that he was now expected to take charge of the body of the woman who had two-timed him! He realized, of course, that the consul’s government was paying the costs. But this was the least it could do after causing the needless death of a foreign worker whom it had neglected to expel … and who would pay for all his time and mental anguish? He was a busy engineer and not in the best of health; truth be told, it wasn’t sorrow or compassion that he felt for his ex-wife, but anger and humiliation. Of course, he was a grown man and could cope. But what about his son? The boy was so devastated by the death of the mother who had sent him back to his native land that he had refused to bury her without the presence of his grandmother, thus forcing him, the father — as if he hadn’t got enough on his mind! — to twist the boy’s arm for the sake of a woman who had let him down …

His grievances listed, the gaunt man seemed content. The shadow of a smile flitted over his pale face as he lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew out perfect smoke rings. A moment later, however, the cigarette had flown from his mouth and lay glowing on the ice. Shutting his eyes, he turned red and doubled over in pain, racked by a fit of coughing that caused him to leave the cover of the canopy, tear open his jacket, vest, and shirt, and bare his gasping chest to the elements.

“Don’t let him fool you,” came a whisper as the paroxysm continued. It was the weasel — who, in all the excitement, had forgotten the resource manager’s warning to steer clear. “It’s just an act to make you up the ante.”

“But where is the boy?” the emissary wondered. He was the only person there without a hat and his bare, closely cropped head was pounding from the cold.

The journalist took him by the arm, turned him around, and steered him towards a parking lot on the far side of the canopy. He now saw that the small airport was near a city: a skyline of buildings, spires, and domes gleamed through the fog. Cheered by these signs of civilization, perhaps even of culture, he followed the journalist to a van where a driver was dozing at the wheel. In the back seat, he glimpsed through a grimy window a young passenger in overalls, sitting with his head tossed back not in sleep but in a rigid gesture of defiance.

At long last, thought the resource manager. Her own flesh and blood!

The journalist’s heavy, padded boots, part of an outfit he had purchased against the polar weather, crunched the ice. Approaching the van, he rapped lightly on its window to let the boy know someone wished to meet him.

But the boy seemed in no mood to meet anyone or even to leave the car — and when scolded for his indifference by the man at the wheel, he merely looked away and jammed down the earflaps of the old pilot’s cap he was wearing. At this, the driver stepped outside, opened the back door, yanked his young passenger from the car, and disdainfully knocked off his cap. In silent fury, his eyes filled with tears, the boy threw himself at his assailant and pulled his hair.

The emissary’s heart went out to the youngster. So this was the young man mentioned in the job interview he had conducted. In the midst of the fracas he made out a winsome Tartar tilt to those light-coloured eyes, the harmonious product of a rare racial mixture. My secretary is right, he scolded himself. I live inside myself like a snail, beauty and goodness passing me by like shadows.

“What was that?” the weasel asked, sensing his agitation. “Did you say something?”

“No, nothing.” He shrank from the probing antennae that, instead of keeping their distance, were latching onto him more and more.

His coughing fit concluded, the boy’s father hurried over to break up the fight. Yet the boy, too enraged to acknowledge defeat, now threw himself in despair at his father. The tall consul, confident of her powers, went over to lend a hand. The father did not need assistance, though. Dragging his son to the edge of the parking lot, he subdued him single-handed. The photographer, convinced, so it seemed, that nothing was real unless filmed, popped flashbulbs at them as they wrestled.

“They don’t get along,” the consul explained to the emissary. “When we came to tell the boy about his mother, he wasn’t home. Neither his father nor his stepmother knew where he was or when to expect him. Since returning from Jerusalem a few months ago, he’s been depressed. He hangs out in the streets, plays truant from school, and appears to have fallen in with criminal elements. His father didn’t want to break the news to him. Besides fearing a hysterical reaction, he didn’t think he would be believed. He wanted us to do it, and we had to wait until midnight for the boy to come home. At first, as the father predicted, he was in a state of denial. He had just received a letter from his mother; how could she be dead? He even took it from his pocket to show us. It had been written a day or two before the bombing and said she was postponing a planned visit from winter to spring because she had to look for a new job. We tried to reason with him. We showed him the postmark and swore to him she hadn’t suffered. But the more we talked, the more he clammed up; we could see that he wanted us to go away. It was only when my husband told him that the coffin was arriving in two days and that he would have to sign for it and authorize the funeral that he changed his tune. He started to cry and scream at us, to curse his own mother, and to threaten that he wouldn’t sign anything. We could bury her in the market where she died! We could burn her body and scatter the ashes in Israel! He wasn’t going to solve our problems for us. And if she did have to be buried here, his grandmother could sign the papers. She had sent his mother to Jerusalem — now let her answer for her blood.”

