cloud-stalked moon, clothing flapped lightly in the breeze.
If he couldn’t find some friend or relative to take possession of this woman’s disrupted domesticity, the resource manager thought, he would have to ask his secretary to do it. He was sure she would welcome any task that took her away from the routine of her computer. Meanwhile, he decided, he would at least close the window. He put his gloves back on and – after ascertaining that the symphony would not be ending for a while – went out into the yard. Going to the rear of the little shack, which suggested a fairy-tale hut in its wintry setting of old boards and implements, he detached the laundry line from the fence and gently gathered the rain-drenched, mud-and-leaf-spattered articles, which felt light and intimate to the touch. Back inside, he put them in the sink, wondered briefly whether he had the right to rinse them, then turned on the tap, which surprised him by running hot at once. The neighbour whose storeroom this had been had connected itsplumbing to his own. Wouldn’t the night shift supervisor love to be here! But he mustn’t have anything to do with this. His infatuation had caused enough problems.
The music on the other side of the thin bathroom wall was showing the first signs of resolution. He shut the tap and left the laundry in the sink, already regretting having taken it from the line. He mustn’t touch anything else: no drawers, no documents, no photographs. Suppose the sought-for friend or relative were to turn up and accuse him of theft? What would he say? “Where have you been?” “Why didn’t you take any interest in her until now?”
He sat down again in the chair, one ear on the symphony that was now slowly but surely winding down, and surveyed the dead woman’s domain. Apart from the bed, which she had perhaps intended to return to that fateful morning, everything was neatly arranged. Though poor, she had had good taste. A clean plate lay on the table beside a folded napkin, mute testimony to a never-eaten last meal. Two anemones stood in a thin vase, still fresh-looking although the water had evaporated.
The walls were bare except for a single, unframed sketch. There were no photographs – none of the son whisked away by his father; none of the boyfriend who had left her; none even, of the old mother in the village who had hoped to join her. The sketch, done by an amateur – herself? – in charcoal, depicted a small, deserted alleyway — in Jerusalem’s Old City? – that curved gently to meet the silhouette of a domed and minareted mosque.
The solemn music had become trapped in a frightful dissonance from which it was struggling to escape. As the little radio, in turn, struggled to transmit this, he guessed the composer in a flash. There’s no doubt of it, he thought, conducting with one arm. Who but that stubborn, pious old German would ever be so tedious?
He was pleased at having figured it out. When he phoned the old man, he would surprise him not only with his detective work but also with a discussion of the concert.“Believe it or not, I listened to it while on the job. I just couldn’t tell if it was the Seventh or the Eighth.”
Something about the shack, tucked away in a backyard in a semi-Orthodox neighbourhood in the centre of town, appealed to him. He wondered how much rent its owner had got away with charging. “Yulia Ragayev, Yulia Ragayev,” he declaimed to the empty room. “Yulia Ragayev, Yulia Ragayev.” The death of this beautiful woman a few years his senior, who had passed so close to him without his having noticed her magical smile, saddened him greatly.
The dark, earnest notes of the German symphony, which had reached its final coda, were interrupted by the jingly melody of his cell phone. Fortunately, the caller had patience, since it wasn’t easy to find the tiny instrument in the many pockets of his overcoat. “Hang on,” he shouted as he turned down the music. Yet when he
If he couldn’t find some friend or relative to take possession of this woman’s disrupted domesticity, the resource manager thought, he would have to ask his secretary to do it. He was sure she would welcome any task that took her away from the routine of her computer. Meanwhile, he decided, he would at least close the window. He put his gloves back on and – after ascertaining that the symphony would not be ending for a while – went out into the yard. Going to the rear of the little shack, which suggested a fairy-tale hut in its wintry setting of old boards and implements, he detached the laundry line from the fence and gently gathered the rain-drenched, mud-and-leaf-spattered articles, which felt light and intimate to the touch. Back inside, he put them in the sink, wondered briefly whether he had the right to rinse them, then turned on the tap, which surprised him by running hot at once. The neighbour whose storeroom this had been had connected itsplumbing to his own. Wouldn’t the night shift supervisor love to be here! But he mustn’t have anything to do with this. His infatuation had caused enough problems.
The music on the other side of the thin bathroom wall was showing the first signs of resolution. He shut the tap and left the laundry in the sink, already regretting having taken it from the line. He mustn’t touch anything else: no drawers, no documents, no photographs. Suppose the sought-for friend or relative were to turn up and accuse him of theft? What would he say? “Where have you been?” “Why didn’t you take any interest in her until now?”
He sat down again in the chair, one ear on the symphony that was now slowly but surely winding down, and surveyed the dead woman’s domain. Apart from the bed, which she had perhaps intended to return to that fateful morning, everything was neatly arranged. Though poor, she had had good taste. A clean plate lay on the table beside a folded napkin, mute testimony to a never-eaten last meal. Two anemones stood in a thin vase, still fresh-looking although the water had evaporated.
The walls were bare except for a single, unframed sketch. There were no photographs – none of the son whisked away by his father; none of the boyfriend who had left her; none even, of the old mother in the village who had hoped to join her. The sketch, done by an amateur – herself? – in charcoal, depicted a small, deserted alleyway — in Jerusalem’s Old City? – that curved gently to meet the silhouette of a domed and minareted mosque.
The solemn music had become trapped in a frightful dissonance from which it was struggling to escape. As the little radio, in turn, struggled to transmit this, he guessed the composer in a flash. There’s no doubt of it, he thought, conducting with one arm. Who but that stubborn, pious old German would ever be so tedious?
He was pleased at having figured it out. When he phoned the old man, he would surprise him not only with his detective work but also with a discussion of the concert.“Believe it or not, I listened to it while on the job. I just couldn’t tell if it was the Seventh or the Eighth.”
Something about the shack, tucked away in a backyard in a semi-Orthodox neighbourhood in the centre of town, appealed to him. He wondered how much rent its owner had got away with charging. “Yulia Ragayev, Yulia Ragayev,” he declaimed to the empty room. “Yulia Ragayev, Yulia Ragayev.” The death of this beautiful woman a few years his senior, who had passed so close to him without his having noticed her magical smile, saddened him greatly.
The dark, earnest notes of the German symphony, which had reached its final coda, were interrupted by the jingly melody of his cell phone. Fortunately, the caller had patience, since it wasn’t easy to find the tiny instrument in the many pockets of his overcoat. “Hang on,” he shouted as he turned down the music. Yet when he
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