The Extra (8 page)

“The machine is rejecting me.”

“Impossible.” He places his hand on hers, to pull harder, but still nothing moves, and the same furious gargle is heard. He then slides under the bed to patch a frayed connection. But something goes awry: there is a sharp pop and the apartment is plunged into darkness.

“Be careful,” she says softly.

“It's okay,” he assures her, and springs nimbly to his feet. “Don't move. I know where to find the fuse box.”

And he goes to restore the light.

The bedroom windows are open to the clear summer night. The moon is late to appear, but stars are shining. The electric lights in the neighboring windows are dim, frugal. Her eyes can make out the objects around her, though she has yet to rise from the bed. She is waiting for the light to come back on. But Abadi is finding it difficult to replace the fuse in total darkness. “Your mother doesn't have any candles?” he calls out to Noga, who remains as immobile as the electric bed she lies on.

“What for? She doesn't light Shabbat candles. But the upstairs neighbor has a million candles. Maybe you should go up there.”

“What's her name?”

“Mrs. Pomerantz. She's the grandma of the little bastards. I have no strength for her right now.”

He walks out but does not even try the light in the stairway, despairing of that one too. She sits up in the bed but can't bring herself to leave it. A light begins to flicker on the stairs. Abadi descends, carrying a candle of majestic proportions. She hurriedly gets up to greet him and sees he is not alone. The two boys are following him down with lighted Hanukkah candles in their hands. Brazenly they enter the flat through the open door and stand at attention before the dark, silent TV screen.

“That's it.” She laughs. “No more television.”

“It'll come back,” the older boy says quietly, and the little
tzaddik
turns his angelic face to her, adding, “With God's help.”

I
N THE MORNING
she goes to the bank to check her balance, which is noticeably higher than expected. She phones her brother to clarify if by any chance he might be giving her money she's not entitled to. “You're entitled to all of it, sister,” he jokes. But is it possible that she had made that much for four jobs as an extra? “Apparently you were outstanding,” Honi says, “and they gave you a bonus.” Finally he admits that yes, here and there he “rounds upward” the amounts paid to her. “Please,” she objects, “don't round anything, the experiment is already costing you enough, and I have only seven weeks left and want to live them with integrity. I lack for nothing. I even enjoy running the apartment,” and she tells him about Abadi's visit.

“Fine. And if you need more repairs in the apartment, don't hesitate to call on him. He'll do it all happily. He was close to Abba and he also owes us—Abba promoted him and made him his successor. During the thirty mourning days, after you'd left because of an ‘urgent' concert, Abadi and his wife insisted on bringing us meals, which got out of control, but of course we couldn't offer them to the
haredi
neighbors since we weren't sure if the food was kosher enough. And, of course, the electric bed . . .”

“What's his wife like?”

“Pleasant and polite like him, and kindhearted.”

In the early afternoon Noga goes to Mahane Yehuda and heads for the bar that in the daytime becomes a restaurant. The little nighttime tables have been joined together into long ones covered with checkered oilcloths, and the customers sit in rows, facing one another, all of them male, for some reason—
shuk
people, greengrocers and butchers, workmen and porters, who satisfy their hunger quickly with large, identical servings of warm hummus with mashed hard-boiled egg, plus a red meatball garnished with whole chickpeas and fresh parsley.

She pushes her way among the sturdy patrons, and the moment she sits down and looks for a menu, a plate of the standard meal is plunked down in front of her, with two piping hot pitas tossed alongside and a bottle of soda water with a black straw. She turns to the elderly customer who sits across the way, sizing her up. “What is this,” she asks, “a restaurant or a military base?” He smiles. “A restaurant, but only for believers.” “Believers? In what?” “Believers in the holy trinity of hummus, egg and meatball,” he says, motioning for the waiter to give her more hot chickpeas, which in his opinion are the pinnacle of this dish.

