The Extra (12 page)

The circumcision took place in this very apartment, which to everyone's surprise had room for a multitude of relatives close and distant, of friends and acquaintances. This was after Noga's divorce, but Uriah came to the celebration and stared coldly at the newborn, who slept serenely on the knees of its grandfather, the honored
sandak
, as the
mohel
recommended and supervised by Mr. Pomerantz carefully performed the cut, his long beard brushing the tiny penis. Noga kept her distance from them, but beamed with joy at her happy brother, not least in the hope that he would now leave her be, and also because she had just been accepted as a harpist by the Dutch orchestra.

Now the apartment is empty and she is in charge. And since many possessions and pieces of furniture are gone, the space has expanded and could accommodate even more guests at a new celebration—were there any reason for one. But with her in control, and in the rising heat of summer, the lone tenant can strip off her clothes and walk naked between the rooms before dipping her body into the blue foam.

The waters of Jerusalem feel sweet, since she believes they derive in part from ancient cisterns of rainwater, as her father had taught her. So she lingers in the bathtub that stands on iron feet shaped like the talons of a bird of prey, and every few minutes she sinks beneath the foam, to the sounds of old Hebrew songs on a tiny transistor radio, mixed with an unfamiliar wailing, caused perhaps by weak batteries.

It takes a while for her to realize that the wailing does not originate from the batteries or a remix of the old songs, but rather from actual wailing through the open window, where two little feet in white socks and worn-out sandals are scrambling for a foothold.

“He's going to fall!” she screams and, naked and dripping with foam, leaps to the window and grabs the two flailing feet. Feeling more secure, the child loosens his desperate hold on the drainpipe and lets himself slide to the floor between the wet arms and breasts of the woman. Quickly she returns to the window, expecting to find his guardian behind him. But there's no one on the pipe. It twists its rusty way upward, above it only a patch of sky.

“And this time you came by yourself.”

She leans over the
tzaddik
, who huddles at her feet, his sweat sour, his little hands black from the pipe. She picks him up joyfully, deftly peeling off his gray jacket and white shirt, its filthy collar embroidered with a mysterious pattern. As he struggles, she strips off his worn trousers, hand-me-downs from one generation to the next, and under them discovers a soiled diaper, which she throws in the trash, and pulls the
tzitzit
undergarment, its fringes stuck together, over his head. Naked as a newborn, the boy is propelled through the air, landing in the bathwater, and in her eyes he is no longer a boy but a beautiful little girl, whose two wet sidelocks gather into a golden mane.

Dousing him with fresh water, she diligently purifies his body, no organ escaping the hand of the confident musician, and while doing so she recalls the advice her father gave her mother, to handle the
tzaddik
with care, for he might become the leader of a stubborn religious camp that could topple a government. Sure, why not, let him topple a government, but at least he won't pollute it.

And despite her awareness of her own nakedness, she is in no hurry to cover it up. Boy or girl, she says to herself, why should I not be engraved in the child's memory? And she wraps the clean body in a big towel and carries him, light as a feather, into the living room and seats him in her father's armchair, and he still looks to her like a girl, in whose blue eyes sparkle diamonds of tears but whose little arm is outstretched pleadingly at the black screen.

Television, again? But why not? She switches on the set, hoping the symphony orchestra on the Mezzo Channel will captivate the little viewer with its rich sound. But the
tzaddik
demands the remote control, expertly changing channels, coming to a halt at the Jungle Channel and a troop of monkeys.

In which case, he's not so damaged after all.

Suddenly a frantic pummeling rattles the front door. She wraps herself in a bathrobe, firmly fastens its belt, shakes out her hair and combs it with her fingers, and only then opens the door for the pale and terrified chaperone. She escorts him to his protégé, who sits in the armchair wrapped in a big towel, transfixed by monkeys delousing one another with care.

“He's going to fall and crash if you keep this up,” she scolds, not unkindly.

