The Extra

Seven

“NO SECRETS, YOU SEE, just a slightly complex explanation of how I landed in this line of work. My brother, who has connections with movie and TV production companies, as well as advertising agencies, offered it to me — so I don’t get bored during the three months I’m protecting my parents’ apartment in Jerusalem, and to earn a little money. Also, it’s an excellent opportunity for me to reconnect with forgotten places and experiences, and discover things I didn’t know existed. And at the same time get to know all kinds of old and new Israelis and realize that they can be nice, like you, Mr. Elazar.”

The extra gallantly takes her hand in his, touches it to his lips and laughs.

“You being paid a d-decent wage?”

“I don’t know. My brother gets the money and transfers it straight into my old bank account, which we resurrected.”

“You’re not m-married?”

“I was.”

“And children?”

“I didn’t want any.”

“Didn’t want or couldn’t have?”

“I could have, but I didn’t want to.”

He peers at her appreciatively. Her frankness is appealing, and he would like to continue his investigation, but she gracefully turns to the window, as if trying to figure out where they are going.

The minibus had turned left from the highway onto a side road winding toward the broad wadi that runs from Ein Kerem to the Valley of Elah. From there the minibus climbed toward the Jerusalem corridor villages of Nes Harim and Bar Giora, finally arriving at a regional school, transformed that day into a film location. And as the extras stretch their legs and are treated to coffee and cake with other crew members and actors too, one of the crew turns to Noga:

“If you’re Noga, how come you forgot to do what they asked you to do?”

“Who asked, and what did I forget?”

“I told your brother to tell you to come today wearing red — a dress, pants or sweater — because it’s important for us to film the jury in a variety of colors.”

“I didn’t forget, because I didn’t know, and next time, ask me directly. My brother is a brother, not an agent.”

A young, pretty woman who overheard the rebuke undid a red wool scarf from her neck and draped it around Noga’s shoulders. “Here,” she whispered, “give it back at the end of the day, and if you forget — no problem.”

From there the group of thirteen was led inside the school, whose students were off for the Lag b’Omer holiday, and down a corridor to the gym, where ladders and other equipment were wrapped in black cloth that lent a somber, mysterious air to the courtroom. Twelve extras were asked one by one to sit in two rows of chairs behind a low plywood divider — the backup thirteenth extra took a coffee break — and Noga now noticed that they varied not only in age and ethnic origin, but in the style and color of their clothing.

She was put in the front row, and Elazar, the veteran extra, was exiled to the end of the second row. Was this because of his perennial visibility, his years of gliding from film to film, plot to plot? And yet the mighty figure of the retired judge, so familiar from tacky TV commercials, was selected for a conspicuous spot in the front row, perhaps because they had pegged him from the start as the one who would read out the verdict.

And as the film crew unwinds electrical cables and sets down a track for the camera, she pulls the woolen scarf to her neck, inhales its pleasant scent and closes her eyes with fatigue. In Arnhem, she plays music at night and goes to bed late and wakes up late. The camera had not yet entered the gym, but instructions were already given. “You are here to listen,” a young man explained, “but sometimes, when we give you a signal, please whisper something to the person next to you, doesn’t matter what — we won’t record the whisper and don’t need it, all we need is your lips moving. We’re filming without sound. And because this is meant to be a long and important trial, taking up about twelve full minutes of screen time, which is a lot in a two-hour movie, we will shoot you in different kinds of light — morning, afternoon, evening, to convey through you the sense of time passing. For this reason, we’ll film you separately, with no courtroom, without the prosecution and defense lawyers or the woman defendant. In any case, you must show attention and interest — you’re supposed to pass judgment on a serious accusation. In the screenplay there is no text of your deliberations, but we’ll take you to a room and shoot you from a distance, talking and arguing, without sound.”

“Excuse me, young man,” asks the judge, “are you aware that in the Israeli justice system there are no juries?”

“Obviously we’re not that ignorant. This trial takes place in a foreign country. The movie is a coproduction.”

“Which foreign country?” insists the judge. “Maybe there are no juries there either.”

“It hasn’t been decided yet. We’re considering three countries. It also depends on funding. The world today is global, sir, and so also modular. In a film today you can move countries around like Legos.”