The taste of the hummus surprises her, and she scoops it ravenously down to the last scrap of pita, to the delight and fascination of the elderly man, who resists yielding his seat to waiting clientele.

“And what do you do in life?”

She is wary of replying “Harpist,” and instead simply says, “Musician, a player in an orchestra.”

“An orchestra I could go hear?”

“No, it's an orchestra far from here, very far,” and she tilts her head back and waves a hand to indicate how far away her orchestra is, and suddenly sees, up on the ceiling, the camera with the big shiny eye, still nesting like a black bird of prey. What's going on? What's the truth? Was a film really shot that night? Did it have a plot? Or is this actually a security camera? She wants to ask the elderly diner, but he is gone, apparently rebuffed by her faraway orchestra.

The meal and the afternoon heat make her drowsy. And since Abadi's hook and bolt will not arrive until tomorrow, she blocks the front door with two chairs, locks the bathroom door from the outside, lets down the blinds and puts on a nightgown, ready to dive into sweet slumber in her childhood bed.

But the ringing of her mobile phone persists. She answers and hears a voice she recognizes at once, spoken from a great distance. Manfred, her loyal friend and occasional lover, inquires as to her welfare, and her mother's, and even the welfare of Jerusalem, but his tentative tone suggests he is about to impart painful news.

Yes, she is much missed at the orchestra, especially at the music library. The young violinist filling in for her there made an embarrassing error at the last concert, mixed up the scores of two Haydn symphonies, and only at the last moment was disaster averted. Everyone said that with “our Venus” this would not have happened.

“So far, anyway.”

“Correct.”

“But the repertoire is the same as scheduled before I left?” she asks cautiously.

“As much as possible,” sighs the flutist, “but not entirely. We've had some issues. The Japanese or Chinese virtuoso, I can never get her name straight—the one who was supposed to play the Mozart Second Piano Concerto next week—played tennis in Berlin and broke her arm, and since it's impossible to find a pianist of her caliber on such short notice, we had to replace her Mozart with a different Mozart.”

“It has to be Mozart?” asks the harpist fearfully. “Surely it can be something else.”

“Impossible. We've advertised it and made the commitment that at every concert this season there will be a work by Mozart that the orchestra hasn't played recently, following the complaints that our repertoire is too repetitive. You know this—you were at the general meeting.”

“I don't always understand everything you say in Dutch.”

“That's that, Noga. We had to find a work by Mozart that hadn't been played in some time, and we thought—”

“No, no,” she cuts him off with sudden horror, “don't tell me.”

“Yes,” he mumbles, his voice trembling. “No choice, because we haven't played the Concerto for Flute and Harp in C in the last ten years.”

“But it's my concerto . . . mine and yours . . . ours . . .”

“Of course, ours. I even said that to everyone: Let's wait for Noga, for our Venus, I promised her, and she knows the score by heart and is ready at any time . . . And if this were just one concert, it might have been possible to ask you to come back for a few days, but this is a whole tour, ten concerts for our subscribers in the Netherlands, Germany and Belgium. How can she—this is what management said—leave her mother, who must decide within three months where to die, Jerusalem or Tel Aviv.”

“To die? Why die? How can you talk like that?”

“Sorry, sorry, not to die, but of course to live. To decide where to live, Jerusalem or Tel Aviv, as you explained to us when you requested this long leave of absence.”

“But how did you find another harpist who could do this concerto?”

“We found one. Admittedly not at your level, but we found her. Christina van Brienen from Antwerp. She has played the concerto in the past and happens to be available.”

“I never heard of her. How old is she?”

“Your age, maybe a bit younger. She teaches at the conservatory there.”

A long silence.

“Noga?” the flutist whispers. “Are you with me, my dear? Are you listening?”

“You betrayed me, Manfred. You are an immoral person.”

“What?”

“You betrayed me, Manfred. You promised and I trusted you, and now you're stealing what is precious to me and giving it to another woman.”

“But it's not me, Noga. Why me? It's all because of that stupid Japanese pianist who irresponsibly played tennis. Have you ever heard of a pianist playing tennis?”

