A woman in Jerusalem
"The Jews take Jerusalem wherever they go, and the more of them take
it with them, the lighter it becomes," a character in A. B. Yehoshua's
wonderful 1989 novel, "Mr. Mani," explains, speaking of the disjunction
between a symbolic Jerusalem and the actual city. The enormous weight of
Jerusalem as metaphor is everywhere in Yehoshua's fiction; and can be
found again, and powerfully, in his remarkable new book, "A Woman in
Jerusalem."
This novel has about it the force and deceptive simplicity of a
masterpiece: terse (or relatively so, given that Yehoshua's novels are
often long), eminently readable but resonantly dense. Translated
eloquently by Hillel Halkin, the book follows a straight trajectory from
the heart of Jerusalem to the most remote corner of a former Soviet
republic. It has two central characters, one alive and one dead; but
only the deceased is granted a name.
Indeed, she is the only character in the novel who enjoys this
luxury; although technically, her name is not given but restored to her
after a week of anonymity. A recent immigrant to Israel, not herself
Jewish, 48-year-old Yulia Ragayev has been killed in a suicide bombing,
with no identification on her person other than a pay stub from the
bakery where she worked.
A scandal-mongering tabloid journalist writes an expos, about her
abandonment in the hospital, headlined "The Shocking Inhumanity Behind
Our Daily Bread"; but the newspaper releases the article to the bakery
owner for comment before its publication.
The bakery owner, a man of 87, finely described ("his great pompadour
of ancient hair swelled in the muted light like the plumes of a royal
pheasant") does what any clever boss would do, and passes the buck. He
sends his human resources manager - as the nameless main character is
called throughout the novel - to identify the woman and figure out how
her absence went unnoticed for so long.
Thirty-nine, recently divorced, caught in his own small state of
despair, he embarks upon a dogged and epic adventure, first to ascertain
the facts, then to restore Yulia Ragayev's humanity and eventually to
restore her to her family.
As the one who renamed the bakery's "personnel division" the "human
resources division," this weary bureaucrat has the chance to prove both
his humanity and his resourcefulness, an irony Yehoshua manipulates to
strong effect: the resource manager's very namelessness takes on a
poetic force.
The novel's pace is stately but firm, like a funeral procession, as
the resource manager moves first through the bakery, where he extracts a
pained confession of love for Yulia Ragayev from the night-shift
supervisor; then through the city, from the hospital morgue to the
woman's home, a garden shack in a downtown neighbourhood.
In the company of the coffin (and, as it happens, the journalist,
referred to only as "the weasel"), he eventually leaves Israel and
travels to Yulia Ragayev's home country, an unnamed former Soviet
republic numbingly cold in its winter freeze.
The visit begins inauspiciously. The resource manager remains trapped
for hours in the airport with the coffin. In the face of indifference or
hostility from all authorities and kin, including Ragayev's angry
teenage son, he decides to return her body to her mother, in a remote
village several days' journey away: "What a turn of events," he
reflects, "A foreign woman 10 years older than myself, whom I can't even
remember, has become my sole responsibility.
National Insurance has closed her file, her ex-husband has turned his
back on her, her lover disappeared long ago, and even the consul no
longer wishes to represent her. That leaves me in a cold, primitive land
in the company of two journalists who think I'm a story, led by a
teenage boy I'm not sure I can handle. How could I have known last
Tuesday, when I promised to take this woman on my back, that she would
weigh as much as she does?"
How, indeed, could he have grasped the weight of his native city -
which is what Yulia, in her native country, has come to represent? If in
Jerusalem, Yulia is an abandoned corpse, in her native land she carries
both the weight of her death and the full metaphorical burden of the
place where it occurred.
The resource manager, in his turn, is changed by his epic journey,
which includes a turn through an underworld, a subterranean hospital
where he recovers from food poisoning. Suddenly an emissary as well as a
manager, he transforms from a faceless type into a morally engaged
individual, and finally, into a peculiar sort of hero.
"A Woman in Jerusalem" is a novel peopled by ciphers. In his
insistence on the namelessness of these characters, Yehoshua explores
the significance of each person's humanity, the ways in which seemingly
banal details distinguish one anonymous life from another.
At the book's outset, the human resource manager is so detached that
he registers surprise that Yulia was thought a beauty: "He switched on
his desk lamp and slowly studied the computer image. Was she beautiful?
It was hard to tell." This inability to recognize what is immediately
clear to others preoccupies him.
It is ultimately what spurs him - surely not unwittingly - into a
pilgrimage at once Kafka- and Faulkner-esque, as freighted with
symbolism as it is with unlikely, vivid detail. In the end, he has
travelled an immeasurable distance, not only physically, but
psychically; and with Yehoshua as our careful, philosophical guide, we,
too, have made the journey.
"A Woman in Jerusalem" cleaves solely to the resource manager's
experience, with the exception of a series of brief italicized passages
in which various groups observe the manager in his peregrinations, like
a Greek chorus. These interludes are remarkably effective and affecting,
and serve both to grant us outside perspective on this story, and to
integrate it into the daily worlds of other characters.
Spoken by bakery employees, pubgoers, a clutch of young Orthodox
sisters, airport workers or market vendors, these testaments bestow
meaning on the resource manager's story, just as he bestows meaning on
Yulia Ragayev's. In one, Yehoshua even gives voice to "the agents of the
imagination, brokers of phantasms ... here to produce a dread and
marvellous dream. ... Microscopic and transparently elusive, we pass,
tiny dream nematodes, compactions of dissimulation, through the tough
outer membranes of the soul."
Embedded in this simple story are fundamental questions about
identity, selfhood, belonging. Yehoshua, long a master of gentle, almost
Chekhovian comedy, takes in this instance a deeply bleak premise - Yulia
Ragayev's brutal death - and creates from it a work of art by turns
absurd, strange and moving.
In the novel's unexpected but also, surely, inevitable conclusion,
Yehoshua claims Jerusalem as "everyone's" city. While this is the only
moment of metaphorical heavy-handedness in an otherwise perfectly
calibrated novel, it is the logical conclusion of a story about a
nameless Everyman from a symbolic place, one he believes "exists for me
as a bitter reality alone."
Ultimately, unlike "Mr. Mani," this book suggests that while the
city's weight may be universally shared, it grows, for each individual,
no lighter; and yet, perhaps perversely, it leaves us with a measure of
hope.
(The Guardian)
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