“She sent her to Jerusalem? How’s that?” asked the resource manager.

“Who knows? You can’t tell what he’s thinking. Not even his father can explain him to us. We’re stuck with him …”

“Wait a minute.” The resource manager’s eyes were still on the wrestling match, which was now coming to an end. “How old did you say he was?”

“Fourteen at most. But he’s mature for his age, mentally and physically. You’ll see for yourself. Being so isolated in Jerusalem gave him a tough skin. I’m told his mother worked the night shift.”

“That wasn’t our doing. She asked for it because it paid more.”

“Whatever. I understand. But he spent those nights roaming the streets and falling in with a bad crowd.”

“A good-looking boy like that attracts people,” remarked the journalist, who seemed to consider himself an equal partner in the conversation. “Just look at my photographer: he can’t stop shooting him. I tell you, he’ll be the lead picture in my article.”

“Wonderful!” The consul, unaware that the newspaper was only a local weekly, was impressed.

The resource manager turned and strode towards the boy, who was now gripped tightly by his father. In the icy, intensifying light, his pure, finely chiselled face and wet, wonderfully bright eyes were more pronounced. The arch in their upper corner, like a prolongation of the brows, made the emissary’s heart skip a beat.

“I still don’t get it,” he remarked to the consul, who had followed him. “Couldn’t you have found the grandmother and brought her here?”

“What are you talking about?” The consul was flabbergasted. “This is a big, backward country and communications are rudimentary. It was all we could do to get word to her via someone from a nearby village. She’s gone on a pilgrimage for her New Year and won’t return for several days.”

“Well, then,” the resource manager said briskly, “we’ll wait until she does and then fly her here.”

“How will you do that?” The consul’s astonishment was growing. “Do you have any idea where you are? There’s no airport anywhere near her.”

“How about a helicopter?”

“A helicopter?” The consul let out a groan. “I can see you’re in dreamland. What helicopter? Just think of the distance. Who’ll pay for it?”

“We’ll do our share,” the emissary said cautiously. He had an urge to meet the dead woman’s old mother. “A few months ago, I read about a helicopter being dispatched to an oil rig in the open sea, to bring the father of a soldier killed in action to his funeral.”

The consul was growing exasperated. “There’s no comparison! She wasn’t a soldier killed in action. She was a temporary resident of doubtful legal status. I’m warning you for the last time: Don’t expect the world you’re in now to resemble the one you’ve come from. Conditions are different here. They’re tough, and in winter they’re downright primitive. Things you think should be possible aren’t. Forget it!”

“What do you mean, forget it?” The resource manager was losing patience, too. “We’re talking about the legitimate request of a boy who’s lost his mother. Being a temporary resident didn’t keep her from dying in Jerusalem. Like it or not, we’re responsible. It’s our job to let her family attend her funeral. There’s no choice. Why should I apologize for sympathizing with the boy?”

“We all sympathize. But sympathy won’t bring the old woman here, especially in the middle of the winter. Don’t even think of it!”

“But why not?” He flushed at the consul’s bluntness. “You’ll excuse me, but I didn’t come all this way not to think of our government’s incompetence. On the contrary. I’m here to see to it that competence prevails. I’m a human resources manager and I know what a mother’s death means to a boy, even if he pretends not to care. Why shouldn’t we bring his grandmother to mourn with him? If not by air, then by land …”

“You can forget about that, too. The trip from her village takes several days and you can’t count on transportation. She could never manage it by herself even if she wanted to. I don’t understand why you’re so obstinate about not burying a coffin you brought yourself.”

