“Who are you? How did you get in?”
“Your mother said,” the older one answers, “if she’s not home, I’m allowed to calm him down with the television.”
He points to the little boy.
“She couldn’t possibly have said something like that.”
“I swear it. You weren’t in Israel, that’s why you don’t know.”
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Yudel . . . Yehuda . . . Yuda-Zvi.”
“You be careful, Yuda-Zvi, I know all about you two. You’re Shaya’s kids.”
“Just me. This is Shraga, he’s a cousin, the youngest son of my mother’s sister. But you got to know only my father, not my mother.”
“Right,” she answers. “I never met your mother and I don’t want to meet her. Now turn off the television. Where’s the remote?”
“I don’t have it. He has it. He picks out for himself what and who calms him down.”
“Like the prime minister, you mean,” she says with a smile.
“Yes, he can relax him, depending on what he says. And this one, if he doesn’t get a little TV every day, he runs up and down your stairs and everyone goes crazy, including your mother.”
Noga bends over the little boy, who has still not looked at her, and searches for the remote under the hat on his lap. Then she removes him from his seat and rummages in the depths of the armchair. But the child doesn’t mind; his eyes are glued to the screen, and the remote is hidden the devil knows where. She gives up on him and unplugs the TV, and the child attacks her with a wild scream, tries to bite the hand that silenced his prime minister, and when she shakes him off, he curls up on the floor and bitterly weeps.
“You can’t take him away from the TV like that,” Yuda-Zvi explains, sitting peacefully in his armchair.
“Like what?”
“All of a sudden.”
“Enough is enough,” she says. “What’s with this kid? What’s wrong with him? Where’s his mother? Where’s his father?”
“His father is always sick, and my aunt has no more strength for him, so my mother asks me to take care of him. Because he—you may not know this—he is not an ordinary boy but an important boy.”
“Important?”
“He’s the great-grandson of the Rebbe, the Tzaddik, the righteous one. And if other children in that family die, he might someday have to be the Tzaddik, when he’s a hundred and twenty.”
But she is unimpressed by the tzaddik wailing on the floor.
“Does your grandmother upstairs know you’re breaking into an apartment that isn’t yours?”
“Grandma doesn’t know much of anything anymore,” the boy answers truthfully. “But even if she did know, she wouldn’t care, because she understands that only television can help his pain. And I promise you, Noga”—he speaks her name matter-of-factly—“your mother also doesn’t care if I calm him down with her television. She even gave me a key.”
“A key!”
“Yes. Because she knows that if I take him in through the bathroom window, he could possibly, God forbid, fall and be crushed.”
“And where is the key now?”
“Why?”
“Where’s the key?”
“It’s here . . . I have it.”
“Give it to me.”
“Why? You don’t have a key to the apartment?”
“Give it to me right now, or else . . .”
As the little tzaddik looks up at her, his eyes gleaming with tears, the older boy unbuttons his shirt collar and hands her a string with the key that her father had put on a red ring, to tell it apart from his many other keys.
She opens the front door and quietly says:
“That’s it, boy. That’s it, Mister Yuda-Zvi. This is the last time . . . and I will speak to your grandmother and your grandfather.”
“Just not Grandpa,” says the terrified boy. “Please, not Grandpa,” he begs, before she slams the door on them both.
Thirteen
A FEW NIGHTS LATER, on the ride back to Jerusalem after the jury shoot, with the actress’s red scarf still wrapped around her neck, Noga casually tells Elazar about the two boys.
“Even if you took away their key, don’t be so sure they won’t come back,” he says. “The little b-b-bastard probably made a copy, so don’t be surprised to find them again in front of your TV.”
“So what am I to do?”
“The n-n-next time, don’t kick them out and don’t argue. Act friendly, get in touch with me, and I’ll put on my old police uniform and make sure that the little tz-tzaddiks won’t b-b-bother you again, forever.”
“Forever?” She laughs. “I’m only staying in Israel for another couple of months.”
“So wh-what? You’re still entitled to p-p-peace and quiet.”
The stutter is annoying, but also charming in its way, with an element of surprise. Entire sentences flow smoothly, and just as she has forgotten that he stutters, an ordinary word or a modest preposition, which might carry some hidden implication, becomes a psychological impediment, and then, instead of simply repeating a word or syllable, he gets stuck on a certain sound and prolongs it. In the dark minibus making its way to Jerusalem, she senses his attempt to draw closer to her, not only because he likes her, but because she is free and unattached, without a husband and children, with no desire to have children, and also because her time in Israel is limited and there’s no risk of getting emotionally involved, which could hurt him or someone in his family.
And since he knows about future projects of the agency that hires the extras, he tries to win her over during the drive by urging her to take part in them as well.
“I don’t need that much money,” she says.
“It’s not just m-m-money,” he protests, “but to be a participant without any effort or ob-obligation in the stories of all kinds of characters, and perhaps also be engraved in the m-m-memory of the audience. Tonight, for example, you announced the verdict very well. When this movie is completed, if it ever is, there will doubtless be viewers who will remember how softly but c-c-confidently you pronounced gu-il-ty, as if you were not talking about the killer, but about y-y-yourself.”
