“How was it?” she asked after pulling free from my arms and catching her breath.
“Contrary to all my fears, it was fine,” I reassured her. Later, I told her a little about Rachel. I left my brother the doctor out of the story. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide her illness from him. But everything in its time.
“So, was I dissected at the dinner table?” she asked, half in medical jargon.
“Not just dissected – practically grilled alive. Why do you ask?”
“Seriously…” she pressed.
“I gave them a little information, that’s all. They had other things on their minds.”
“And what exactly did you say?” she insisted.
“My parents didn’t comment about me moving apartments. I think they’re counting on the officer’s course and believe I’ll come back home as a soldier – mainly for the laundry. That’s how it always starts…”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it. Lily, there are things in the world besides our relationship, believe it or not…”
After more kisses and hugs, she insisted we look at thepaintings in the living room. We picked up where we had left off, moving slowly around the room, among the walls crowded with her work, while still holding each other.
“Which painting do you like best?” I asked.
“That’s like asking a mother which of her children she loves the most,” she teased.
“Don’t you think some stand out more?”
“Of course some stand out – but why play favorites?” she shot back, her mischievous smile flashing.
Seeing me study them so intently, she wanted to know what I was looking for. I told her I was searching for something unusual, maybe provocative. She pointed to one canvas.
“You probably mean this one,” she said, showing me a piece with five distorted faces, each expressing horror in a different way.
“Not that one,” I laughed.
“Want to try again?”
“This really isn’t my field.”
“This one’s called ‘Ma’alot’ she explained, pointing to a meter-by-meter canvas, more realistic than the rest.
On the canvas were several dark figures surrounded by red stains.
“It feels familiar. I think I’ve seen this image somewhere before.”
“You haven’t seen this painting. You saw the photograph it’s based on. After the terrorist attack in Ma’alot in May 1974, a picture was published of a brother carrying his dead sister on his back.”
A shiver ran through me. An entire country had wept at that photograph. Her painting conveyed the same terror – raw, almost too real.
“You are right,” I said, and we continued through the crowded room. Some works felt calmer, others stormier. When shenoticed me tilting my head, trying to make sense of her abstract canvases, she touched my neck gently and promised she’d explain. She told me about lyrical abstraction, expressive abstraction, and how every painting had its own system of colors, shapes, textures, and balance – or imbalance. It was obvious this was her true world. If it were up to her, we’d have spent the entire night analyzing her art.
At the end of the “tour,” she suddenly remembered a cake she had baked.
“Want to taste?” she asked. Later, I’d realize she had put enormous effort into baking that cake. Her creativity lived in painting, not in the kitchen.
Later still, as we sat listening to the Beatles, she asked if I wanted to see another painting. Even if I didn’t, she said she needed me to. I imagined she had hidden away a room full of dark canvases, ones she was afraid I’d see. I agreed. She asked me three times if I was sure. She stressed it was unique, impossible to sell, and only her parents and Ralf had seen it.
“Where is it?” I asked.