The emissary rebuked her sharply. “First of all, I did not bring it. It was sent by your government and mine. I accompanied it as a gesture of goodwill. And second, the funeral can be postponed. That’s not a problem. I have a document from the Central Pathology Institute. Even if I can’t read it, I’m quite sure it’s satisfactory.”

“I swear, I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“What am I getting at?” It was a question he was asking himself as well. Yet the cold that was shrivelling him couldn’t chill his inner zeal. “It isn’t so complicated. Even if it’s only a matter of making up for a clerical error, one depicted by this journalist as a nasty case of inhumanity for which I’m here to compensate this young man” — he pointed to the boy, who could tell that he was being talked about — “that’s no reason to ignore his psychological distress. It’s based on the genuine, and to my mind legitimate, desire that his grandmother be with him at the funeral. Why shouldn’t we agree?”

“Why not, indeed? But unfortunately, this grandmother exists only in theory. Not only hasn’t she heard the news yet, she’s too far away to do anything about it when she does.”

The resource manager felt all eyes on him — the handsome boy’s and distrustful ex-husband’s too. The driver had joined them as well. Even though the three of them couldn’t follow the Hebrew conversation, they sensed that the emissary from a distant land was struggling with a new idea. Breath steaming from their silent mouths, the photographer and the journalist looked at the manager benevolently, curious to see how far he could push their story against the consul’s practical objections.

“First of all,” he said, addressing the consul with an imperious dryness, “suppose you tell me what we’re talking about. How far is it to the village?”

“Do you think I know? My husband can tell you exactly. I’d say there are at least five hundred kilometres of difficult terrain between us and this boy’s grandmother.”

“Five hundred kilometres? That’s not so bad …”

“Possibly more. Don’t hold me to it. It could be six.”

“Six hundred is doable, too. How long will it take? Two days at the most.”

“You’ll never do it in two days. Get that out of your head. You’re in the wrong world again. The roads here are terrible.”

“Let’s say three. Even four. I’m taking this boy to his grandmother.”

“And what will we do with it while you’re taking him?”

“Do with what?”

“The coffin.”

“We’ll take it with us. There’s no choice. We’ll bring the woman back to the village she was born in. The boy and his grandmother will bury her there. Isn’t that the right, the natural thing to do?”

“It’s a noble idea!” exclaimed the weasel, who had been following the argument with interest. “It’s absolutely the right thing to do.”

“Will you come with us?”

“Of course.” The weasel smiled. “While steering clear of you, of course.”

“Yes. Do that.”

The consul, however, looked askance at this unexpected proposal. The visitors from Israel did not know what kind of country they were in.

“Why look for trouble? Let’s bury her here. We can bring the grandmother to the grave next summer. Our consulate has no budget for your trip.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll pay for it. It’s cheaper than a helicopter.”

“Especially a nonexistent one.”

Relieved at having at least shot down the helicopter, the consul turned to the ex-husband, who was anxiously awaiting an explanation. The boy and the driver listened, too. As the father frowned and shook his head in disapproval, his son slipped free of him and skipped lightly to the emissary, his face bright with excitement. Full of emotion, he leaned towards the hand of the head of personnel which he brushed lightly with his Tartar eyes before planting a grateful kiss on it. Then he straightened up: he was almost as tall as his startled benefactor. Behind him, the greenish fog through which the nearby city gleamed, was lifting. With this new warmth in his veins, the emissary felt the cold’s iron grip weaken. Uncertain how to respond to the wordless gratitude of a youngster labelled a juvenile delinquent, he touched the pilot’s cap and smiled in bewilderment, as the photographer popped another flash-bulb.

11

The consul was still upset. Apart from wanting her breakfast, she had counted on getting rid of the corpse that same morning. There was a small church near the cemetery in which she had planned to hold a ceremony before noon, followed by a lunch for the mourners at the government’s expense; beyond that her responsibility did not extend. Now the human resources manager had made her call everything off. She urgently needed to consult her husband. If only he had been there, he might have nipped it all in the bud.

Going to the locked door of the terminal, she shook it more vigorously than would have been permitted to someone without diplomatic immunity. It was opened by a policeman, to whom she explained that a next-of-kin had been found, a young man who was prepared to claim the coffin and vouch for its burial in his mother’s village. The policeman went to wake the officer — who, only too pleased to return the woman to her native soil, hurriedly put on his uniform and produced the requisite forms. Since the young man was none too adept at reading or writing, the consul helped him fill these out. Then the papers were presented to the ex-husband for his approval.

