“You have no idea. I don’t smoke in closed spaces, and I’m in closed spaces almost all the time. I don’t always feel like it either. And I admit I don’t allow myself to smoke in places where there are cameras. But now I want to and I can, and you were nice enough not to say no.”
“Who dares to say no to you?”
“If there’s anyone, it’s you.”
“Truthfully, my father smokes, too. It reminds me of home.”
They were nearing the cabin. The cadets had already dispersed and Ya’ara knew that this was only the quiet before the storm. Because a storm was going to come.
“Ya’ara Stein,” the prime minister said, looking her straight in the eyes, “we only just started. You have lots of work to do. You know where I’m aiming for. I’m patient. I’m not afraid of taking the long road. What did you say was the name—Sirocco?”
“Yes, Sirocco. Wherever needed, always.”
The prime minister shook her hand and then grabbed hold of her two arms, in some kind of clumsy embrace. And then he shook his head, in surprise of sorts, and walked toward the car that was waiting for him, its headlights on and its engine growling softly. He got into the backseat, and a bodyguard shut the door behind him and got into the front. The vehicle sped off. Ya’ara stood outside for a few more minutes in silence. On her way to her room, she saw Sayid and Nufar having a chat. “Hey, you two,” she called out to them, “wake me up when Assaf’s soup is ready.”
78
ISRAEL MUSEUM, JERUSALEM, APRIL 2015
Several dozen people were gathered in the foyer of the Israeli Art wing. It was seven fifty in the evening. The museum had already closed its doors to the public. Most of the place was in darkness, with the lights on in that particular wing only. To the select group of visitors, the works of art appeared to be glowing in a light emanating from within themselves. From afar, the broad strokes of turquoise in the huge Zaritsky painting seemed to be moving. On display at the entrance to the hall was Yitzhak Danziger’s sculpture, Nimrod, his hand behind his back, gripping the hunting slingshot, and sitting on his shoulder—as if it were a natural continuation of his strong, slender body—a falcon. Despite its modest dimensions, all who laid eyes on the piece could clearly see why it in particular had become the shining example of Israeli sculpture, had turned from sculpture into icon. Standing opposite Nimrod was a tall object covered with a length of white cloth, with two museum guards in position on either side, and the group of visitors milling around it. In attendance, too, were three television crews and several journalists, along with representatives of the museum’s board of trustees who had been invited by the institution’s director, who had refused to tell them anything, and who were willing nevertheless to brave a surprisingly rainy and stormy Jerusalem evening. A small table nearby displayed an array of tall wine glasses, already filled. Accompanied by three of his people, the museum director, who had a fondness for dramatic occasions, hurried to join the group of men and women standing between Nimrod and the cloth-covered object.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in English to his audience, “thank you for responding so kindly to our urgent invitation, which wasn’t, I admit, without an air of mystery. I appreciate the courage you have mustered to leave your homes on this rain-drenched Jerusalem evening. But I don’t want to take up too much of your time with words. Allow me to present to you the new delightful treasure that joined the museum collection just today.”
He motioned with his hand toward the covered object. The two guards removed the length of cloth, and right there and then, before the astonished eyes of the guests, the sculpture Absalom was revealed. The white marble piece stood on a block of light Jerusalem stone, meticulously carved, towering in all its height and rare beauty above the small crowd of people.
“Distinguished guests,” the director continued, clearly enjoying the effect the piece was having on those seeing it for the first time, “this sculpture is the work of renowned artist Yosef Raphael. He never spoke about it during his lifetime, and we, with the exception of one enigmatic remark, were unaware of its existence, although there were those who had searched for it. Raphael did in fact mention it in a single sentence in the diary he kept during his years in England, but because it received just that one mention, and due to the fact that no records were found of any preparatory notes or other documentation relating to the piece, scholars of Raphael’s work assumed that if the sculpture was indeed made, it was lost somewhere in England after World War II, more than sixty years ago. And lo and behold, it turns out that this spectacular work, of which one can already clearly say that it represents one of the high points of Israeli sculpture, does indeed exist, and in perfect shape, too. What we have here is the missing link in Israeli sculpture, offering a thought-provoking interpretation—a wonderful interpretation, if I may—of one of the tragic heroes of the Bible.”
