The Extra

Thirty-Seven

GLUM, SERIOUS URIAH SITS down in the kitchen, placing his briefcase on the table amid plates and cutlery, perhaps preparing for a quick getaway.

“If you take the briefcase off the table,” says his former wife, “I’ll make sure it doesn’t run away.”

“I keep it in full view not to forget that a whole world awaits me out there, and to remember not to be swept away by you.”

“Nevertheless, it’s not nice of your black briefcase to scare my soft-boiled egg.”

“Soft-boiled egg? I don’t remember your liking your eggs soft.”

“Oh, how good that someone in the world remembers things about me that I’ve forgotten. Yes, I hated soft-boiled eggs. Ima didn’t have the patience to keep boiling them, and the liquid yolk was like saliva. But now, on my own, I make up for her sins, and when I time it right, the egg tastes wonderful, and when the spoon taps the shell, even the chicken that laid it is happy.”

Scowling, he studies the woman in the nightgown.

“I didn’t learn of your father’s death until I ran into Honi at Masada. But even had I known in time, I doubt I’d have come to the funeral, or even the shiva.”

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t have wanted to see you.”

“But you and my father were close. I only just learned from Ima that you brought your kids to meet him, to prove that you’re innocent of blame.”

“That’s correct.”

“But who thought you were to blame?”

“Whoever.”

“And now you understand that I’m also not to blame. I just have some kind of mental defect.”

“True.”

“And if you had understood a year or two ago that because of a psychological defect I’m not to blame, would you still have taken your children to my father to prove your innocence?”

“Yes, because the boundary between defect and guilt is not always clear.”

“Would you have taken them even if you knew it caused him pain?”

“It didn’t cause him pain. He was happy and he played with them.”

“The fact that he played doesn’t mean it didn’t also cause him pain. He played with them because he couldn’t kill them.”

“Why kill?”

“So you wouldn’t bring them again.”

“I wouldn’t have brought them again.”

“Maybe you would have enjoyed another chance to taunt my parents. By the way, how did my father play with them?”

“He found an old doll of yours and put on a funny little show.”

“And you told your wife you brought her children here?”

“I don’t hide anything from her.”

“You won’t hide this visit either?”

“Not this visit either. The second trip to Masada, the wounded soldier at the port, all will be told when the time comes.”

“When will that time come?”

“You’ll know when it comes.”

“Ima caught a glimpse of your wife during intermission at Masada and told Honi she looks like me.”

“She doesn’t look like you.”

“Or reminded her of me.”

“She doesn’t remind.”

“What’s her name, by the way?”

“Osnat.”

“My mother saw her at intermission, waiting for the restrooms, and not knowing she was your wife, just from a casual glance, she told Honi that she looked like me.”

“She doesn’t look like you.”

“But my mother wouldn’t just make that up. She’s a smart, practical woman, and she also gave birth to me and knows me. And of her own free will she stated that your wife looks like me.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Maybe there’s something similar that you don’t notice?”

“She doesn’t resemble you in any way.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. If she resembled you, why would I be here?”

“Because you still love me, even though you’re the one who broke off the marriage, not I.”

“True…”

“In which case, why exactly are you here?”

“My love is playing tricks on me.”

“Who is your love? A separate entity from you?”

“Yes, a separate entity. Who tags along even after the separation from you.”

“A love with chutzpah.”

“Yes, separate and rebellious and cannot be tamed.”

“I might tame her, take her by surprise.”

“How?”

“I have a whip. I bought one in the Old City to use on the haredi kids who were breaking in here, but in the end I was afraid to do it. But this disobedient love of yours deserves to be whipped. Wait, Uriah, you’ll see.”

She dumps the remains of the egg in the garbage, puts the dirty dishes in the sink and goes to the bathroom to wash her face and put on makeup along with the appropriate smile, which she checks in the mirror. But she keeps on the nightgown that thinly veils her nakedness. She wonders where she left the whip, then remembers, but when she comes back with it in hand she finds Uriah standing sadly by the apartment door, holding his briefcase, ready to leave.

“Here,” she says, putting the whip in his hand. “An old whip, a real one, which over the years beat many a camel in the desert, will now whip your love until it lets go of you.”

Astonished, Uriah holds the whip. He then snaps it spontaneously to see how far it extends.

“You’re insane,” he declares with satisfaction, “and it’s madness that needs whipping, not love.” He whips the big sofa, the two armchairs, even the television, which trembles under the blow. Then he gives her back the whip and says, “That’s it, Noga, enough. Everything is imaginary and absurd except for work, which I’m late for.”

And as much as she feared he would come, it hurts her now that he’s leaving, for this time it will be forever. When her brother asked her to join the experiment, she never imagined he would also bring in her former husband, yet now she is trying to delay him.

“Wait, Uriah. Before we say goodbye, just tell me what your job is now.”

“Same job.”

“Meaning?”

“At the Ministry of Environmental Protection.”

“How great you’re still there. I was so proud that you worked in a field that had value. Even in Holland I tell friends and colleagues that the man who left me is not only a stubborn person but a positive person.”

“Please…”

“That’s what I thought and that’s what I think. That’s why my love for you never fully died. Tell me, have you stayed in the same department, where you were a deputy? You haven’t been promoted?”

“Now I am the director of a department.”

“A department. How many people?”

“Twenty.”

“A small department, but undoubtedly important.”

“A department that deals with garbage, recycling, packaging…”

“And that’s the most ethical part,” she gushes. “Really important. It’s the future. If only I could recycle myself.”

“Too late,” he quietly hisses. “The rot has proliferated.”

“So why don’t you let go?”

“Because I feel the pain of the unborn child.”

“Then wait, and we’ll make another effort to understand. If you’re the head of a department, nobody will punish you for being late. Don’t go. Let’s talk a little longer, then you’ll go… Just a second, somebody or something is standing outside the door. Please don’t leave now.”