Is it still the same dream? With no interruption other than a turning of his head, a torrid sun now melts a sky of blue. It is the eve of the holiday of Shavuot, the day of the giving of the Law, and schoolchildren with wreaths of flowers on their heads pour through an open gate, racing to show their parents the little Torah scrolls they have made in class.
For whom is he waiting? He has no wife, his daughter is unborn, and no child with a wreath is looking for him. Though grown up, he is a student himself and late for class. Easing out of the rope that ties him to a tree, he flies through the blossoming garden of his old high school, over the stone footbridge that crosses a pond, and up the stairs of the school, flight after flight, until he reaches the classroom. It is deserted.
Has she cancelled the lesson, or have his fellow students skipped the class?
There is no message on the blackboard. On the teacher’s chair is a slide rule brought from her native land. In spite of the holiday, then, she came for their trigonometry lesson, only to be let down by his classmates. He knows that his lateness has made him a traitor too, and so he takes the slide rule, which is warm from the sunshine, hoping that bringing it to her will gain him forgiveness. But the teachers’ room is empty. The foreign trigonometry teacher has been summoned to the principal’s office to be fired. Though only a student, he is certain his love and devotion can save her. And the school secretary is on his side. “Run!” she says. “They’re doing it right now.”
He runs and is seized by a sweet dread when he sees her by the large window in the dimly lit principal’s office, slumped in an executive armchair in which she has been placed to ease the shock. He now realizes he has always known she is not a cleaning woman but a teacher. Gone are her apron, broom, and cap. She is wearing a flowery, childish summer blouse like the nightgown spread out to dry by the old owner in the shack. The collar is open, revealing a long, strong neck tilted sensuously back and perfect, sloping shoulders of white marble in which there is not a drop of blood.
The dream turns sultry with a passion he has never felt before. Is the bomber on his way to the market? Has the bomb already gone off? He is reminded that he has written down the story, not only of her life, but also of her love for him, which took place long ago when he was a child or perhaps even an infant. They made love as she nursed him. How frightful that not even so ancient a passion can save her! He leans towards the armchair to make certain there is no mistake and that this is indeed the forgotten woman the night shift supervisor was smitten by. Miryam, Miryam, he says, recalling the new, secret Hebrew name on her door. Her photograph, which he displays to others to establish her beauty, excites him. Too distraught to remember that he is only a student, he brandishes the slide rule at the principal and his assistants, who are struggling to extricate the half-dead woman from the armchair and throw her away with the rubbish.
Wait, the dreamer shouts as he runs forward, spurred by the secretary’s sympathy. Give me time. A lonely but ambitious student, he embraces his teacher with a sob as though she were a fellow classmate, even though she is ten years older than he …
Is he still talking in his dream, or is this a thought that has spiralled out of it? For as he covers her with his kisses, he murmurs or thinks:
“Why give in? Why give up? Is there anywhere in the world a cross worth my dying on?”
5
The emissary’s dream sent such pleasurable shock waves through him that he sat up the moment he opened his eyes, as though to secure the vision in his consciousness and prevent further dreams from uprooting it. Having taught himself in the army to form a mental picture of his unit the instant he awoke, making certain all his men were at their posts, he was aware of the barracks at once. A professional glance informed him that the three soldiers sleeping by the stove were gone, their place taken by three others wrapped in the same blankets.
The travellers were scattered in their corners, fast asleep. The stove, to which coal must have been added, burned brightly. Although it was still dark out, he deemed it best to have a look at the coffin. Taking care not to waken the boy, who had thrown off his blanket, he rose from the mattress. For a second he debated whether he was entitled, or perhaps even obliged, to cover the sleeping youth. Yet it seemed best not to touch him even in passing.
He dressed carefully, wrapping his scarf around his neck and slipping into his heavy winter coat before tiptoeing out with his army boots in his hands. Exchanging a quick glance with the consul, who opened bloodshot eyes, he stepped into the corridor. There the old sergeant was sleeping by a makeshift barrier erected to keep the unexpected visitors from touring the site without payment.
The resource manager had experience with sleeping sentries and had disarmed and court-martialled more than one of them. Since this was not the approach he wished to take with the wrinkled old sergeant, however, he sat down beside him and put on his boots while waiting to be noticed. Indeed the sergeant soon opened his eyes and recognized him. The boots, even if issued by another army, aroused his comradely instincts. Lifting a thin blanket, which at first glance seemed designed to warm a cat or lap dog, he revealed the satellite phone standing upright in its charger, from which improvised wires ran to a large battery that had once belonged to a half-track or tank.
Deprived of words, the resource manager could only bow an appreciative head.
The sergeant carefully detached the wires, cleaned the phone with a corner of his coat, and handed it to its owner, who immediately put it to the test by dialling his office. Within seconds he heard his own voice asking, deep in the Jerusalem night, to leave a message. Graciously complying with his own request, he reported positively on the latest developments while smiling at the sergeant’s efforts to follow his conversation with himself. Yet when he took some money from his wallet and held it out, it was firmly rejected. How could an old soldier accept payment for a military duty?
Once he had assured himself that the phone was working again, the manager signalled that he wished to go outside. To allay suspicion, he mimed his intention to do no more than check the coffin. This was not easily accomplished, since the sergeant had forgotten the coffin’s existence. When a rectangular box sketched in the air failed to remind him of it, the manager tilted his body backward, shut his eyes, crossed his arms on his chest, and made believe he was about to be buried.
The sergeant, his memory refreshed, was happy to grant the visitor his wish. Opening the door, he accompanied him outside. It was the manager’s impression that he could have commanded the soldiers at the rusty iron gate, even the old sergeant himself, to carry out any order he gave them if only he had been able to speak their language. At the very outset of his military career, when given his first squad command, he was aware of exerting a sober authority that raised his troops’ morale. But although he was a natural leader, he also managed to convey to his superiors that there was nothing in the world he thought worth being killed for in battle. Little wonder he’d never got far in the army.
The scaly rime was gone from the coffin, and its metal surface was visible again. He touched it to see how cold it was. Not knowing at which ends the corpse’s head and feet were, he positioned himself between them, reached for his phone, and scanned the sky for stars. The clouds had blurred their pinpoints. Pulling out the phone’s antenna, he dialled the number of the owner from memory.
It was the middle of the night in Jerusalem. However, a man who stayed cozily at home while his personnel manager atoned for his inhumanity had to accept being wakened at odd hours.