In the following days, we covered New York. We went up the Twin Towers and the Empire State Building to look out over the city, sailed around it on the Circle Line, ate steaks at Peter Luger, and even wandered tirelessly through Macy’s.
“I love window shopping here most,” she said during one of our circuits from the 57th-Street galleries to those in SoHo. “The windows – wherever you go – are both crammed and overflowing with ideas.”
“Ideas for what?” I asked naively. “Aren’t the galleries and museums giving you enough?”
“Here, everything gives you ideas. The street, the movement of cars and people, the noise, the windows – you name it. Infinite ideas. Perfect madness!”
Later, we reached the edge of Central Park.
“Look, I want you to photograph him,” she said, pointing to a homeless man who looked completely drunk, sprawled on a city bench.
“I’m worried,” I answered. “He could object, demand money, come at us – you never know.”
“Then give me the camera.” As usual, when it came to art and creativity, she had no inhibitions.
“Take it – but you’re taking a risk. Maybe he’s not as asleep as he looks.”
Reluctantly, I handed her the camera.
Lily circled the man, photographing him from several angles. The camera was loaded with slides rather than regular film.
“We’ve learned a new technique at the College of Art and Design,” she explained when she finished. “You project the slide onto the canvas and paint directly what you see in the photo. And New York,” she added fervently, “is a giant sack of raw material.”
A week later, on the morning of Monday, September 18, 1978, we set out by rental car for Washington. Before we left for the U.S., Noel, a high-school friend, had given me the phone number of a woman named Marilee. According to him, she was a senior secretary for a senator from Wisconsin. Noel pressed me to call her when we reached Washington. “You won’t regret it,” he said knowingly.
“May I speak with Marilee?”
“Speaking.”
“Noel Levin from Israel gave me your number.”
“Noel Levin…” she said in a voice full of nostalgia. “Noel … Noel,” she repeated the name as if sacred. There was no doubt it struck a chord.
“Yes, Noel! He’s a good friend of mine.”
“And mine. Where are you?”
“I’m here with my wife,” I replied.
After a beat, I heard her voice again: “When can I take you for a visit to the House of Representatives?” She didn’t give us a chance to choose another attraction.
“Whenever you like.”
“We’re staying at a hotel called the Johnson, not far from the White House.”
“I’ll be there this evening at five.”
In the afternoon, after we’d had our fill of the Air and Space Museum, the Museum of Arts and Industries, and the Hirshhorn, we returned to the hotel.
“I’m a little tired – I’ll go rest, and then we’ll get ready for Marilee.”
On her way to the shower, Lily kissed me. A few seconds later, a cry rang out: “Michael! Michael!” My heart stopped. I missed a beat or two. She had never called me like that. I froze for a second and then flew to the bathroom.
“What…” and before I finished the question, I saw Lily standing under the running water, blood streaming down her thighs, staining the shower floor.
Lily’s face had always looked fresh, young, even angelic in the shower. This time, the terror in her green eyes paralyzed me.
“This has never happened to me,” she murmured in panic.