Meanwhile, the imminent arrival of another flight and its subsequent takeoff had brought the little airport back to life. Departing travellers and welcome parties mingled noisily and the small buffet opened its doors, filling the air with cigarette smoke and the smell of coffee and pastries. With a reassuring whirr of propellers, a converted military transport touched down smoothly on the tarmac, and the policemen dusted off their uniforms and donned their caps. Soon the disembarking passengers were pushing baggage trollies through the terminal, among them — lo and behold! — the consul’s husband. Smiling and spruce-looking, his steely curls piled high on his head, the freed hostage wheeled out a trolley with the leather suitcase and the two gift boxes from the bakery.

“Where’s the coffin?” the worried consul asked.

“The coffin,” her husband sighed, “we will have to carry out. Now that they know we’re taking it, they want nothing more to do with it. I suppose it must unnerve them … not that I’m any judge. I’ve never felt more peaceful than I did beside it.”

“Let’s first fortify ourselves with something to eat and drink,” the consul said.

Her shrewd husband, however, advised otherwise. “That can wait until we get home. The coffin has to be moved before the airport shuts down again. We don’t want a new officer go through the whole thing again.”

He explained the task to the engineer and his son and asked the resource manager, “What do you think? There are four of us, not counting my wife. Can we manage by ourselves without the driver?”

“Why send for the driver,” the emissary replied, “when the two men who got me into this predicament are standing here doing nothing?”

The journalist and the photographer good-naturedly agreed to lend a hand. Then the five adults and the boy descended to the cubicle in the basement. Resourcefully finding a way to fit the coffin through the narrow door, they started up the stairs bearing it on their shoulders, dutifully following the instructions of the consul’s husband. The coffin was heavy. Having spent time with it in private, the resource manager was not alarmed by the coffin’s metal edge that cut into his shoulder, although he could sense the boy’s nervousness as he came into contact with it for the first time. The youngster would have lost his grip and stumbled, bringing them all down with him, had not his father pushed him out of the way.

The five of them climbed on, the consul’s husband and the dead woman’s ex-husband holding up the coffin’s front end, the journalist and the photographer carrying the rear. In the middle, by himself, was the emissary, the human resources manager of the company that had forgotten the woman’s existence. Anyone less expert than the old farmer, who directed them in two languages at once, might not have brought them safely up the stairs. They proceeded carefully, taking each step and turn with care. A sour smell accompanied them. The resource manager was not sure whether it came from the coffin or from the unwashed body of the boy, who had chosen to stick close to him and once or twice to reach out a helping hand.

“If I’m not steering clear enough of you,” the weasel panted behind him, “don’t complain. This was your idea …”

The human resources manager snorted. Unable to turn around, he could think of no rejoinder. He had to keep his eyes on the stairs, at the top of which, as they neared the exit, the light was growing brighter.

We were waving goodbye to the departing passengers when a metal coffin passed by on the shoulders of five pallbearers. We watched them carefully place it in a van and asked with a catch in our throats: Who died? Where? Where is the body being taken?

When we were told it was a local woman murdered in Jerusalem, we crossed ourselves and prayed for her eternal rest and resurrection. One of the pallbearers, a photographer, hastened to record our prayer with his camera.

12

The old van’s wheels spun in the snow, then broke free. The consul and her husband sat by the driver. The coffin was in the back. On one side of it were the boy and his father — who, though relieved of all responsibility for its burial, still hoped for compensation. On the other side, more intimately than he would have liked, the resource manager sat squeezed between the weasel and the photographer. Those two still hadn’t got over their good fortune in the dramatic new turn their story had taken.

The ride into town wasn’t long. Even so, when the consul complained of having to miss breakfast because of her husband’s impatience, the resource manager didn’t hesitate. Opening a carton, he took out the bread and cake.

