Free A Woman in Jerusalem by A.B. Yehoshua

him.”
    “I’m not sure I will,” said the resource manager. He parted from them warmly, as if they were newly discovered relatives; moved his car from the building’s parking lot to the far pavement; and returned to the apartment, where he devoured the remains of the pizza and told his daughter the story of the cleaning woman. He even showed her the woman’s photograph in the folder, curious to see how it struck her. Yet she did not seem to have an opinion or even to be listening. Gripping his arm, she pleaded:
    “Abba! Ima will be here any minute. You’re both tired. Why fight again now?”
    “Who says we’re going to fight?”
    She bit her lip and said nothing, while he stroked her curly head to still her fears. In his heart, he cursed the old owner for spoiling their evening. Slipping back into his damp windcheater , he borrowed an umbrella and went out into the rain. Standing in the dark entrance of the house next door, he waited to make sure that his wife arrived.
    The rain was now a fine drizzle. You couldn’t tell whether it was falling or rising, or whether the strange red glow in the sky, appearing behind a large antenna, was natural or man-made. Shivering from cold and fatigue, he stood waiting patiently for the large car that was still registered in his name to swing into the street and pull violently into the vacated parking space. Its driver, apparently unconvinced that the man she hated had departed, left the headlights beaming and stepped out to glance at the apartment, as if to judge from the glow in the windows, or perhaps some other sign, whether he was still there. They hadn’t met face-to-face for weeks. From her silhouette he could tell that despite the weather she was wearing high heels. No doubt she had on an elegant dress beneath her winter coat. And yet, he thought sadly, finding a new man wasn’t easy for her. Whoever she had gone out of town to meet that day must have left her feeling disappointed.
    Well, that wasn’t his problem.
    He needn’t feel guilt for her bottomless anger.
    Or for her sexual frustration …
    Assured at last that he had left, she switched off the car lights and took out a small suitcase. Then, before pressing the remote control, she glanced up once more.
    Even though there were only a few metres between them, she did not notice him standing in the darkness. Yet had she sniffed a familiar scent? Whatever it was, she suddenly stopped and looked suspiciously around before hurrying up the stairs.
13
    Although it was only nine o’clock, the human resources manager assumed that his mother, who was not expecting himthat night, would already have gone to bed. He had noticed that she was sleeping a great deal lately, and since she claimed that her first hours of sleep were her best, he was determined to enter quietly and not disturb her. He had forgotten, however, that in his absence she always put the chain on the door. Locked out, he had to call her on his cell phone and explain what he was doing there.
    She was in no hurry to let him in. As if he were a lodger rather than her only son, she slowly put on a robe and paused to comb her hair before unchaining the door with painstaking reluctance. He had turned her apartment into a transit camp, burdening her not only with his clutter but also with his divorce, which she had done all she could to prevent. For the first time since his childhood, she did not look at him when they spoke.
    Now she took his unexpected arrival as evidence that he had caused yet another family mishap. Instead of helping to put his supper on the table, she went to her bedroom, gathered the still-warm sections of the day’s newspaper from her sheets and blankets, dumped them on the kitchen table for him, and excused herself to return to her interrupted sleep.
    He felt almost insulted. What was the hurry? he asked. The night was young. And he had a story to tell her, something from the office that he wanted to discuss, something on which he would