“What do you think?” Raphael looks past the model at Shona, who raises her head questioningly and crosses the room to join them.
The model points at the sketch, which is well on its way to being a finished drawing. “I don’t get it.”
“I sliced you open”—Raphael inclines his head toward the sketchpad—“from your left shoulder diagonally across your torso and down to your dangly bits.”
Shona and the model peer at the drawing, which takes up the entire length and breadth of the sketchpad. The subject’s face is contorted in an ecstatic grimace. One-half of its body, boldly drawn in thick black, dark blue, and dark green lines, reclines against an invisible wall. Its oversized scrotum, the focal point of the drawing, is carefully drawn in varying shades of purple and deep red, like an overripe fig. At the foot of the drawing lies the other half of the subject’s body, crumpled into a foetal position. And above the whole scene, floating in the distance in the upper left corner of the drawing, is the subject’s pudgy winged penis, looking all the world like a Raphaelite cherub. A group of Raphael’s classmates gather around and stare at the drawing and whisper among themselves.
“That’s quite an imagination you have, buddy.” The model steps away from the drawing.
“Ralph never ceases to impress,” Shona says. “But this is a life drawing class, people.” She looks at Raphael. “Remember, you should be focusing on the model and drawing what you see.”
Raphael steps up to his easel. “I never only draw what I see. I draw what I feel, which is inspired by what I see.” He points at the drawing. “Anyway, it looks exactly like him, doesn’t it?” He turns around and looks at his classmates, inclining his head toward the model, who has taken up his position on the block again. “Well, doesn’t it?”
Some of his classmates nod their heads in agreement, others move back to their easels.
“What are those?” One of his classmates points at a pair of silver tubes that the subject is grasping in each of its hands, little yellow-red-orange flames emerging from the ends.
Shona glances at the drawing again, noticing the silver tubes for the first time, and quickly looks at Raphael, searching his face. Raphael averts his eyes and digs around in his backpack.
A few minutes before the end of class, Raphael breaks down his easel. Shona steps up to him and asks if something is wrong. He whispers that he doesn’t feel well and prefers to leave early considering it’s his last class. He promises to keep in touch, thanks her again for all her support, puts away his easel and the art supplies, and tiptoes out of the classroom.
Once outside, Raphael leans heavily against the door and closes his eyes for a moment, massaging the bridge of his nose. Then the image of the antique candlesticks in Shona’s office comes back to his mind, and his hands go suddenly cold.
He moves away from the classroom, intending to walk down the hall toward the exit. But then he catches sight of the stairs to the mezzanine, and his heart starts to race. He estimates there are still five minutes before the end of class. He thinks he can probably make it up the stairs to Shona’s office in about one minute, in another thirty seconds he could have the candlesticks in his backpack, and he’d have another two and a half minutes to get back downstairs and out of the building.
As his feet move him toward the staircase, he thinks of Shona and stops at the first step. She’s been so good to me; she’s my friend, he thinks. Why would I do this to her? But the image of the candlesticks burns all the brighter in his mind. The rate of his breathing increases and he leans against the wall to steady himself. He closes his eyes and whispers, “Help me, Hashem.” It’s different when it’s someone who deserves it, he thinks. But not Shona. Not Shona. “Please, Hashem.”
A hand touches his shoulder. He opens his eyes and suddenly finds himself inside Shona’s office, inches away from her bookcase.
“What are you doing, Ralph?”
Raphael spins around and sees Shona. Her eyes are glistening.
He closes his eyes for a moment and whispers, “Baruch Hashem.” Then he moves absently past her to the door.
“Do you need something?”
He stops at the door and turns around. “Yes, Miss Reilly, I actually think I do need something.”
She stares at him, her eyes wide and questioning.
“I think I need salvation.”
Raphael bolts out of the art centre and rushes past Gabriella, who is just coming up the steps.
“Rafi,” she calls out.
Raphael halts mid-stride and whips around. “Oh, Gaby, sorry. I didn’t see you. What are you doing here?”