The retired judge, sitting silently across the aisle, apparently dozing, turns his head. “Yes, madam, Elazar is right. These days a court is expected to announce a grim verdict in a personal tone of voice, even with mild hesitation. I am still used to declaring a verdict with dramatic force, which is why they passed me up.”
At the bus stop near the former Edison movie theater Noga and the judge get out, and Elazar suddenly decides to join them. “I’ll see you home so I know where to come q-q-quickly if you want to chase away the boys.” But Noga points to her building from afar, lest he attempt to escort her upstairs.
Fourteen
ELAZAR WAS UNDETERRED. The next day he phoned and asked her to join him in the late evening at a bar, where a scene was to be shot for an Israeli film requiring several middle-aged extras to supplement the regular younger crowd. This was no more than a pleasant evening on the town, he added. The scene would be simple, not long, and would be shot without fancy direction or cinematic effects, the extras would blend in anonymously, the camera would be hidden. The extras would be asked to act naturally like the rest of the crowd, drink, listen to the music and chatter away to their heart’s content. They would not be paid. The production would cover the cost of drinks; the night on the town constituted the pay.
They made plans to meet on the street, near her building, but he arrived early and came up to the apartment on the pretext of checking out the bathroom window and testing the strength of the drainpipe that the boys had used to enter the flat. Then he checked the front door and offered to come back and install an interior bolt, and also to put a new lock on the bathroom window, but Noga was reluctant to make improvements in the Jerusalem apartment before the resolution of the Tel Aviv experiment. She put on simple high-heeled shoes, donned the red scarf—her new favorite—and
hurried him out the door.
To her surprise, he said that the bar was just around the corner and suggested they walk over. “You don’t mean,” she said, “there’s such a place in my haredi neighborhood.” A mysterious smile crossed his lips. He said, “You’d be amazed what one can discover not far from home.” He led her into the nearby shuk, the Mahane Yehuda market, its alleys and passageways washed clean, the shops and vegetable stalls silent and shuttered. The smells of smoked fish, spices and cheese lingered in the night air along the route to a structure flanked by two torches of friendly fire, with a nighttime crowd gathering inside, and no telling who was a regular patron and who a mere extra.
“You ever go to the shuk at night?”
“Not by day or by night. My brother set up an open account at the grocery near the apartment so I wouldn’t have to elbow through the shuk to find cheap tomatoes.”
“Cheap tomatoes?” he said, feigning umbrage. “Kindly do not condescend to the shuk. It’s much more than cheap tomatoes. This bar, for one, is a wonderful restaurant during the day.”
They went down some stairs as music rose from underground, a former storage cellar tastefully made over with small tables and banquettes, and in a rear alcove, an accordionist belting out old favorites.
Now, as they sit close together, partly in the role of extras and partly as themselves, she is aware of the man’s desire to succeed where previous men have failed. And though this stammering policeman has a wife and grown children, even a small grandson, and has no need for another child, he will not give up on the pretty, dimpled harpist, and tells her about upcoming jobs, such as a television series set in a hospital, complete with doctors, nurses, administrative staff, labs and of course patients, requiring many extras to supplement the professional actors, who suffer and agonize, die or get well, depending on the plot.
The accordion lets fly a Gypsy tune. Even if most of the assembled are strangers to one another, a breeze of intimacy blows among them.
“Can you tell, based on your experience, who here is an extra, who a customer, and who an actor?”
“No,” he admits. “Even with my experience, it’s hard, because I don’t know where the camera is, so I can’t tell who’s aware of it and who’s not.”
She smiles, understands, slowly sips her beer and says softly:
“I must say, you’re really something.”
“So what do you say about the hospital show?” he asks, encouraged. “It’s a long series, so they’ll need some chronic extras. I’m already signed up, and if you extend your stay in Israel, you could make a fair bit of money.”
“I didn’t come here to make money, only to enable my mother to try out assisted living, and I have no intention of extending my stay longer than necessary. The Mozart Concerto for Harp and Flute is waiting for me in Arnhem, and my fingers are trembling with desire for it.”
He cautiously places his hand on her fingers as if to feel the desire, and his stutter breaks out:
“S-so if not the hospi-pi-tal, maybe someth-thing else, short and special.”
“That sounds better.”
“Where they need extras with m-musical f-f-feeling.”
“That’s me.”
“It’s a production of Carmen, d-down in the d-desert at Masada, and they need extras to be G-G-Gypsies, but it would be without pay.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning there’s transportation, and staying in a g-good hotel, and of course seeing the opera for free three times.”
“It sounds attractive. And you’ll be there?”
“No, because for this opera they need only f-f-female extras.”
“Then it sounds even more attractive.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes I get weary of men.”
Crestfallen, he turns silent.
“What now?” she ventures.
“What now what?”
“Carmen—”
“Tell your brother to sign you up,” he interrupts, and says nothing more.
