The Extra

Eighteen

NOT UNTIL THE EVENING did she manage to collect herself and call her brother to tell him about the loss of her concerto. “But please,” she warned, “don’t start cursing the Japanese pianist, she’s not the guilty one. I’ll deal with the actual guilty party, and you, Honi, just help me with a small compensation — say, Georges Bizet in place of Mozart.”

“Georges Bizet?”

She tells him about the production of Carmen to be staged at the foot of Masada, for which, she has been told, female extras are needed, women not necessarily young who know how to listen and respond to music. This job comes without pay but provides a hotel room by the Dead Sea, and of course the enjoyment, three times over, of the opera itself — the singing, dancing and marvelous music. Yes, the Jerusalem apartment will have to remain empty for three days, but if Ima is worried, she can take her place. Three days in Jerusalem will do her good.

“No,” Honi says firmly, “she absolutely must not go back to Jerusalem, not even for three days. The experiment must maintain its integrity. Every day in the assisted living facility is important. Returning to Jerusalem might set her back. Don’t worry about the apartment, but rather about yourself, and I will arrange the job at the opera, and you’ll enjoy the job as well as the hotel and the desert. And we, Sarai and I, will buy tickets and come and see you. And even if Shaya’s little haredim sneak into the empty apartment, it’s not the end of the world, you know. Sure, let them watch as much TV as they want, forbidden shows, let them see sex and violence, maybe that way they can break free of their father’s Hasidism.”

“Listen to yourself,” Noga scolds him, half seriously.

The next day, in the early evening, Abadi arrives with a large tool chest. First he takes care of the front door. He removes it from its hinges, planes and straightens it, so the new bolt can do its job properly. And lo, the job she had thought would be simple is not so simple. She stands beside him throughout, to hand him tools and to be amazed by his manual dexterity. “I thought you were just an engineer, but I see you’re also a carpenter,” she says fondly.

Once the big bolt is in place, she offers him something to eat, though not at the level of the meals his wife had brought during the shiva — just a simple sandwich she had prepared beforehand.

Abadi wonders whether she had really eaten any of the food his wife had brought, for he doesn’t recall seeing her when the gravestone was unveiled at the end of the thirty days. Or perhaps his memory fails him.

No, his memory is fine. It’s true, she didn’t stay for the full mourning period; after a few days she had to return to Europe. The sudden death came while her orchestra was touring, and because the program included two works with important parts for the harp, and no substitute could be found, she was forced to leave her mother and brother during the thirty days.

But something is bothering Abadi.

“Excuse me, in which works of music is the harp so vital? I usually don’t hear its sound.”

“You apparently don’t really know how to listen,” she chides the engineer. “But if you were to remove the sounds of the harp from a symphony by Mahler or Tchaikovsky, it would totally flatten the tone and resonance.”

He absorbs the correction graciously and seeks to express interest:

“How many strings did you say in a harp?”

“Forty-seven, and they create a hundred and forty-one tones.”

“So many? How is that possible?”

“Because a harp also has seven pedals.”

“So that’s the thing… the secret…”

He keeps chewing politely and gathers sandwich crumbs with the tips of his fingers. He is her age, and has already inherited her father’s post. He’s a nice-looking man with smooth black hair, in contrast with the baldness or shaven heads of many of his peers, and his chin sports a tiny bohemian beard, not typical of a municipal engineer. He looks at his watch and wants to continue the job, but Noga stops him:

“Just a minute. Tell me, did my father ever mention me?”

“When?”

“Whenever, the way people talk about their families.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t detect a certain tone of criticism or disappointment?”

“Disappointment? Why?” The word disturbs him. “Disappointment over what?”

“That I didn’t want children.”

He seems taken aback. He stands up and carefully drops the remains of the sandwich in the trash and says, “Now we’ll attach the hook to the little window.”

But the small window in the bathroom refuses to comply. The frame is swollen and rotted from years of steam and moisture, and refuses the grip of any screw. Moreover, the light in the room is too dim. Abadi goes to the parents’ bedroom, takes the reading lamp from beside the electric bed, connects it to an extension cord and hands it to Noga, so she can assist him in the battle against the rebellious window. He ingeniously nails two pieces of wood to the window and screws in the hook, which he admits will function more symbolically than practically to protect her from the little invaders from the upper floor.

“This will do until you go back to Europe, but the new tenant will have to replace the whole thing.”

“There will be no new tenant,” Noga says quietly, lighting Abadi’s face with the lamp. “Ima will return, and nothing will come of the experiment.”

And she turns off the light.