In response to his request, the resource manager was given a handsome leather case with a satellite phone — or did it work by starlight? — that came with a charger and a list of useful phone numbers, including that of Central Pathology, in case he was asked difficult questions. “Never fear and feel free to use it,” the old man commanded him, though every call would set him back five dollars per minute, not including the VAT. “Don’t economize for my sake. I’ll want to be part of every decision. My bank manager has informed me that you’ve already withdrawn a handsome sum. I like that. It’s the right approach. Always tell yourself: ‘The owner of the company is loaded. His family won’t starve when he dies.’”
He laid a cautious hand on the younger man’s overcoat, as if to see if it offered sufficient protection against the cold. Satisfied with its quality, he turned his attention to the question of a hat. Would his emissary like an old fur one. It looked cumbersome, but it might come in handy in a snow-storm.
The resource manager declined. “Then at least,” said the owner, “leave your car in my garage. I’ll have my chauffeur drive you to the airport and help you with the extra packages.”
“What extra packages? All her things are in the suitcase.”
“Hers, but not ours. We’re sending her family a symbolic gift: a carton of stationery, notebooks, and binders, and another of cakes, rolls, and our finest breadcrumbs and croutons. Let her friends and family, and especially her son, know where she worked and what she produced.”
“But she didn’t produce anything. She was a cleaning woman.”
“And isn’t our cleaning staff part of the production line?” the old man scolded. “You’re the last person I’d expect to hear that from.”
“Look, this is getting to be silly. I’m not lugging cakes and breads thousands of miles.”
“You won’t have to lug anything. You’re simply in charge of the shipment. The consul will be expecting you and will see to everything. I’ve spoken to her and she’ll happy to be of service.”
The resource manager threw up his hands. There could no longer be any doubt. Atonement was turning into lunacy.
“A well-intentioned lunacy, though,” the owner said. He smiled, steered the resource manager back to the noisy living room, and signalled to the chauffeur that it was time to set out for the airport. The chauffeur seemed so at ease with the owner’s family that the resource manager wondered if he might be a distant cousin or illegitimate grandson. The astonishing thought occurred to him that perhaps the old man was intending to adopt him too.
8
At the check-in counter he was handed, along with his boarding card, an envelope from the Ministry of Immigration. A note attached to it, addressed “To the Personnel Manager,” said, “As per your request to be kept in the picture.”
Touched, he went to sit in a far corner of the departure hall. I’m about to find out things about that woman that she never knew herself, he thought, opening the envelope and extracting with a momentary qualm a photocopy of the Central Pathology Institute’s medical report. Written in the Cyrillic alphabet, its crowded lines suggested that it was more than just a death certificate. Most likely, it contained a description of her embalming.
The white pop of a flashbulb interrupted him. A passenger standing with his back to him had just taken a picture of the departure gate.
The charter flight was operated by a foreign airline. It was half full and offered only one class of service. Seated in the front, he surveyed the passengers filing by him, hoping to spot one who looked capable of both reading the medical report and keeping it confidential. Judging by their bags and packages, most of those boarding the aeroplane were either guest workers going home on holiday or new immigrants revisiting their native land. Even if he found someone to read the report, what were the chances that person could explain it to him in comprehensible Hebrew? And so he changed his mind and sat back in his seat, just as the passenger with the camera — now slung around his neck — passed him with a companion, a vaguely familiar-looking man who flashed him a smile.
And what did it really matter? What in the report might he need to know? The only detail of consequence was how long the body could remain unburied, which was in any case a problem for the consul, not for him. After takeoff he folded the document, stuck it in his pocket, released his safety belt, ate some of the tasteless meal, and switched off his reading light. He was unable, however, to relax. Suppose the consul wasn’t at the airport to greet him — what would he do then? Although the medical report endowed him with a measure of authority, he wasn’t sure it would be wise to display it.
He thought about the dead passenger in the baggage hold, which might be directly beneath him. Once again he whispered her name, as he had done that night in her shack. Yulia Ragayev,he murmured sternly, though not without pity. Yulia Ragayev, what more must I do for you?
He rose and went to the toilet, glancing at the other passengers as he passed down the aisle. Most were asleep beneath their blankets. Even those with earphones seemed to be listening to the music in their dreams. As he groped his way in the darkness, a man rose from his seat and threw an arm around him, blocking his progress.
“You called me a weasel?” It was the photographer’s companion. “Well, then, here I am, the whole beast from head to tail. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. This is my photographer. In the end we’ve met in the skies — and in a completely new spirit. We’ve come to cover your mission of atonement for our paper. Don’t worry, this time we’re on your side. We definitely won’t bite.”
A sleeping passenger opened his eyes and groaned. The resource manager stared down and said nothing. He wasn’t surprised. In fact, he had suspected as much. Shaking off the journalist’s embrace, he said in a steely voice:
“The honest reporter, eh? We’ll see if you’re capable of it. I’m warning you, though — you and your photographer had better steer clear of me.”
Before the journalist could reply, he found himself pushed lightly backwards. Continuing to the toilet, the resource manager locked the door and stared hard at the mirror. Had it been possible to use the satellite phone, he would have called Jerusalem to protest at the two stowaways. And yet he couldn’t deny that their presence also pleased him. The old man must have offered to pay their way. Anything to assure that his restored humanity be on the record, if only in a Jerusalem weekly that few read and even fewer thought about.
The resource manager put his shaving kit on the sink, lathered his face, and ran a razor over it. A predawn shave to make himself look presentable to his troops had always been his habit in the army.
Uh-oh! Here comes another coffin. Quick, go and get an officer to decide what to do with it before it’s too late again! Should we send it back to the plane until there’s someone to receive it or should we do it the honour of taking it to the terminal? Could someone please tell us what’s happening over there in the Holy Land? Who are all these dead they keep sending us? Is it some kind of money-making business?
Now the passengers are disembarking. In shock from the cold, they run for the little bus. Did that coffin come with family or friends, or with some government official, so that we don’t have a repeat of the last time, when one arrived by itself and sat for two months with no one to claim it? In the end we had to bury it ourselves, next to the runway.