In the Old Renaissance, we heard the jingle of his cell phone. If we hadn’t alerted him to it, he would have missed an important call, because he left at once and didn’t return. That’s how it is with our customers’ cell phones. We bartenders are so used to the deafening music the proprietor blasts us with that we no longer hear it, so we do hear the cell phones. Usually this particular customer (he’s been a regular these past months) is so tied to his phone that he always puts it down right next to him, bright and shiny, between his beer and his peanuts while waiting for the women to show up. This time, though, he forgot to take it from his overcoat, which we’ve never seen him wear before. Did he actually think it was going to snow just because it was forecast?
Anyway, he’s sitting in his corner with two girls, the one who has a smile for everyone and the good-looking junkie the owner can’t get rid of, and an older man, that cultivated fairy who likes to talk to him, when his coat starts making these sounds. It was obvious he didn’t hearit and we yelled, “Hey!Don’t youknowyour own cell phone?” He jumped up as if bitten by a snake and answered in the nick of time. “Hang on a second, Miss,” we heard him shout, “there’s this awful music here.” He ran outside, then came back after a while and asked for his bill. We haven’t seen him since.
The call had come from the representative of the Ministry of Immigration; she had remembered to keep him in the picture. Despite the late hour, she thought he should know the latest developments. The ex-husband had been informed and was demanding that the woman be buried in her native soil. Although he had neither the time nor desire to arrange for the funeral of someone he no longer cared about, he wanted it done for his son’s sake. He personally didn’t care if they buried his former wife where she had died. Yet since he had had the good sense to get their son out of “that hellhole,” as he scathingly referred to Israel, he felt the boy deserved to have his mother’s grave nearby rather than in a distant and permanently dangerous place.
“That’s the latest,” the efficient immigration ministry representative told him. She had already passed the information on to the National Insurance hotline, along with a request to have the body transferred immediately to Central Pathology, which alone was equipped to prepare it for a long journey. Barring unexpected complications at either end, it should be on its way in forty-eight hours, on a late Friday-night charter flight.
“I see you people know how to get things done.” Shivering from the cold, the human resources manager praised her with professional objectivity. Then, pressing the phone to his ear, he retreated to a side street to hear better and to avoid the curious stares of the pub’s security guard.
“Yes, we do,” the immigration ministry representative replied with a contented sigh, the golden traces of the exotic voice of her childhood accentuated for him the dreams night brings. Alas, she continued, in the past three years her section of the ministry had amassed much experience — although, to tell the truth, it was rare for a body to remain unidentified for so long. It had taken ten days from the time of the bombing to find her next-of-kin. That was far too long. It smacked of chaos and was bad for the country’s image. Now they had to make up for lost time, which was why she must know immediately whether the resource manager and his superiors still wished to be involved, even though the government could finish the job without them. There was a budget for such things and a competent staff, and since nobody in the woman’s country had heard of the bakery or of any blunder on its part, there was no need for compensation or even an apology. If the resource manager and his company wanted to drop out now, no one would think any the worse of them. If they wished to be part of it, however, National Insurance and her ministry were both in favour of that. It was a lot to have to carry the burden of so much bereavement by themselves. She would appreciate an answer by tomorrow, plus a practical proposal if that answer was yes.
He promised to give her one. “By the way,” he added, “you must know that there’s a mother, too. She lives in a village somewhere …”
“Yes, we do know. We even looked her village up on the map. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Contacting her now will just cause further delays — and we have already had too many. We’ve asked the ex-husband to get in touch with the mother and he said he’d try. Communications are poor there in winter. For the moment, I’d advise leaving her out of it. We can try getting her to the funeral in time.”
“Right.”
With a plan for the company’s proposal now taking shape in his mind, the resource manager allowed himself a glance at the sky, which was bathing him and the street in a radiant light. A full moon had unexpectedly broken free of the winter clouds and seemed to be cruising the heavens as if driven by a brisk breeze. He thought of the cleaning woman and her thin folder that lay in the trunk of his car. At this very minute burly men would be entering the morgue on Mount Scopus, removing her from her refrigerated compartment, wrapping her and tying her to a stretcher, and carrying her in the moonlight to an ambulance, or perhaps a plain pickup truck, for transportation to the Central Pathology Institute near Tel Aviv, her first stop on her long voyage home. He thought of the twelve claylike corpses pledged to science, and of the lab technician’s request for an identification.
Which he had refused to give.
Thinking it improper.
Like the night shift supervisor’s infatuation.
So that now he would never see the woman at all.
He had an urge to drive to Mount Scopus in the hope of catching a glimpse of her after all. Even were he to get there in time, however, he had forfeited his right. And so, getting into his car, he dialled the owner in order to bring him up to date and let him know of the need for a decision. This time, however, the housekeeper was determined to protect the old man’s sleep.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked her.
“I know and I remember you, sir,” she answered in her polite Indian English. “But I’m not to disturb the master tonight.”
He must be sleeping off his medical examination, thought the resource manager. If he tires so easily, perhaps he’ll also tire of this business and let me be — although, he could just as well turn me into a scapegoat …
Sounds of shooting came from his mother’s apartment. He entered cautiously, sure she had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Yet she was wide awake and smiling, wrapped in a heavy quilt, enjoying an old Hollywood thriller.
“How come you’re home so early?” she asked.
“Early?” He glanced with a snort at his watch, went to his room, undressed, put on his flannel pyjamas, went to the kitchen to slice himself a big piece of cake, and returned with the plate to the living room. Perhaps he could still get involved in the movie.
“So how come you’re home?”
He told her of the decision to return the woman’s body to her homeland so that her son would have a grave to visit.
“That makes sense,” his mother said. “That’s why you’re home early?”
“No. I mean, yes. I’m afraid the old man may ask me to accompany the coffin. He’s trying to use me to clear his conscience.”
“What do you care? You’ll accompany the coffin and see a new part of the world.”
“In midwinter? In freezing weather?”
“What of it? This morning you were upset because the snow you thought you saw last night was gone. You’ll have all the snow and ice you want there.”
He looked at her, half annoyed and half amused.
“Tell me something. Are you trying to get rid of me? Am I a nuisance to you here?”
“A nuisance, no. But it’s painful to be reminded.”
“Reminded of what?”