The Extra

Twenty-Five

SHE WANTED TO TELL her mother the story of the boy, but then thought better of it. Her mother would not interpret the episode the way she understood it, and she did not want the joy she felt crushed by her mother’s irony. And so, after a long afternoon nap, her strange elation still intact, she goes out. She decides to walk to the city center and take in a foreign film, then remembers that the movie theaters abandoned the downtown area years ago and relocated in malls, so instead she heads for the shuk, which she had spurned and ignored for years but has lately begun to fancy.

Evening slowly falls in Mahane Yehuda, and Noga feels a strong craving for meat soup, red, thick and hot. So she prowls the alleys in search of that underground dining room, hoping that despite the hour it has not yet been converted into the bar. But the minute she goes down the stairs, her hopes are dashed. The shutter separating the room from the kitchen has been lowered, and the long communal tables have been divided into small tables, with a boy circulating among them lighting tea lights in saucers, resembling yahrzeit candles. Next to the bar are a guitar and an accordion, still in their cases, and the two people finishing their meal are apparently the musicians.

Again her gaze is drawn to the ceiling. The black camera, real or fake, still perches in its place, though the angle of its gleaming glass eye seems to have shifted.

She turns to the candle boy.

“Excuse me, is there anything left to eat?”

“All gone, lady. Come back tomorrow.”

She was about to leave when she notices, not far from the lowered shutter in the rear, the retired policeman, the stammering extra. He sits facing the entrance as if expecting someone, perhaps her.

With a small step she could withdraw and disappear into the shuk, but Noga senses that the veteran inspector has noticed her arrival, and that he knows she has spotted him too. Should she disregard him? Elazar sits motionless in his corner, doesn’t stand up or wave. She certainly doesn’t want to indulge his desire, but is it right to ignore him?

She walks toward him with a smile, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t seem surprised, as if they had planned to meet.

“I was thinking I could find something to eat here,” she explains. “After our evening, I came back the next afternoon and had a delicious meal. But it seems they close early and get ready for another night.”

“What would you like to eat?”

“Whatever… not much, maybe soup… something simple.”

“If only soup, that’s possible. Come, sit down.”

“Meat soup,” she says, unable to restrain her craving, then backs off. “If there happens to, um, b-be any…”

He seems shocked. “M-m-meat?” He echoes her stammer. “Right n-n-now? I d-don’t think they have any left at this hour. But s-simple s-soup, maybe hot, thick lentil soup. That won’t b-b-be enough?”

“Definitely enough,” she exclaims, blushing. “Of course… the meat isn’t important… lentil soup or whatever… thick and hot is wonderful.”

He disappears, and her eyes wander around the gray cellar, the flickering flames adding an air of mystery. The musicians, done eating, take out their instruments and start to play. The cascading notes of the guitar and accordion arouse a visceral nostalgia for her harp, and her eyes well with tears.

The policeman carefully sets before her a bowl of steaming lentil soup and two slices of dark bread.

“How did you manage that? Are you a partner here, or a relative?”

“Neither one, but a police commander, especially a retired one, has p-p-power and influence.”

“Especially retired?”

“Because he still keeps his old contacts and secret information, without being subject to any r-rules.”

She cautiously sips the soup, and the eyes of the eternal inspector follow her spoon as if she were a child who requires supervision. Does he understand, she wonders, that despite his power as a policeman, he cannot touch me?

“And what’s happening with the little haredim who’ve been b-b-breaking into your apartment?”

“I think today I stopped them once and for all.”

“How?”

She tells him about the little boy who got a thorough scrubbing.

“That was smart,” says Elazar approvingly, “a good intuition. I know them, and if you, a secular woman, a stranger and not m-m-married, dared, even with a little boy—”

“But an important one, a kind of tzaddik.”

“Exactly. So if you, a free woman with no children, t-t-took off his clothes and made him take a bath, that will f-f-frighten not only the boy who looks after him, but the parents, who will finally wise up and c-c-control his misbehavior.”

“And imagine”—she laughs with embarrassment—“when I washed him, I myself, because I’d jumped out of the bathtub to save him, had nothing on.”

“Naked? Better yet,” he says excitedly. “You did w-w-well. And with no bad intent. You were right, no need to call the police.”

“And you believe that this will put an end to the break-ins?”

“I believe it, because I know them. Now they’ll be afraid of you. They’ll realize that you’re unpredictable. But how much time do you have left, anyway, before the end of your experiment?”

“Mine? Not mine, my mother’s.”

“Of course.”

“Barely four weeks.”

“So take it easy. And I gather that soon you’ll b-b-be away, because your b-b-brother got you a role in the opera.”

“A role in the opera? Ha, don’t exaggerate, dear sir, just an extra — a country girl or a Gypsy or a smuggler. And as you yourself told me, with no pay, just three days at a hotel by the Dead Sea.”

“Three days in a luxury hotel with a spa is fair compensation. But if you want to earn good money before you return to Europe, come and join the hospital series. They’re already ac-actively interviewing ap-applicants, because they need a lot of extras, so many that they’ll even take me, the eternal extra, with the face that graced a thousand films. They’ll probably put me on the operating table, or in the m-m-morgue, so that my face won’t show, but they need my b-b-body.”

“When is it supposed to start?”

“In a week and a half. They’ve cleared out a huge warehouse in the Ashdod port and built a set that looks exactly like a hospital. It’s going to be an elaborate series with at least twelve episodes, which will of course need a steady supply of patients and their friends and family. Since they haven’t yet filled their quota of extras, I took the liberty of putting in your n-n-name. Why not earn some real money before you f-f-fly away from us? The work is on a day-to-day basis, no commitment. You can always c-cancel at the last minute. You’re not angry with me?”

“Why should I be angry?”

“That I signed you up as a patient. But if that bothers you, how about just a relative of a patient?”

“No, it actually doesn’t bother me to be an imaginary patient for a few days. It’ll be restful. But tell me, what’s your connection with the business of extras? A partner? Relative? Consultant?”

“C-c-confidential adviser, that’s the title.”

He suddenly seizes her hand and brings it to his lips, and she feels his relief. Is he helping her because he hasn’t given up on the idea of getting her into bed before she goes back to Europe? And though his hopes are slim, she doesn’t, deep down, dismiss him out of hand. But she doesn’t want it to happen soon; otherwise, he won’t leave her alone. Maybe just before she leaves, as a souvenir of her stint as an Israeli extra, and after all, no stuttering baby will be born as a result.

She finished the soup but didn’t touch the bread. “It was excellent. You revived my soul. The battle with the little kid wore me out.” And as the boy puts a saucer on their table and lights the faux-yahrzeit candle, she has a flash of suspicion that she didn’t find him here by accident. That his policeman’s instincts told him she would be here. And without any complaint, with a pleasant smile, she asks whether it was by chance that she found him here.

“No, n-n-not by chance.”

“Really?”

“This afternoon I was on my way to your place to offer you an unusual job as an extra, for right now. When I got to your street, I saw from a distance that you were leaving the building, and I didn’t want you to s-s-suspect that I was hanging around your s-s-street with any intentions. So I followed you — after all, I’m an expert in t-t-tailing people. Then I saw you were heading for the shuk, and from the way you walked past the stalls, I could see you weren’t looking for fruits and vegetables, but a meal, at this place, because I knew you had been here once for lunch. You got s-s-slightly lost in the alleyways, and I got here before you and waited.”