“These sound like terms, Yossi.”
This time it was Ellerstein who said nothing, letting his silence do the talking.
“Okay,” she sighed. “I get the picture. Actually, I think I can say all those things. I have no idea if any of it will work, but I think I am ready to change course. Or at least try.”
“That’s wonderful, Yehudit. It sounds to me like talking to the American must have been therapeutic.”
“I suppose,” she sniffed.
“Ah, yes, well, one step at a time. I have to go now. Oh, one last question. Please forgive the further intrusion.”
“Yes?” Now what?
“Will you be seeing the American again?”
“I should think not!”
“Right. As I said, forgive—”
“Now who’s being a nosy old man, Yosef Ellerstein?”
“Just so, Yehudit. Shalom Shabbat. And don’t let that Skuratov guy get to you.”
She hung up the phone, but not without a small smile. A nosy old man, indeed, but with a good heart. Yosef Ellerstein had been a valuable contact at the IAA, and she had sought his advice even before that. An American transplant, he had an amazing network of friends in academia and in the government, and a tremendous reservoir of political wisdom to share. She had thought at first that he might be interested in her as a woman, although he was very much older, but he had never directly shown it if he was. He lived alone, and even though he was not an archaeologist, he was a leading light in the currently very disputatious field of the origins and ownership of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Right now he would undoubtedly be calling the chairman back to relay the message. You can relax, Armin. The Ressner will play ball. The meeting Monday should now be pro forma.
She felt relieved as she gathered up the clothes basket. But then you’ll have to go through with it, you know, she thought. She stared out the kitchen window at the white brick wall of the building next door. Like a blank sheet of paper. A good metaphor for the rest of her life, perhaps? Well, maybe it is about time, she thought. She looked around the apartment. You know what? I’m going to move house. I’m going to find somewhere new to live. New life, new house. Maybe get out of Jerusalem with its crowds and tension. Money was not that big a problem. Maybe she would go back to the Carmel. Buy a real house this time, with a garden. A place for what — solitude? No. That way lay madness.
From now on she would have to avoid solitude. Joining group projects, as Ellerstein had suggested, would be one way. She hated group efforts, feeling that the product too often was only as good as the least intelligent voting participant, but she could understand how that attitude probably infuriated her colleagues. Beyond that, she knew the hard part would come when, by her new behavior, another signal went out to the community of men at large. That she was socially available. Back in the marketplace. A new loaf of bread in the window. Well, maybe not so new, but still, like some kind of commodity. She knew already how some of her compatriots on the faculty, the so-called Shot-downs, would react to that news. She wondered if she could still attract a man beyond the allure of her physical looks, to the point of having a relationship. She shook her head. She recognized that her heart was not yet in this transformation project. I’m just going through the motions, and anyone who gets close will realize that. That will keep me safe.
Except that Mr. David Hall had been attracted. At least she was pretty sure he had. She’d kept him at definite arm’s length, and yet he had persisted. Even yesterday, in the car.
She took the laundry basket into her bedroom and began to put away the clean clothes. Her enforced solitude had kept Dov too much alive for her to just go out with the first man who asked her. She sensed that David Hall had been ready to ask her, but even as she thought about that, she felt another flare of anger at his deception.
Then again, was it really such a big deal? He was, after all, an American, a man with money, a nuclear engineer, and someone used to a little bigger picture than the million pettifogging rules and regulations of tiny Israel. He probably felt they were all being a little bit ridiculous. Masada had survived the physical ravages of twenty centuries of sitting totally exposed under the relentless sun of the Judaean desert. What did it matter if one man took a walk at night, among the stones and the bones, as he put it. Even old Ellerstein had picked up on it: Will you be seeing him again? There was no way, of course. Not after what had happened, and especially after the very cold shoulder she had given him on the way back. Which he richly deserved. She finished putting away the laundry and then went to make a sandwich and to ponder the prospect of starting life over again.
She dismissed all thoughts of Colonel Skuratov.
Ellerstein hung up the phone and reached for his private phone book. He found the special number and dialed it. A man’s voice answered after one ring.
“Israel Gulder’s office; may I help you?”
“This is Ellerstein.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Tell him I have spoken to Yehudit Ressner. There is nothing to worry about. The American is harmless.”
“He has been told there was a problem. Some unauthorized excursions.”
“It was no more than what the American said he came here for. To go up there and be alone with the spirit of the place. Unless they report something missing or disturbed, I think it was nothing. However, there is one discordant note.”
“Which is?”
“I have found out that a Colonel Skuratov, supposedly of the Dimona laboratories, came to see Ressner before she went down to the site.”
There was a silence, and Ellerstein gave the man time to take his notes. “Yes, go on?”
“He told her the IDF was concerned about this American. Gave her a lecture on the sanctity of Metsadá. Asked her to keep close watch on him. Gave her a card, asking — no, ordering — her to call him if anything went astray. Which, in a manner of speaking, it did.”
Another moment of silence. “I have that. Did she call him?”
“She says she did. Left a message. He hasn’t contacted her, and the thing’s blowing over anyway. The American is supposedly going diving at Caesarea. Still, for what it’s worth…”
“I have it. Anything else?”
“I can’t think of anything. I’m going to assume we’re done with this thing, unless I hear otherwise. Will he want to talk to me tonight?”
“I couldn’t say, Professor.”
The man hung up, as did Ellerstein. He sat at his desk for a few minutes, wondering if indeed the American was harmless. Yehudit had sounded angry, or, more likely, a little bit hurt, which meant that they had struck a personal spark of some kind. He frowned when he realized that he had hoped they might do just that. The American had better not be playing games, especially with Yehudit’s heart. This was a terribly vulnerable time for her, a fact of which this American oaf was probably unaware.
The man had wanted to conduct a vigil up there at night. That was perfectly understandable. Ellerstein had done the same thing as a young army officer candidate, and the majestic tragedy of what had happened there made the vigil a soul-stirring experience. He didn’t know what this Skuratov’s problem was with Masada, but he did not want the Russian picking on Yehudit. He shook his head. Skuratov was probably Shin Bet, and they were all anal-retentive nitwits. He looked up the chairman’s number to give him the good news about Monday’s meeting. As he was about to place the call to leave his message, the phone rang.
“Shalom,” he intoned. “This is Ellerstein.”