Gabriella comes down the stairs, links arms with Raphael, and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “I told you I was going to pick you up, silly boy.” She leads him toward the sculpture garden in the direction of the parking garage. “How did it go?”
“I said my goodbyes if that’s what you mean.”
“So you’re agreed then?” She stops in front of Rodin’s L’homme qui marche and peers at him. “You’ll go to Israel?”
Raphael nods and pulls her along. “I’ll go. Abba’s probably right. Maybe it’s for the best.”
“Not just Abba. Remember, it’s Ima decision too, and the rabbi’s. They’re all agreed.”
Raphael holds up a hand. “I said I was going. So let’s drop it, please.”
Gabriella frowns and pulls Raphael around to face her. “I’m not dropping anything. When we get home, you’re going to apologise to Abba and Ima, do you understand?”
“Apologise to them for what, pray tell?”
“For earlier tonight, of course. For your disrespect.”
“What about you? You weren’t exactly the meek, submissive daughter. In fact, if I remember it right—and I do—you were on my side.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve apologised. Worry about yourself.”
Raphael kicks at the dirt. “What a total balagan.” He reaches up and readjusts his kippah, then looks back at Gabriella, who is staring at him, waiting for an answer. “Yes, OK, I’ll apologise.” Glancing back at the art centre, he randomly recalls the story of Lot’s wife. Then, linking arms with Gabriella once again, he says, “Yalla, let’s go home.”
As they cross the drive in the direction of the parking garage, a tall young man in a red tracksuit steps out of the shadows. Raphael recognises the swimmer from earlier. He looks at Raphael and then at Gabriella.
“Oh, hey,” Raphael says.
“Hey,” the swimmer says. “What’s up?”
Gabriella cuts her eyes at him. “Who is this, Rafi?”
Raphael forces a smile. “This is a friend from the aquatics centre.”
The swimmer steps forward and holds out his hand at Gabriella. “Hi. I’m Eric.”
“This is my sister,” Raphael says, nodding at Gabriella.
Gabriella looks at Eric’s outstretched hand and back up at him.
“Is this a bad time?” Eric asks.
“What’s he doing here, Rafi?”
“You left these at the pool earlier.” Eric reaches into his pocket and pulls out Raphael’s black Speedos.
“Thanks,” Raphael says, glancing at Gabriella and stuffing the swimsuit into his backpack.
Gabriella opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes her eyes and shakes her head.
“Anyway, bon voyage,” Eric says to Raphael, arching an eyebrow at Gabriella.
“What was that all about?” Gabriella asks as Eric moves away from them down Circle Drive.
“I left my swimsuit at the pool. You heard him.”
“How did he know to find you here?”
“I mentioned I had class here. What is it with you anyway? Can’t a guy have friends?”
Gabriella grasps Raphael by the arm and pulls him in the direction of the car park. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Chapter 3
Raphael pokes his head into the living room. His father is sitting in his leather recliner, studying the Talmud, as h
e does every evening. But for the passage of a few hours, everything looks unchanged from when he was last in the room, except that his father is now wearing his dark blue satin housecoat and matching slippers.
“May I come in, Abba?” Raphael asks from the doorway.
Isaac looks at him over the top of the book and waves him into the room. Raphael walks over and offers the top of his head to his father, who places his hand on the crown of his head and utters a blessing, then kisses him on the forehead. Raphael sits on the sofa opposite him.
“I apologise, Abba. For earlier.”
Isaac sets aside the book and sits up.
“I forgot myself and disrespected you and Ima. Please forgive me.”
“Yes, I forgive you, son.”
“Thank you, Abba.” Raphael stands. “There’s just one thing.”
Isaac nods.
“I don’t want to wait until after the High Holidays. I’m ready now.”
“You mean—”
“For Israel; I want to go tomorrow.”
Isaac shakes his head. “The arrangements, the flight, your aunt and cousins, everything is set for the Sunday after Yom Kippur.”