The television cameras focused on Absalom. So full of life was his marble body that one could almost hear the blood pumping through his veins, flowing furiously through the cold stone, while his face expressed arrogance and impatient defiance, along with the acknowledgment of his inevitable fate.
“The statue of Absalom was a gift from Yosef Raphael to Sir Alfred and Lady Sarah Strong, his close friends who gave him the use of a studio on their country estate in the area of Oxford. Sir Alfred passed away many years ago, and Lady Sarah Strong, already in her nineties, approached us a few weeks ago and requested to donate the sculpture to the Israel Museum, so that the people of Israel and visitors to the museum will be able to enjoy it from now on and forever.”
The museum director sipped from a glass of water handed to him by his assistant.
“Lady Sarah Strong insisted on completing the process of moving the sculpture to Jerusalem as quickly as possible. Although she wasn’t able to come here herself, she wanted to know that Absalom had found his new home during her lifetime. We wish her, from here in Jerusalem, many more good years to come, and we thank her for her generosity from the bottom of our hearts.”
The director reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to retrieve two pieces of paper.
“I want to read to you from a letter sent by Lady Sarah Strong and delivered to our chief curator of Israeli art. This is what she wrote: ‘I was visited at my home a few days ago by a young Israeli filmmaker who was conducting research about the sculptor Yosef Raphael, a close friend of my dear husband and myself many decades ago. Her presence in my home reminded me of a wild and beautiful storm, and she left a bold impression on me. It’s rare for a young woman to be able to touch the soul of an old woman like me in such a manner. Her connection to Israel awakened a long-dormant chord inside me, causing me to regret all the years during which I viewed Israel only from afar. I’m too old to travel now. I’m happy where I am. But I wish to return the thing most precious to my heart to the place in which it truly belongs. I have spent many years enjoying life alongside great works of art. And now I’d like to share that privilege with others.’ Distinguished guests, you won’t have to listen to me for much longer. I’m sure you’re all wondering about the young Israeli filmmaker who reminded the honorable lady of a beautiful storm, but I’m afraid we were unable to locate her. Maybe it’s a mystery for you to solve,” the director said, gesturing toward the journalists, who shrugged their shoulders. “Apparently there are still some things in this world of ours that are destined to remain hidden from our eyes. Let me thank you again for your spontaneous participation in this small but significant celebration, and I invite you all to raise a toast to the esteemed artist, Yosef Raphael, may his memory be blessed, to Lady Sarah Strong, who has enriched us with her generosity, and may she be blessed with many more good years to come, and to the mysterious filmmaker, the beautiful storm who unknowingly caused this masterpiece to end up here.”
• • •
Ya’ara and Michael were standing a little to the side, outside the crowded circle of people who had erupted in applause, which the
n turned into lively conversation. Ya’ara gazed at Nimrod, and at the look of disdain he was aiming at the impulsive and beautiful prince who was now standing in front of him.
“I hope things turn out well,” she said quietly to Michael. “I can’t see them getting along with each other.”
“That’s what it’s all about. Two sons of royalty, and now there’s this magnetic field of beauty and competition and stormy emotions between them.”
“Are you talking about Danziger and Raphael or about Nimrod and Absalom?”
“I’m talking about us.”
“Stop it, Michael. You say foolish things and manage to embarrass me.”
“There isn’t a person in this world who could embarrass you.”
“I embarrass myself all the time.”
“I don’t believe you. You found the document, right?”
Ya’ara didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I found it.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“Exactly what needed to be done. I returned it to its rightful owners. We don’t need things like that.”
