Free A Woman in Jerusalem by A.B. Yehoshua Page B

Believe me, her ordeal is over.”
    His mother said nothing. She took off her glasses, stubbed out her cigarette, reached for the review section of the newspaper , and headed for her bedroom. Going into the bathroom to check the water, he discovered it was cold here, too. Well, his mother had not known he was coming. He switched on the old boiler, put some water on for tea, and glanced at the front section of the newspaper. Then, before his mother couldturn her light out, he went to ask for the sports section. Had she already thrown it away? He addressed her timidly; even now, their eyes did not make contact.
    “You must think something. I mean about that picture.”
    She preferred not to answer. “It’s hard to say. It’s so small …”
    “Even so.”
    She hesitated, weighing her words. “Your boss’s office manager may be right. There’s something about her … especially the eyes … or maybe it’s her smile. It’s like sunshine. ”
    A wave of chagrin swept over him. For some reason, it grieved him to be told that the woman was beautiful. His mother, who seemed to know this without looking at him, tried retracting her remark, then gave up.
    “Should I leave the light on for you in the hallway?”
    “Why? Are you going out again tonight?”
    “Yes. There’s no hot water for a shower.”
    “How was I supposed to know you were coming?”
    “You weren’t. I’m not blaming you.” He shifted his weight to his other leg. “While the water is heating, I’ll run over to the morgue. Maybe I can find someone there to take her off my hands.”
    “At this hour?” She sat up in bed. “Don’t you think it’s rather late?”
    “Not really. It’s just a little after nine.”
    “What hospital is she in?”
    “Mount Scopus.”
    “There’s a morgue there?”
    “You’re asking me? So I’ve been told …”
    She was beginning to feel sorry for him.
    “Perhaps you’re right about putting it off until tomorrow. That wouldn’t be so terrible.”
    “ Now you tell me that?” he snapped. “After first making me feel all that guilt?”
    He turned out the light.
14
    Sometime before 10 p.m. he appeared at our security hut, a stocky man with a hard, weary face. Although the storm had subsided, in his winter overcoat, galoshes, gloves, and yellow woollen scarf he seemed prepared for more bad weather. And yet he was bareheaded. Before he could say a word, we searched him for guns and explosives. “You want the morgue? At this hour? ” He said he was looking for our director, assuming there was such a person.
    That gave us a fright. Had there been a new bombing we didn’t know about? But no, he had come, so it seemed, in connection with last week’s bombing, which no one remembered any more. He waved a thin folder and said that he had discovered the identity of a woman killed in that bombing.
    “We’re sorry, sir,” we answered, “but it’s after visiting hours. You need special permission to be admitted at night.” Yet after he showed us his ID card and told us he managed the personnel department of a bakery that supplied half the country with bread, we said, “More power to someone like you, who with hundreds of people working under him, still comes to ask about a temporary cleaning woman – a dead one, in fact.” He liked that. Then he asked again how to get to the morgue.
    How could we tell a personnel manager where it was when we ourselves, in all our years of working here, had never been there? We had to call the emergency room and ask for directions.
    Although the directions did not seem complicated, he was soon wandering up and down hallways and stopping interns and nurses, who had only the vaguest idea of where the dead were kept. Finally, hoping to find someone who was better informed, he went to the main office. The woman at the desk already knew about him. Not being authorized to receive his report, however, she drew him a map to help him reach the morgue and promised that somebody would be