The baked goods took everyone by surprise, as much by their freshness as by their unexpected appearance. The hungry consul was not alone in asking for seconds. The boy wanted more, too, perhaps feeling that it brought him closer to his mother. To the distress of the resource manager, who wished to leave something for the grandmother, their appetites, sharpened by the cold, clear morning, quickly polished off the carton. At least, he thought, the old man will be delighted to know what a hit his products were. Reaching for his phone, he dialled Jerusalem despite the early hour, certain the owner would be happy to hear from him. The housekeeper, recognizing his voice and aware of his mission, reported that the master had gone to synagogue for Sabbath services and would be back soon.

“Services?” The human resources manager was astonished. “I’ve worked for him for over ten years and never seen an ounce of religion in him.”

“What you see from up close you don’t see from afar,” the housekeeper answered sententiously, and offered to take a message. But the resource manager did not wish to reveal his new plan — certainly not in English — to an Indian housekeeper. He asked her to inform the owner that his products had been appreciated and promised to call again later.

The journalist, having helped to carry the coffin, had become a character in his own story and now felt entitled to ask for the use of the phone, a handy instrument if ever he had seen one. Not wishing to appear stingy, the resource manager gritted his teeth and let the weasel chatter with friends and family while the white stone buildings of the city drew nearer. How, he wondered, would his mission, of whose moral sublimity he felt more and more convinced, look in the pages of the weekly?

The weasel was still bantering over the phone as they entered the city, a provincial capital. Their first stop was the large building that housed the consulate — that is, the consul and her husband’s apartment. After backing carefully into the courtyard, they unloaded the coffin, placed it in a shady corner among the garbage cans and piles of firewood, and covered it with a tarpaulin.

The time had come for their little group to split up. The emissary would ascend with the consul to her apartment. The consul’s husband and the driver would go to make arrangements for the expedition to the dead woman’s village — the former planned to take the letter from Central Pathology to a doctor who could tell him how long a trip the corpse might withstand; the latter had to look for snow tyres. The journalist and the photographer were to be dropped off at a small hotel and the boy left at his father’s to prepare for the journey to his grandmother’s. They would soon be reunited, all except for the ex-husband — who, his role ended, must now part from them all. This was more easily said than done, however: he clutched his son as if hoping to trade him for a bounty paid out by a world that had done nothing but betray him. Sensing his despondency, the human resources manager offered him the second carton as a farewell gift. “What’s in it?” asked the man in surprise, reaching into his pocket for a jackknife and slitting the cardboard top. He quickly went through the pads, notebooks, and binders and feverishly ransacked the carton’s bottom; then, eyes burning with humiliation, he spat and swore roundly. The consul and her husband hastened to calm him.

“What did he say? What does he want?”

The man, so it seemed, was enraged more by the affront to his ex-wife’s dignity than by any to his own. She had been an engineer, like him, with a diploma — how could the resource manager have made her stoop to the level of a cleaning woman?

“I made her?”

“In your capacity as personnel manager,” the consul said.

“And what did you tell him?”

“That he should be grateful she was given a job at all and not thrown into the street when her boyfriend left her.”

The resource manager shook his head. “That’s not what you should have said,” he declared, with a compassionate glance at the ex-husband, who was still holding on to his son. Seen in the shadows of the courtyard, the boy’s exquisitely formed features made the emissary feel slightly drunk. If I’m not careful, he thought, his father won’t let him come with us. The man needs encouragement. Taking out his wallet, he extracted several large bills and held them out. As the ex-husband reached for them, the photographer’s camera flashed. The consul and her husband exchanged worried glances. The driver, standing to one side, turned pale. The ex-husband was speechless. Although he had hoped for more than notebooks and writing implements, he hadn’t dreamed of anything like this.

“That’s way too much,” the consul whispered to the resource manager. “You’ll spoil them.”

“Never mind …” The emissary smiled and stuffed the bills into the engineer’s jacket pocket, as much to forestall any objection to his son’s joining their expedition as to draw a final line between him and the dead woman. The man seemed well aware of his role in the bargain. Without even a thank-you, he took the crumpled bills, straightened them one by one, counted them silently in front of everyone, and slipped them sombrely into his wallet before murmuring a few choked words.

“What did he say?”

“That the money is his by right. Just imagine!”