“Please, Abba. Before I change my mind.”
Isaac looks sharply at Raphael.
“I mean, I’d go anyway, since that’s what you and Ima want. But, inside, I’m ready now. I think it’s best if I go right away. Please, Abba.”
“I’ll need to speak with your mother.”
“Speak with me about what?” Sylvie asks from the doorway.
Raphael and Isaac turn and see her tentatively poised in her wheelchair above the ramp, staring at them from the half-level above.
Raphael stands. “I’m ready to go to Israel now, Ima. I don’t want to wait until after the High Holidays.”
“I told him that all the arrangements are made,” Isaac says. “Plus, I thought it would be good to spend Yom Kippur and his birthday together as a family.”
“If you’re going to send me away, what difference does one more Yom Kippur here make? Better I should observe it in Israel. And never mind about my birthday. If Aunt Penina isn’t ready for me, I can always spend time with Saba and Savta in Jerusalem, and I can go to Aunt Penina’s after.”
Sylvie looks at Raphael, then at Isaac. “Let him go,” she says, unlatching the brake and wheeling herself away from the doorway. “One Yom Kippur won’t make a difference.”
“She hates me, doesn’t she?” Raphael says to his father.
Isaac looks at the empty doorway for a moment and looks back at Raphael. “She’s tired, that’s all. It’s part of the condition.”
Raphael nods and flashes a sad smile. After a moment, the smile disappears. “I want to go to the mikveh tomorrow, Abba, before Shacharit. And I need to speak with Rabbi Mordechai afterwards. Then I’ll be ready to go.”
Isaac hugs his son and holds him close for a few moments, then kisses him on his head.
“I love you, Abba.”
“Goodnight, son.”
* * *
Raphael finishes reciting Grace after Meals as he pushes into his bedroom after a quick dinner of leftovers. He closes the door behind him and surveys his room as if for the first time. He stares at the film posters on his wall, at the framed Dali and Francis Bacon reproductions, at the hand-painted bust of Richard Wagner on his dresser to which he has recently added a pair of fangs, and at his collection of vintage bowlers, trilbies, and top hats crenellated across the crown of his armoire.
He moves across the room with a heavy sigh, simultaneously sliding off his braces, unsnapping the buttons of his shirt, and exposing his tallit katan. Then he absently removes his shirt while running a finger over the books on his bookshelf. An empty space where he keeps his copy of A Clockwork Orange reminds him of his backpack. Spinning around, he casts about the room. Not seeing it, he heads for the door, pulls it open, and finds Gabriella on the other side, her clenched hand raised and ready to knock. They blink at each other and Gabriella holds up Raphael’s backpack. “You left this in the study.”
Raphael takes the backpack from her, withdraws into his bedroom, and tries to close the door. But Gabriella pushes inside.
“I’d like some privacy if you don’t mind.”
Gabriella points at the bag. “I didn’t look inside of that.”
Raphael tosses the backpack onto his bed with a shrug and removes his tallit katan.
“But if I had,” Gabriella says, “what would I have found?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? What’s in Raphael’s backpack?”
Raphael kisses the fringes of his tallit katan and folds it carefully, placing it on a chair. Then he snatches up his backpack and lobs it at Gabriella, who catches it in her arms. “Go ahead and open it.”
Gabriella looks down at the bag.
“Well, go on!”
She pushes the backpack back at him. “Tell me what’s going on, Rafi. None of us knows anymore. Whenever you walk out that door, we never know what story you’ll have when you come back. Nothing adds up. Like that guy tonight waiting for you in the dark. That wasn’t really about your swimsuit, was it?”
Raphael takes the backpack out of Gabriella’s hands and dumps the contents on his bed. He bends down and spreads it across his duvet, a couple of books here, two granola bars there, a bottle of water, a movie magazine, a pack of Kleenex, and a black wallet, which he picks up and holds out at her. “This one’s mine.” He tosses it back onto his bed. “You can search through the rest if you want. I’m going to finish changing.”