After a long while the production assistant rescues them from awkward silence, informing them that their job as extras has ended but they are free to stay until closing time.
“Excu-cuse me,” says Elazar, grabbing the young woman’s arm. “Now you can tell us where the c-c-camera is hiding.”
She smiles. This is a deep secret, but the need for secrecy has expired. She points at the ancient domed ceiling, and perched up above, like a strange bird of prey, is a black camera with a big shiny eye.
“You needn’t walk me home, I know the way,” says Noga as they leave the Mahane Yehuda market, which at this late hour is already showing signs of awakening. But the defeated extra doesn’t stop. As either an escort or a follower he keeps walking, watching her heels strike the silent pavement, until her steps halt a fair distance from the building, signaling the final boundary of the shared evening. He hesitates, his humiliated desire still stinging, and suddenly he looks at her and wants to know how many strings her harp has.
“My harp?” She is taken aback.
“Yours . . . or in general.”
“Why?”
“To know y-y-you better.”
She laughs, then explains that a concert harp has forty-seven strings, with a range of six and a half octaves, almost as many as a piano. Thus it is possible to play pieces on the harp that were written for the piano, and vice versa.
“So the whole difference is that the piano is lying d-down and the harp is standing up?”
“That’s the small, unimportant difference. The essential difference is in the sound.”
“Why? They both have the same strings, from the guts of animals.”
“Not necessarily. Some strings are made of nylon or metal.”
“Metal . . . ,” he mumbles.
“Of course,” she says, spurred on by his late-night curiosity. “Besides the strings, the harp also has seven pedals.”
“P-p-pedals? Why?”
“To produce additional tones and halftones.”
“How many?”
“A hundred and forty-one altogether.”
He is lost in thought, as if digesting the great number, then studies the harpist with a mixture of wonder and compassion, and declares, “You need to be very coordinated.”
“Yes, coordination, that’s the word. If I miss the right string or pedal, the whole orchestra will notice the mistake.”
“And how long have you been playing the harp?” The former policeman continues his interrogation.
“From quite a young age.”
“And because of the music, you c-c-couldn’t have children.”
“I couldn’t?” She recoils. “Who told you that? I could have, but I didn’t want to,” she says, firmly repeating what she had told him when they first met.
“How do you know you could have?”
“Because I know. I know. My former husband also understood, which is why he left me.”
Darkened streetlights surround them. The moon is gone. No one to be seen. It is the hour of deepest sleep, even in this neighborhood.
“I understand,” he whispers, nursing his humiliation. “I-I understand y-you . . .”
And still he refuses to leave.
“So would you like me to come tomorrow and install the bolt, so the children—”
“Thank you,” she interrupts. “For now there’s no point in investing anything in that old apartment, and I’ll control the children on my own.”
By now the pain of rejection is turning into anger.
“If you never had ch-children, how will you know how to control them?”
“Precisely because I didn’t have children.”
His laugh is short and bitter, and as he disappears into the darkness, she fears that his fondness for her has come to an end.
In the apartment the bathroom light is on. Did she forget to turn it off, or did the little tzaddik slip in during the night to relax in front of the TV?
Fifteen
THAT NIGHT SHE SLEEPS fitfully and migrates from bed to bed. In the morning she phones her mother at the retirement home, and is surprised to have awakened her.
“Yes, I get much more sleep here than I need at my age, and more than suits my personality. I was afraid that Tel Aviv would upset me, but instead I feel serene.”
“And the experiment?”
“The experiment keeps experimenting.”
“You think you can complete it, come back to Jerusalem and decide about the future from here?”
“No, Noga, we have no right to stop it. It’s not fair to Honi, who made such an effort, and certainly not fair to this facility, which gave me such a lovely room without requiring a commitment. No, we mustn’t stop in the middle.”
“But I know you, and you won’t stay there.”
“Don’t be so sure. We have another nine weeks, and despite the tiny distance between here and Jerusalem, by European standards anyway, I’m getting a new perspective on myself, because here I am free of old obligations and superfluous memories. Now I’m fully entitled to sleep deeply, so I’ll also have a chance, like Abba, of taking my leave from you without any long illness or cause for worry.”
“Not a chance.”
“Not a chance? You, with your cruel honesty, may be right, though I get the impression that my experiment is hard for you. You’re already bored in Jerusalem? But unlike Honi, you love the city and are tolerant of our pious neighbors. Honi also told me that you enjoy the little roles he finds for you—that they killed you at night on the beach and you enjoyed lying on the sand and looking at the stars, and that you condemned a young woman to death—”
“I didn’t condemn anyone, I just said she was guilty. That’s all.”
“And you enjoyed it?”
“A little. What can I do, Ima? I’m trying to pass the time until you decide where you want to stay for the rest of your life.”
“And I will decide. I’m not just dawdling, I’m weighing the pros and cons. And you, Noga, please don’t put pressure on me, don’t begrudge me the three months, and then you’ll be able to fly back to the bosom of your orchestra . . . What’s bothering you the most?”
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