“Do you know what it contained?”
“Yes.”
“And you took it upon yourself to decide that the Mossad, the State of Israel, has no need for it?”
“Yes, it isn’t ours and never was ours.”
Michael sighed, Ya’ara’s sense of justice had a tendency to rear its head at the strangest times. In fact, he thought, Ya’ara was no less arrogant than the two statues standing before them, and he could clearly picture any artist who tried to cast her image in bronze or sculpt her in marble. Any such statue would fail. She was beyond the reach of artists. In any event, she must have realized that he was trying to get the Mossad to pardon her, and she had nothing but deep-seated scorn for that forgiveness, for the thought that she needed to be forgiven for something. Sometimes I wish I could be a little like her, he thought, and sometimes I thank God that I’m so not. He knew there was no point in pressing the issue. He knew, too, that he would always think about her and him. About her. Ya’ara.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Before anyone realizes that the storm is right here.”
They reached the exit door, the echo of their footsteps seemingly in pursuit.
“Ready?”
Instead of answering, Ya’ara zipped up her coat and hooked her arm around Michael’s, smiling at him, as unattainable as ever.
79
HAMBURG, APRIL 2015
The evening was surprisingly pleasant, the sky clear and filled with stars, which were reflected in the still waters of Alster Lake in the heart of the metropolis. Ya’ara and Matthias wandered aimlessly through the city’s magnificent streets. In less than an hour, the stores would close, the people would disperse to their homes, and quiet would fall over the large city. They stopped alongside the window of an elegant jewelry store. On display behind the armored glass were just a handful of spectacularly beautiful pieces of jewelry.
“Is there anything there that you like?”
Ya’ara peered intently through the glass. “Those earrings: I’ve never seen anything like them. But would I wear them? You have to be a princess to do that.” Ya’ara was looking at a pair of earrings adorned with rare rubies. Set into each earring was an oval ruby with lightly polished edges. The stones were deep red in color. And set alongside each ruby was a circular diamond, too. “Those are very high-quality stones,” Ya’ara said. “The color is perfect. It’s called pigeon blood. And they’re huge. I wonder what it feels like to wear earrings like those. True works of art.”
“Come,” Matthias said, “let’s see what they look like on you.”
They entered the store. An elegant middle-aged woman, with her long hair tied in a bun on the top of her head, greeted them with a pleasant expression.
“Good evening,” Ya’ara said. “We saw the ruby earrings in the window. They’re astonishing. May I try them on?”
The store assistant hesitated for just a moment. She knew she wasn’t going to sell the earrings to the young woman standing in front of her, but for some reason she wanted to see what they’d look like on such a beautiful creature. She could sense Ya’ara’s unique wildness under her icy façade.
The store assistant carefully removed the small velvet cushion with the earrings from the store window. Ya’ara held her light hair back, and the store assistant slipped the earrings into place. Ya’ara sat down and stared at her reflection in the small mirror that was standing on an antique wooden table. For a moment, she pictured herself living a completely different life. With earrings like the ones she had on, she could have been the daughter of a noble family, living on a magnificent estate, discreetly hidden from the watchful eyes of passersby. She could have been a northern princess.
“They’re spectacular, and you are breathtaking. The earrings suit you so well. You’re a very lucky man, sir,” the store assistant said to Matthias. “Hold on to her.”
“Could you tell us, please, how much they cost?”
The store assistant named a figure. The price left Matthias practically gasping for breath. “If you’re taking them out of the European Union, you’ll get a VAT refund,” the woman said.
Matthias pulled himself together. Ya’ara smiled at him and then turned to address the store assistant. “It’s a little out of our price range,” she said. “But thank you. They’re truly wonderful.”
With some regret, she removed the earrings and returned them to the store assistant. “You were very nice and generous, Mrs. . . .”
