The Extra

Three

SHE TILTS THE BED downward with a soft electric buzz, hops nimbly to her feet and, with small steps reminiscent of her father’s on that stormy night, heads for the big living room window to watch for the golden planet through its iron bars. An erudite friend, a violinist in the Arnhem orchestra, on learning the origin of her Hebrew name, Noga, explained to her that in mythology, Venus is not only female but satanic, but could provide no additional information. In the quiet deserted street, a young woman in an impressive blond wig leads a sleepy schoolboy by the hand, his pale sidelocks dangling from his little black hat. She watches the two intently until they round a corner, then goes into the old “children’s room,” where her two suitcases lie wide open, as if yearning to return to Europe. In the corner, wrapped in oilcloth, rests a musical instrument that Honi had taken down from storage so she could decide what to do with it. When she graduated from elementary school her father had surprised her with this instrument, something between a harp and an Oriental oud, which he found in an antique shop in East Jerusalem. It had twenty-seven strings, some broken now or missing, and those that remain wobble at the slightest touch. On one of her previous visits to Israel, she considered taking it to Arnhem and finding a young European musician eager to tackle the historic instrument, but she knew that even in such a cultured Dutch city as hers, situated not far from the German border, she was unlikely to find someone so inclined.

At the start of her current sojourn in Israel she greatly missed her music. Even if she were to replace the strings on her childhood harp, it would not satisfy her passion for the rich timbre of a true harp. A week after her arrival, she attended a concert of the Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra, and during intermission introduced herself to the harpist, a young woman of Russian origin, and asked if she could practice on the orchestra’s harp when it was not in use. “Let me think,” said the young woman, studying the middle-aged emigrant from Jerusalem, wary that she might be plotting to return to Israel and take her job. “Leave me your phone number,” she said defensively, “and I’ll get back to you.” And as expected, the woman has not yet finished thinking about it, but in the meantime Noga’s passion for playing has subsided. In another ten weeks the trial period in assisted living will be over, and she will return to the harp that awaits her in the basement of the Dutch concert hall, ready and willing for the rehearsals of Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique.

For now, she makes do with plucking the levers on the bed, whose electrical mechanism crouches underneath in a dusty black box. This bed, an alien creature amid the old furniture of the Jerusalem apartment, was a welcome addition after her father’s death, consolation and compensation for the man of the house who had vanished from the world in silence. Indeed, only after the man’s demise could it establish residence here, in place of the narrow, worn-out double bed — such a sophisticated bed, crafted by Yosef Abadi, a young and talented engineer who had worked with her father at the municipality and remained friendly after his retirement. During the week of shiva, Abadi and his wife came daily to visit the mourners, bringing them meals and newspapers and offering help with any problems arising from the sudden death. It occurred to the widow to ask Yosef to help her dispose of the old double bed, which might be of use to a young couple in Jerusalem, Jewish or Arab, since with her husband gone she felt an urge to create more open space in the bedroom and would do fine with a simple single bed. But the young engineer protested. Why simple if you can enjoy a sophisticated bed? A year earlier, in his small home workshop, he had upgraded a hospital bed for his elderly aunt, adding an electrical mechanism controlled by levers and pedals, and now suggested installing a similar bed for the widow. This bed would have a variety of movements but be easy to operate. It could lay a person down or tip her out of bed. It could elevate the head to suit the owner’s eyesight and soothe aching legs by tilting them to a comfortable angle.

Since no one understood at first what this was all about, the gracious offer was not declined, and when the shiva ended, workers from the water department removed their former manager’s wooden bed and replaced it with an electric bed, and the young friend promptly taught the surprised widow how to make her life easier at the flick of a finger.

“But why didn’t you tell my husband about this bed?” she asked. “You could have built one for him. He would have enjoyed it before he died.”

The engineer laughed. “No, he would never have given up that old double bed of yours.”

“That’s true,” said the widow, blushing girlishly. “You knew him maybe better than I did. No wonder he loved you.”

And with an air of victory she challenged Honi, as he too lay down on the bed to test its capabilities: “See, there’s no reason to exile me from Jerusalem. A smart bed like this will take care of me all by itself.”

But the firm response came at once: even a smart bed cannot do it alone at an hour of need, but if the bed also moves to assisted living, it will be a helpful partner.