The five of them climbed on, the consul’s husband and the dead woman’s ex-husband holding up the coffin’s front end, the journalist and the photographer carrying the rear. In the middle, by himself, was the emissary, the human resources manager of the company that had forgotten the woman’s existence. Anyone less expert than the old farmer, who directed them in two languages at once, might not have brought them safely up the stairs. They proceeded carefully, taking each step and turn with care. A sour smell accompanied them. The resource manager was not sure whether it came from the coffin or from the unwashed body of the boy, who had chosen to stick close to him and once or twice to reach out a helping hand.
“If I’m not steering clear enough of you,” the weasel panted behind him, “don’t complain. This was your idea …”
The human resources manager snorted. Unable to turn around, he could think of no rejoinder. He had to keep his eyes on the stairs, at the top of which, as they neared the exit, the light was growing brighter.
We were waving goodbye to the departing passengers when a metal coffin passed by on the shoulders of five pallbearers. We watched them carefully place it in a van and asked with a catch in our throats: Who died? Where? Where is the body being taken?
When we were told it was a local woman murdered in Jerusalem, we crossed ourselves and prayed for her eternal rest and resurrection. One of the pallbearers, a photographer, hastened to record our prayer with his camera.
12
The old van’s wheels spun in the snow, then broke free. The consul and her husband sat by the driver. The coffin was in the back. On one side of it were the boy and his father — who, though relieved of all responsibility for its burial, still hoped for compensation. On the other side, more intimately than he would have liked, the resource manager sat squeezed between the weasel and the photographer. Those two still hadn’t got over their good fortune in the dramatic new turn their story had taken.
The ride into town wasn’t long. Even so, when the consul complained of having to miss breakfast because of her husband’s impatience, the resource manager didn’t hesitate. Opening a carton, he took out the bread and cake.
The baked goods took everyone by surprise, as much by their freshness as by their unexpected appearance. The hungry consul was not alone in asking for seconds. The boy wanted more, too, perhaps feeling that it brought him closer to his mother. To the distress of the resource manager, who wished to leave something for the grandmother, their appetites, sharpened by the cold, clear morning, quickly polished off the carton. At least, he thought, the old man will be delighted to know what a hit his products were. Reaching for his phone, he dialled Jerusalem despite the early hour, certain the owner would be happy to hear from him. The housekeeper, recognizing his voice and aware of his mission, reported that the master had gone to synagogue for Sabbath services and would be back soon.
“Services?” The human resources manager was astonished. “I’ve worked for him for over ten years and never seen an ounce of religion in him.”
“What you see from up close you don’t see from afar,” the housekeeper answered sententiously, and offered to take a message. But the resource manager did not wish to reveal his new plan — certainly not in English — to an Indian housekeeper. He asked her to inform the owner that his products had been appreciated and promised to call again later.
The journalist, having helped to carry the coffin, had become a character in his own story and now felt entitled to ask for the use of the phone, a handy instrument if ever he had seen one. Not wishing to appear stingy, the resource manager gritted his teeth and let the weasel chatter with friends and family while the white stone buildings of the city drew nearer. How, he wondered, would his mission, of whose moral sublimity he felt more and more convinced, look in the pages of the weekly?
The weasel was still bantering over the phone as they entered the city, a provincial capital. Their first stop was the large building that housed the consulate — that is, the consul and her husband’s apartment. After backing carefully into the courtyard, they unloaded the coffin, placed it in a shady corner among the garbage cans and piles of firewood, and covered it with a tarpaulin.
The time had come for their little group to split up. The emissary would ascend with the consul to her apartment. The consul’s husband and the driver would go to make arrangements for the expedition to the dead woman’s village — the former planned to take the letter from Central Pathology to a doctor who could tell him how long a trip the corpse might withstand; the latter had to look for snow tyres. The journalist and the photographer were to be dropped off at a small hotel and the boy left at his father’s to prepare for the journey to his grandmother’s. They would soon be reunited, all except for the ex-husband — who, his role ended, must now part from them all. This was more easily said than done, however: he clutched his son as if hoping to trade him for a bounty paid out by a world that had done nothing but betray him. Sensing his despondency, the human resources manager offered him the second carton as a farewell gift. “What’s in it?” asked the man in surprise, reaching into his pocket for a jackknife and slitting the cardboard top. He quickly went through the pads, notebooks, and binders and feverishly ransacked the carton’s bottom; then, eyes burning with humiliation, he spat and swore roundly. The consul and her husband hastened to calm him.
“What did he say? What does he want?”
The man, so it seemed, was enraged more by the affront to his ex-wife’s dignity than by any to his own. She had been an engineer, like him, with a diploma — how could the resource manager have made her stoop to the level of a cleaning woman?
“I made her?”
“In your capacity as personnel manager,” the consul said.
“And what did you tell him?”
“That he should be grateful she was given a job at all and not thrown into the street when her boyfriend left her.”
The resource manager shook his head. “That’s not what you should have said,” he declared, with a compassionate glance at the ex-husband, who was still holding on to his son. Seen in the shadows of the courtyard, the boy’s exquisitely formed features made the emissary feel slightly drunk. If I’m not careful, he thought, his father won’t let him come with us. The man needs encouragement. Taking out his wallet, he extracted several large bills and held them out. As the ex-husband reached for them, the photographer’s camera flashed. The consul and her husband exchanged worried glances. The driver, standing to one side, turned pale. The ex-husband was speechless. Although he had hoped for more than notebooks and writing implements, he hadn’t dreamed of anything like this.
“That’s way too much,” the consul whispered to the resource manager. “You’ll spoil them.”
“Never mind …” The emissary smiled and stuffed the bills into the engineer’s jacket pocket, as much to forestall any objection to his son’s joining their expedition as to draw a final line between him and the dead woman. The man seemed well aware of his role in the bargain. Without even a thank-you, he took the crumpled bills, straightened them one by one, counted them silently in front of everyone, and slipped them sombrely into his wallet before murmuring a few choked words.