JACOB�s voice � AISAV�s hands

 

About an hour before the crack of  dawn Uri Ofel woke up terribly scared, the wails of some car alarm system interrupted his slumber and kept on piercing the air with high-pitched sounds. He kept lying in his bed, resigned in total darkness, praying that the owner of that vehicle would get down and put an end to his torments – to this horrible torture.

‘The curse of progress…’ He muttered, ‘an encouraging commencement to a new day…’ He knew he would not be able to fall asleep again, in spite of his tiredness.

A door was slammed in one of the building’s apartments, sounds of running foot steps were heard – and the alarm siren was cut off with the same suddenness, in which it woke him up.

 ‘Thank god,’ he muttered aloud getting up, leaving his bed and moved to the bathroom fumbling his way with his hands; he stood over the sink rinsing his face in the darkness, averting his eyes from the mirror – avoiding the sight of his wrinkled face and his scanty gray hair. After some hesitation he turned to his studio, opened its door, switched on the light. He watched a few seconds his neglected easel, switched off the light, shut the door and returned to his bed.

 

Last night’s events reappeared and floated up in his mind’s eye, very clearly. If he would have left the café earlier, he would have saved himself the shameful and futile humiliation that ensued; but that young chick with her alluring features pinned him down in his chair. With her smiles and her coveting eyes, she swept him with hopes – he thought they might leave togather with his arm embracing her waist, and who knows, maybe this very morning he would have found her beside him in his bed…  

Thus he sat on drinking, and devouring her with his eyes.

About midnight “the state of the art in the field of inventions” entered. A punk whose star had risen just recently. He sticks, cuts, writes essays with his brushes, engraves the canvas with his brushes’ handles, applies color with his fingers, standing, kneeling and who knows in what other postures he rapes his canvases; and the critics are praising him with exhilaration from editorial to editorial, from column to column, while Ofel searches his own name in ink in vain grinding his teeth. Thus when he saw him enter he got to his feet raising his glass with a flushed face and called out: ‘Dear colleagues, I raise my glass to the guide of the baffled, to the distinguished fashion designer, to the road sign that the media has set up for us…!’

As he was about to add some more wise cracks, expecting the roar of a  laughing  wave, that would engulf the joint. But instead to his utter astonishment his mouth was shut, he was admonished and by whom? By punks who didn’t warm their chairs in this joint even one full year! The atmosphere got heated up, an argument erupted with shouts and curses; and as he raised his hand ready to punch, some rushed to keep him and his opponents apart, but at the end he was thrown out on the pavement – right in front of the entrance at the feet of some curious giggling passers-by. He returned home stumbling, drunk almost, humiliated, with a gray face.  

The deterioration process in which he was in its midest, received a real momentum due to this incident. He was not aware to it yet it seemed, but the signs of that process could not be repressed anymore – people kept away from him. When was the last that anyone visited him in his apartment? When was the last time a woman shared his bed…?

The last one of them was a fresh divorcee, an ex model that returned to frequent the bohemian circles. He drew her to himself, did her a favor in fact; that’s what he thought of course, he wasn’t fond of her – she didn’t meet his requirements of beauty, but as his own star started to fade he could not find a better choice. She was his temporary solution ‘better than nothing’, till he would find some young chick, an “Avishag” that would let him to cling to her youth – that would rekindle his inspiration. These were his hops just some six months ago.

But this ‘better than nothing’ as he nicknamed her with his rude humor slammed his door, after a loud quarrel and a short stay. She wanted him to paint her portrait… Her portrait, what did she take him for, and who deals with portraits nowadays. with that archaic decadent art?  But how am I going to show my face at the “Goblet”? He panicked suddenly, awakening from his reflections. Indeed, how should he cross the threshold of that traditional meeting place, where he never missed a single day almost during the last two decades? What would become of his status, his table, his corner, his adherents that swallowed every word of his with thirst. That group of adherent of his, that was dwindling lately, would be snatched no doubt by those young punks that keep pushing him aside.

By god I’m not wiped out yet, I’m still alive and kicking! He reminded himself with vigor. He put on his cloths and turned to his kitchen, tidied it up – collected yesterday’s leftovers in a bag and went with it down. The day lighted up blue bright summer sky, he filled his lungs with fresh air and went over to the yard’s edge. With a very resolute movement he opened up the garbage can and threw his bag inside.

Something must be done! Something that would open wide again my haven’s doors, that would remind the public that I still exist! What exactly it should be he did not know yet, but the right solution would be found. Yeah I’ve plenty of ideas, I’ll get back and settle in my corner as usual, with every pair of eyes watching me, just as it used to be! He kept thinking and encouraging himself.

On his way back he took the morning paper from his mail box, settled in his kitchen and busied himself with his breakfast.