Gabriella watches as Raphael steps into his closet for a few moments then re-emerges in his nightshirt and the white kippah he wears to bed. “Still here?”
“You haven’t answered my question, Rafi. Why was that guy there to meet you tonight? I’ll keep whatever it is a secret, I promise. I just need to know.”
Raphael gathers up his things from atop his bed and stuffs it all into his backpack, save for his copy of A Clockwork Orange, which he tosses onto his nightstand. Then he turns to Gabriella. “You’re totally paranoid, Gaby. The guy was there to bring me my swimsuit. That’s it. So lay off and mind your own business.”
Gabriella looks Raphael in the eye. He meets her stare and holds it for several seconds.
“I’m glad you’re going to Israel,” Gabriella says after a moment. “To Aunt Penina’s.”
“Good! Then you’ll be happy to know I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I thought it wasn’t until after Yom Kippur.”
“Surprise! Anyway, Abba agreed. He’s making the arrangements.”
“What about Ima?” Gabriella asks.
“What does she care anyway? She can’t wait until I’m gone.”
“That’s not true!” Gabriella says. “She’s devastated you’re going.”
“She’s devastated I’m still here.”
“That’s an awful thing to say.” Gabriella stares hard at Raphael. “I think going back to Israel will be good for you.”
“I don’t need any improving, thanks.” Raphael moves to his stereo and flips it on. “I’m already the best.”
Gabriella nods. “So you keep reminding us.”
“I figure it doesn’t really matter where I go. I’ll always be the best. Especially in some backwater hellhole like Mitzpe Ramon. You’ll see. I’ll be taking over the place after a while.”
Gabriella turns around and slowly walks to the door.
“You’ll see,” Raphael says again as she slips out of his room. He pushes shut the door behind her and locks it. “You’ll all see.”
Raphael pops an eight-track cassette of Wagner’s Das Rheingold into his stereo, closes his eyes, and lets the first strains of the Prelude wash over him, pushing out of his mind all that has transpired throughout the day. He stays that way until the start of Weia! Waga! at which point he steps deep into his closet and pulls out his seven favourite canvases, which he has painted over the course of the last few
months. He kisses each one of them and ranges them around his room. Then he sits on his bed, admiring each of them the way a parent does a precious child.
He focuses on the largest of the paintings, a self-portrait reminiscent of Michelangelo’s The Last Judgment. In it, he floats naked in mid-air, high above an Olympic-size swimming pool, his arms wrapped protectively around a faceless male figure on one side and a faceless female figure on the other, against a star-filled sky out of which peer the disapproving faces of his immediate and extended family and the members of his community. On his head he wears the silver crown he stole from the synagogue, and around his neck hangs the matching silver breastplate. The look on his face is proud and arrogant, his mouth open, ready to answer his accusers. The painting takes him back to those early days following the theft when everyone in the congregation treated him like a pariah, everyone except the rabbi. He is jarred out of his concentration by an insistent knocking.
Opening the door to his bedroom, he is surprised to find his mother in the darkened hallway. She wheels herself forward until her knees touch his shins and extends her hands. Raphael hesitates a moment, then takes hold of them. They feel warm and moist compared with his own, which are cold and dry. He looks down at their grasped hands trying to remember the last time she touched him, when she suddenly squeezes them tight. His head snaps up, and he finds her staring at him, her eyes narrow and intense.
“I need to speak with you, Raphael,” she says, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
Raphael nods and wheels her into his bedroom and sits on the bed opposite her. She lowers her head for a moment and sighs.
“Are you OK, Ima?”
Sylvie looks up, reaches out and squeezes his hands again. “Your father tells me that you think I hate you.” Her voice is edged with pain.
Raphael locks eyes with his mother. “You do.”
Sylvie holds Raphael’s gaze for several seconds. She squeezes his hands again, this time more forcefully.
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