“Mrs. Zeidel. Stephanie Zeidel.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Zeidel. Stephanie. Perhaps a day will come when I return. You’ve made me happy. And I wish you a particularly good evening.”
Ya’ara hooked her arm around Matthias’s again and they went back out into the street. She appeared cloaked in uncharacteristic cheerfulness. “You were a real hero for not fainting when she named the price,” she said. “But I knew it would be something like that. I was required once to learn a little about the field of precious gemstones. And I knew those were particularly rare rubies. That color? It really is like blood. Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to buy myself jewelry like that one day.”
“You’re an undercover princess, Ya’ara.”
“Come, let’s go eat. I’m leaving tomorrow and I feel like having some fun.”
Two weeks had gone by since Ya’ara called Matthias and asked if she could come to him. “I won’t disturb you,” she said. “You don’t have to make time for me. I simply need a little rest and I want to be with you. I can sleep on the sofa in the library room, okay? Tell me I can come.”
Matthias wasn’t sure. He felt very indebted to her, but he also had too many unanswered questions. And her presence always left him feeling shaken. She was smart and funny and beautiful, but she was also dangerous, unpredictable, and very young. He didn’t know what to do with her, how to behave toward her, and that lack of knowledge caused him embarrassment and discomfort. Moreover, his unfortunate adventure with Martina Müller was enough for him. “Matthias,” she repeated, hearing his silence. “Please.”
He consented, and he knew two weeks later that he had done the right thing. She brought color and freshness to his life. He continued working, and left the house while she was still asleep on the sofa. But there were mornings when she woke early and sat with him in the small kitchen, the two of them drinking their strong morning coffee in silence. There were nights when he’d come home late, and find her awake sometimes, reading a book or listening to music, her face lighting up on seeing him walk in, and together they’d drink a glass of whiskey or schnapps before going to bed, each in his or her own room. He admitted to himself that if she were to ask to come to his bed, he wouldn’t say no. But when she didn’t do so, his nights didn’t turn into long hours of painful longing. There was something calm and quiet about her presence, and he wondered where she hid all the aggression and violence he knew she had in her. He decided to give her what she w
anted. Tranquility and a home and warm friendship.
On the last morning of her visit, she drove with him downtown, and he dropped her off at the central train station.
“Take care of yourself, Ya’ara, and keep in touch,” he said. “Don’t disappear.”
She asked him to get out of the car for a moment, too. “I want to hug you and I don’t need the gear lever poking into my ribs. I want to give you a tight squeeze,” she said.
“These were the best two weeks I’ve had in a long time, and I’ll be back, Matthias,” Ya’ara said as they stood there with their arms around each other. “I feel sometimes that you are my home.”
Matthias hoped that she wasn’t saying such things too lightly, irresponsibly.
“I don’t say things like that very casually,” she said, as if his thoughts were an open book to her. “I’ve never met any other man like you.”
We’ll see, he thought, and ran his hand through her soft hair. “You’re a princess even without those rubies. And seriously, look after yourself. Be careful. I want you to be my friend when I’m an old man, too.”
“I’ll always be your friend.”
She dragged her trolley suitcase behind her and walked into the huge station. He remained standing outside the car, its engine running, his gaze following her light head of hair.
• • •
Suddenly she saw her. A fair-haired woman, like herself, but a little older than she was. A little taller. She caught a fleeting glimpse of her face, just as she turned right toward the platforms, a calm and pretty face, with a large, strong nose, full lips, high cheekbones, and in her earlobes a pair of red earrings, stunningly beautiful and surprisingly familiar. And now she stood and watched as the woman walked ever farther away from her, a silk scarf in shades of orange and gold around her neck, the red glint in her ears. A thought flashed through her mind for a fraction of a second: It’s Tatiana. Her older sister. And then in her mind’s eye for a moment, the woman’s face took on the face of the young girl who was killed in London. But Ya’ara shook her head, brushing aside the childish face that lay in wait for her on the fringes of her consciousness.
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