The kettle buzzed on the stove and while munching he passed over the paper’s headlines, yesterday’s incident was not mentioned – it could not be better. But he needs a headline in one of the inner pages, with a few lines in which his name would appear the more the better. He does not need anything more at that early stage…

But how am I realizing it? I’ve got to sit and think the problem over. He thought pouring himself a cup of coffee. There’s an idea and there’s a way… But he must get someone to do the dirty work for him. Doing it himself would be pointless, and he should not risk himself of course. Oh yes, that type that he did employ several time in the past, not for a purpose of that kind, he chuckled aloud pleased with himsefl. That type knows a trick or two and has taken part in some much more serious matters – he served some time too… With these optimistic thoughts Ofel picked up his phone and dialed the number of the certain municipality department where that type was employed.

‘Hello, get me please the head of maintenance and sanitation,’ Ofel asked the operator and till that type would reply, he covered the mouth-piece with a napkin. As soon as the the type muttered a suspicious grunt that sounded like a syllable with a meaning in it. Ofel hastened to suggest: ‘Listen do you want to make some easy money?’

‘Get lost!’ The type retorted and hung up. 

The napkin fell down to Ofel’s feet, alarmed he dialed again, and kept beseeching the operator to get him that type once again.

‘He doesn’t want to talk to you,’ she replied and hung up.

She too, he thought bewildered. ‘What a bloody mess!’ He muttered aloud with anger and frustration. His great idea collapsed before his eyes like a tower of playing cards.

There’s no other choice I’ll have to do it myself, and today, it can’t wait… He concluded gloomily and went out to purchase the few things he needed for that task.

When he returned some two and a half hours later, he waited for nightfall impatiently, ignoring his studio as if it was wiped out from his memory.

 

At seven pm Ofel parked his car some two street away from the certain institute, in which he planned to commit his scheme, and walked on to his destination on foot. Having reached it, he stood on the other side of the road, behind the line of parked cars and contemplated its hall with its transparent front. The place was empty already except a middle-aged clerk on duty, which was seated behind the long counter inside – the only obstacle he has to pass. Half an hour was left till closure time, till this middle-aged person would get up and switch off the lights.

Ofel kept standing in the darkness pondering, whether he should rock one of the parked cars, trigger its alarm system and enter the place through its main entrance in the tumult that would ensue – as the rear one was already shut at this late evening hour. But the noise would catch the passers-by attention, he might be identified while crossing the road, or even before leaving the parked car…

What a miserable plan without the slightest chance to succeed! He scolded himself angrily. But some twenty minutes before closure time the clerk rose to his feet and vanished behind a cupboard open door, the lights were starting to dim out.

Without losing precious time Ofel crossed nimbly the street, entered the place stealthily, crossed the hall, turned to his left and reached a small clearing before a broad mosaic on the opposite wall. After a few more seconds of fast heart beating, he made his way back in total darkness without being noticed.

He walked back through the side streets with vigor and a cheerful heart; he almost started singing aloud “those who sow with tears would reap singing”. He felt like his youth and energy has returned to him, so happy was he. Having reached his car he mounted it and drove straight to his haven, to his sacred meeting place. He did not expect a welcome as he deserves to get, but staying there would serve him as a solid alibi.

At about midnight Ofel returned to his apartment and shut himself in his studio. No muse hovered round his head, but he would better release all the tension that had accumulated in him during the last hours; thus mixing his colors and caressing the canvas with his brushes, he turned his thoughts in his mind and analyzed the possobilities that lay ahead.

Well the switch was set on and the countdown started… He thought with satisfaction. But I’d better be prepared for the morrow. As far as the authorities are concerned I might be one of the suspects, theoretically at least. I must avoid exaggeration. I’ll have to appear as terribly shocked, up to the point of not being able to comment, at the first few moments of course. This would increase the chances that no suspicion would adhere to me publically, and the publicity campaign that I’m conducting from now on, would succeed as I wish it to succeed.

 

The next morning about nine twenty after some hours of tension, the phone rang.

‘Mr. Ofel some horrible thing happened, you must come over immediately, your mosaic was damaged!’ The voice on the other side of the line stammered excitedly.

‘Who is it? Where are you talking from?’ Ofel cried out. In a few more seconds the issue was completely clear to him of course.

Well now after I’ve been informed with all the details and the place whereabouts, I’d better sit down and satisfy my hunger, and let all the dignitaries to arrive before my own arrival. He chuckled rather pleased with himself, spreading butter and honey on a slice of bread.

Hardly one hour passed and Ofel was standing at the storm’s eye among reporters, cops, the place manager and his loyal crew, and even a hoard of curious common citizens, who were crowding the place and shoving and pushing everyone. While Ofel was preaching dramaticly against barbarity, vandalism and the violence that was creeping in our daily life. While answering the reporters’ questions Ofel assessed the damage and gave an estimate of the efforts and means needed for the “restoration”.

‘One might think it’s the restoration of Rembrandt’s “The night watch”, remarked someone with sarcasm.