“It's not the pianist, it's you. You. And I'm miserable now because I relied on you. You're the first flutist of the orchestra, you've been there a long time and have status. You could have told management that you will not play the Mozart concerto with anyone other than the harpist of our orchestra. You betrayed me, Manfred, just like all the Dutch did.”

“Did what?”

“Betrayed the Jews.”

“The Jews?” He is shocked. “Where did that come from, the Jews? No, Noga, don't be angry with me. It hurts you, and it hurts me. The members warned me: Don't tell her now—when she gets back it'll be a thing of the past. But I didn't agree, because I'm an honest man and I have to tell the truth, and after all we will play again in the future, other works, maybe more modern, something wilder, there will always be new pieces for flute and harp, it's such a special combination.”

A long silence.

“Noga?” He calls her name, concerned that she may have hung up.

But she suddenly challenges him.

“And if I agree to come right away to Arnhem and commit to all ten concerts?”

She immediately senses the confusion of the flutist, who stammers uneasily: “Right away? How? And without any rehearsal? And what will we do with Christina, who became available just for us? No, my Venus, it's too late.”

N
OT UNTIL THE EVENING
did she manage to collect herself and call her brother to tell him about the loss of her concerto. “But please,” she warned, “don't start cursing the Japanese pianist, she's not the guilty one. I'll deal with the actual guilty party, and you, Honi, just help me with a small compensation—say, Georges Bizet in place of Mozart.”

“Georges Bizet?”

She tells him about the production of
Carmen
to be staged at the foot of Masada, for which, she has been told, female extras are needed, women not necessarily young who know how to listen and respond to music. This job comes without pay but provides a hotel room by the Dead Sea, and of course the enjoyment, three times over, of the opera itself—the singing, dancing and marvelous music. Yes, the Jerusalem apartment will have to remain empty for three days, but if Ima is worried, she can take her place. Three days in Jerusalem will do her good.

“No,” Honi says firmly, “she absolutely must not go back to Jerusalem, not even for three days. The experiment must maintain its integrity. Every day in the assisted living facility is important. Returning to Jerusalem might set her back. Don't worry about the apartment, but rather about yourself, and I will arrange the job at the opera, and you'll enjoy the job as well as the hotel and the desert. And we, Sarai and I, will buy tickets and come and see you. And even if Shaya's little
haredim
sneak into the empty apartment, it's not the end of the world, you know. Sure, let them watch as much TV as they want, forbidden shows, let them see sex and violence, maybe that way they can break free of their father's Hasidism.”

“Listen to yourself,” Noga scolds him, half seriously.

The next day, in the early evening, Abadi arrives with a large tool chest. First he takes care of the front door. He removes it from its hinges, planes and straightens it, so the new bolt can do its job properly. And lo, the job she had thought would be simple is not so simple. She stands beside him throughout, to hand him tools and to be amazed by his manual dexterity. “I thought you were just an engineer, but I see you're also a carpenter,” she says fondly.

Once the big bolt is in place, she offers him something to eat, though not at the level of the meals his wife had brought during the shiva—just a simple sandwich she had prepared beforehand.

Abadi wonders whether she had really eaten any of the food his wife had brought, for he doesn't recall seeing her when the gravestone was unveiled at the end of the thirty days. Or perhaps his memory fails him.

No, his memory is fine. It's true, she didn't stay for the full mourning period; after a few days she had to return to Europe. The sudden death came while her orchestra was touring, and because the program included two works with important parts for the harp, and no substitute could be found, she was forced to leave her mother and brother during the thirty days.

But something is bothering Abadi.

“Excuse me, in which works of music is the harp so vital? I usually don't hear its sound.”

“You apparently don't really know how to listen,” she chides the engineer. “But if you were to remove the sounds of the harp from a symphony by Mahler or Tchaikovsky, it would totally flatten the tone and resonance.”