“Perhaps it is,” the resource manager said generously. He laid a hand on the engineer’s shoulder and patted the boy’s head. “You’ll use up all of your film,” he warned the photographer.

“Don’t worry. I brought lots more.”

“He has to shoot a thousand frames,” the journalist said, “to find one he likes. And that’s always the one the editor rejects.”

The consul’s apartment, though old and small, was pleasantly domestic. Taking off her fur coat and wool cap, she went to the bedroom and returned in a colourful house robe that lent a touch of exuberance to her tall, peasantlike figure. After all the bread and cake she was still hungry, and she now went to the kitchen to prepare a late but proper breakfast for herself and her guest. Brandishing a knife as she appeared and disappeared in the kitchen doorway, she told the resource manager about the consulate as he sat sprawled on a creaky, none too steady couch. Basically, her position was honorary. When their farm in Israel failed, during the last recession, she and her husband had decided to get back on their feet by returning to their native land. To avoid the appearance of outright emigration at a time of daily terror attacks, they had proposed establishing, in exchange for the rent, an Israeli consulate that would provide services and advise the occasional tourist who came here from Israel or the even rarer local resident who wished to visit it. Now and then they also had to deal with dead bodies, which travelled in both directions.

“Dead bodies from here, sent to Israel?” The resource manager was amazed. “You mean that happens, too?”

“Of course. An Israeli mountain climber can get killed in a fall, or a hiker may freeze to death in a river. Or else someone is careless enough to be murdered in shady circumstances. This is a big, varied country. It may be poor and primitive, but it’s also fabulously beautiful, especially in summer and autumn. It’s a shame you had to come at this time of year …”

The manager snorted. So did the couch beneath him. No one had asked at what time of year he would like to visit. His own desires had been irrelevant …

“I wouldn’t say that,” the consul retorted, breaking egg after egg into a large frying pan as if she still had a henhouse next door. “It was you who convinced that boy — if you ask me, by the way, he’s not half so innocent as you think — to bury his mother in her village. If you hadn’t offered to pay the costs and go yourself, the only grandmother he would have seen this winter would have been the one in his dreams. Not that I have anything against it if you have the time and money and want to be generous. You might even cross a few frozen rivers yourself … Well, go and wash, then we’ll eat. I’d planned to go out for a good meal after the funeral, as is the custom here, but what’s done is done. You’ve made a mess of things.”

The consul’s hearty appetite infected the emissary, too. She plied him with a local aquavit, and his head spun as though he were on a ship’s ladder in a stormy sea. When his conversation began to flag, the consul offered him her bed to nap in; she wouldn’t hear of it when he suggested that he sleep on the creaky couch. Yes, she was tired, too, having hardly slept all night. But the emissary, who had had a long flight, came first. It was her consular duty to see that he got some rest. Once he’d closed the shutters, turned out the lights, and crawled under the blankets, Israel and its problems would seem far away. “Off with you to the bedroom, then! There’s no time to lose. They’ve forecast a bad storm. You’ll have to get an early start to stay ahead of it.”

Although the resource manager had a horror of other people’s double beds, he was grateful for the chance to get away from the consul’s chatter and make a few telephone calls. He just didn’t want her changing any sheets or pillowcases for him. A blanket and a small pillow were all he needed. He would kick off his shoes and sleep in his clothes.

“If that’s all it takes to put you to sleep, be my guest,” the consul said, yielding with maternal resignation. “Just take your suitcase and bag, so that I don’t end up tripping over them.”

She handed him a pillow and spread the blanket while he asked whether she was coming with them.

“Absolutely not! My consular duties ended at the airport. I confirmed that the family has taken possession of the coffin and plans to bury it. Any decision to humour that boy is your affair, not the consulate’s. I’ve done my bit. I’m just curious to know why you’ve got so involved. Is it guilt towards the mother — or something about the boy himself?”

“Then perhaps your husband might join us.” The resource manager dodged the consul’s question, feeling suddenly worried. “How will we manage with no knowledge of the language? We won’t even be able to communicate with our driver …”

“My husband is no longer a young man. He doesn’t owe the government anything.”

“The government has nothing to do with this. I’ll pay him for his time and effort.”

“You will?”

“Of course. Generously …”

“Then that’s another story.”