Yuda-Zvi says nothing. His face is red, he bites his lip, and then, in a heartbreaking gesture, he kneels before the little boy, who is not looking at him, and feels and smells the damp towel. “What is this?” he asks. “You washed him?”

“Of course.”

“Why? What did he do to you?”

“He slid down the drainpipe and came in here filthy and stinking.”

“So what?”

“What do you mean, so what? He had to be washed.”

“How?”

“How? With soap and water. You've heard of water? You know what soap is?”

Shaya's son studies her with undisguised anger.

“And the clothes? His
tzitzit
and the shirt with the special embroidery?”

“Don't worry, it's all safe, except for an old diaper. But make sure, Yuda-Zvi, not to dress him now in those dirty clothes. Take him up to Grandma and change him.”

“He has no other clothes here.”

“Just take him from here as he is, wrapped in this towel, which is a gift to you. But first swear to me on your father's life, the life of Shaya Pomerantz, that never, but never, will you sneak in here again, not through the door or through the window, because if this
tzaddik
were to fall and get hurt, what would all his Hasidim do?”

“They'll find another
tzaddik
,” he mumbles darkly, and measures her with a blazing look that assesses her nakedness under the robe. He's not a child anymore but a furious adolescent, who rips the remote control from the little one's hand and shuts off the TV, strips the towel from the boy and flings it with disgust on the floor, then pulls the screaming, naked child to the still-open door and, without a parting word, takes him up to the grandma who no longer knows she is a grandma.

S
HE WANTED TO TELL
her mother the story of the boy, but then thought better of it. Her mother would not interpret the episode the way she understood it, and she did not want the joy she felt crushed by her mother's irony. And so, after a long afternoon nap, her strange elation still intact, she goes out. She decides to walk to the city center and take in a foreign film, then remembers that the movie theaters abandoned the downtown area years ago and relocated in malls, so instead she heads for the
shuk
, which she had spurned and ignored for years but has lately begun to fancy.

Evening slowly falls in Mahane Yehuda, and Noga feels a strong craving for meat soup, red, thick and hot. So she prowls the alleys in search of that underground dining room, hoping that despite the hour it has not yet been converted into the bar. But the minute she goes down the stairs, her hopes are dashed. The shutter separating the room from the kitchen has been lowered, and the long communal tables have been divided into small tables, with a boy circulating among them lighting tea lights in saucers, resembling yahrzeit candles. Next to the bar are a guitar and an accordion, still in their cases, and the two people finishing their meal are apparently the musicians.

Again her gaze is drawn to the ceiling. The black camera, real or fake, still perches in its place, though the angle of its gleaming glass eye seems to have shifted.

She turns to the candle boy.

“Excuse me, is there anything left to eat?”

“All gone, lady. Come back tomorrow.”

She was about to leave when she notices, not far from the lowered shutter in the rear, the retired policeman, the stammering extra. He sits facing the entrance as if expecting someone, perhaps her.

With a small step she could withdraw and disappear into the
shuk
, but Noga senses that the veteran inspector has noticed her arrival, and that he knows she has spotted him too. Should she disregard him? Elazar sits motionless in his corner, doesn't stand up or wave. She certainly doesn't want to indulge his desire, but is it right to ignore him?

She walks toward him with a smile, but he doesn't move, doesn't seem surprised, as if they had planned to meet.

“I was thinking I could find something to eat here,” she explains. “After our evening, I came back the next afternoon and had a delicious meal. But it seems they close early and get ready for another night.”

“What would you like to eat?”

“Whatever . . . not much, maybe soup . . . something simple.”

“If only soup, that's possible. Come, sit down.”

“Meat soup,” she says, unable to restrain her craving, then backs off. “If there happens to, um, b-be any . . .”

He seems shocked. “M-m-meat?” He echoes her stammer. “Right n-n-now? I d-don't think they have any left at this hour. But s-simple s-soup, maybe hot, thick lentil soup. That won't b-b-be enough?”