The consul’s spirits appeared to soar. Going briskly to the window, she drew the curtain, switched on a reading lamp above the bed, and shut the door behind her, urging the emissary to sleep well.

There was silence at last. But his satellite phone needed recharging. The journalist had drained the battery with his chatter. Moreover, the only electrical outlet in the room was antique and did not fit the plug, so he abandoned the idea of calling the old owner, who might finish off the battery completely with his objections to their planned trip, and dialled his mother instead. His conversations with her were always to the point. To his delight, his daughter was there too, having decided to spend the night at her grandmother’s in her father’s empty bed. Rather than ask her about herself, as he usually did, he told her of his experiences, describing the snow and ice and the long trip ahead of them with the orphaned boy — a nice-looking teenager, as he had expected, but highly-strung and full of anger at his mother’s death. His daughter hung on every word and wanted to know more.

The unexpected conversation cheered him. But his phone was beeping a warning, so he switched it off, disconnecting himself from the world, then turned off the reading lamp, pulled up the blanket, and tried to fall asleep. On a shelf in the darkness, the glass figurines of cows, horses, chickens, and sheep, mementos of a lost farm, shone with a reddish gleam. He thought worriedly of the coffin standing by itself in the courtyard. What a turn of events, he mused ruefully. A foreign woman tenyears older thanmyself, whomI can’t evenremember, has become my sole responsibility. National Insurance has closed her file, her ex-husband has turned his back on her, her lover disappeared long ago, and even the consul no longer wishes to represent her. That leaves me in a cold, primitive land in the company of two journalists who think I’m a story, led by a teenage boy I’m not sure I can handle. How could I have known last Tuesday, when I promised to take this woman on my back, that she would weigh as much as she does?

He threw off the blanket, walked to the window without switching on the light, and carefully opened the shutters in the hope of sighting the courtyard below. It took a while to spot the coffin, still beneath its tarpaulin. A crowd of curious children had gathered around it. Apparently aware, so it seemed, of what was in it, an elderly tenant was standing guard to ward them off. The resource manager felt grief for the woman, dumped like a nobody in the ugly courtyard of a strange building. Had he done the right thing by prolonging her last journey? Might it not have been wiser to have kept silent at the airport and let father and son work things out for themselves? Perhaps the boy would have given in; by now the woman would have been buried and it would all be over, the Jerusalem weekly would have its story and the old owner’s humanity would be restored.

If only those Tartar eyes hadn’t brushed his hand as the young lips touched it! He now had a clear notion of what the cleaning woman must have looked like. For the first time since his involvement in the affair, he felt obliged not only to see it through all the way to the end but also to feel it all the way, too.

He closed the shutters, returned to the consular bed, buried his face in the velvet pillow with a slight feeling of nausea, and covered himself again. It was late in the day when the loud, merry voice of the consul’s returning husband woke him.

He slipped into his shoes, folded the blanket, straightened the bedcover, and entered the living room. The consul and her husband were sitting down to another meal.

“You’re all set.” The old farmer’s blue eyes twinkled. “We’ve found you a good four-by-four vehicle with snow tyres for the roughest roads. The doctor and I had a look at the document you brought. It could use some literary editing, but its contents are encouraging.”

“Meaning?”

“That she’s been properly embalmed and is in no rush to be buried. You can travel to the ends of the earth with her. That’s no cause for concern.”

“Then what is?”

“The storm that’s on its way.”

“Your wife …” The resource manager felt a nervous flutter. “She must have told you how much I’d like you to come with us. You can be in charge. That way I’d have a private consul of my own …”

“He’s already my private consul,” said the consul affectionately, stroking her husband’s silver curls.

“In a manner of speaking,” the husband chuckled, planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek.

“Naturally, you’d be compensated for your time and effort.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the old farmer said. “I’d do it for nothing, out of sheer sympathy and curiosity. But if you want to pay me, why not?”

“I’ll pay handsomely.” The emissary was moved. “I’ve had faith in you from the moment I met you.”

The consul smiled and put another dumpling on her husband’s plate. “If you have faith in me too,” she said, “you’ll pull up a chair and eat some solid food. Do you hear that wind? It’s getting stronger and whispering, ‘It’s time to get going.’”