“Definitely enough,” she exclaims, blushing. “Of course . . . the meat isn't important . . . lentil soup or whatever . . . thick and hot is wonderful.”

He disappears, and her eyes wander around the gray cellar, the flickering flames adding an air of mystery. The musicians, done eating, take out their instruments and start to play. The cascading notes of the guitar and accordion arouse a visceral nostalgia for her harp, and her eyes well with tears.

The policeman carefully sets before her a bowl of steaming lentil soup and two slices of dark bread.

“How did you manage that? Are you a partner here, or a relative?”

“Neither one, but a police commander, especially a retired one, has p-p-power and influence.”

“Especially retired?”

“Because he still keeps his old contacts and secret information, without being subject to any r-rules.”

She cautiously sips the soup, and the eyes of the eternal inspector follow her spoon as if she were a child who requires supervision. Does he understand, she wonders, that despite his power as a policeman, he cannot touch me?

“And what's happening with the little
haredim
who've been b-b-breaking into your apartment?”

“I think today I stopped them once and for all.”

“How?”

She tells him about the little boy who got a thorough scrubbing.

“That was smart,” says Elazar approvingly, “a good intuition. I know them, and if you, a secular woman, a stranger and not m-m-married, dared, even with a little boy—”

“But an important one, a kind of
tzaddik
.”

“Exactly. So if you, a free woman with no children, t-t-took off his clothes and made him take a bath, that will f-f-frighten not only the boy who looks after him, but the parents, who will finally wise up and c-c-control his misbehavior.”

“And imagine”—she laughs with embarrassment—“when I washed him, I myself, because I'd jumped out of the bathtub to save him, had nothing on.”

“Naked? Better yet,” he says excitedly. “You did w-w-well. And with no bad intent. You were right, no need to call the police.”

“And you believe that this will put an end to the break-ins?”

“I believe it, because I know them. Now they'll be afraid of you. They'll realize that you're unpredictable. But how much time do you have left, anyway, before the end of your experiment?”

“Mine? Not mine, my mother's.”

“Of course.”

“Barely four weeks.”

“So take it easy. And I gather that soon you'll b-b-be away, because your b-b-brother got you a role in the opera.”

“A role in the opera? Ha, don't exaggerate, dear sir, just an extra—a country girl or a Gypsy or a smuggler. And as you yourself told me, with no pay, just three days at a hotel by the Dead Sea.”

“Three days in a luxury hotel with a spa is fair compensation. But if you want to earn good money before you return to Europe, come and join the hospital series. They're already ac-actively interviewing ap-applicants, because they need a lot of extras, so many that they'll even take me, the eternal extra, with the face that graced a thousand films. They'll probably put me on the operating table, or in the m-m-morgue, so that my face won't show, but they need my b-b-body.”

“When is it supposed to start?”

“In a week and a half. They've cleared out a huge warehouse in the Ashdod port and built a set that looks exactly like a hospital. It's going to be an elaborate series with at least twelve episodes, which will of course need a steady supply of patients and their friends and family. Since they haven't yet filled their quota of extras, I took the liberty of putting in your n-n-name. Why not earn some real money before you f-f-fly away from us? The work is on a day-to-day basis, no commitment. You can always c-cancel at the last minute. You're not angry with me?”

“Why should I be angry?”

“That I signed you up as a patient. But if that bothers you, how about just a relative of a patient?”

“No, it actually doesn't bother me to be an imaginary patient for a few days. It'll be restful. But tell me, what's your connection with the business of extras? A partner? Relative? Consultant?”

“C-c-confidential adviser, that's the title.”

He suddenly seizes her hand and brings it to his lips, and she feels his relief. Is he helping her because he hasn't given up on the idea of getting her into bed before she goes back to Europe? And though his hopes are slim, she doesn't, deep down, dismiss him out of hand. But she doesn't want it to happen soon; otherwise, he won't leave her alone. Maybe just before she leaves, as a souvenir of her stint as an Israeli extra, and after all, no stuttering baby will be born as a result.