The Clay Urn Page 5

  “You sure you can afford this?” Ilana asked her grandparents.

  “He lives for this,” her grandmother said.

  “I’m gonna make a painting for you and grandpa.”

  Her grandfather turned to his wife and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Dis is good.”

  Ari did not get out much on the weekends to see Ilana during officer training school. His written communication to her became less frequent as his responsibilities intensified. They were shorter, compressed with facts and different from the thoughtful prose of his earlier letters. She received a letter a week before her planned departure. It made her uneasy. He wrote about a soldier under his command killed by friendly fire.

  This is difficult for me, he wrote. It was a night raid, dark and chaotic. Shots banged off walls. I remember the blackness, the long hallway. We didn’t know what or who was at the other end. The suspect escaped. I wake at night from sounds of breaking glass. I’ll be out next week. Please come to Jerusalem. We can spend the weekend together.

  Ilana was excited to see Ari and have dinner with his mother. Ilana grew fond of Shira during the past year and loved her cooking. She made Ari stop at the market on the way to Shira’s apartment to buy her a bouquet of flowers. “They’re beautiful, Ilana,” Shira said.

  Ilana watched as she cut them and placed them in a vase. She imagined Ari’s mother to be very beautiful when she was younger.

  “Ari tells me you have such an imagination. He is really impressed with your art,” she said to Ilana. “I’d love to see your work.”

  “I’ll make something for you one day.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  During dinner Shira was more quiet than usual. She stared at the pot of stew in the middle of the table and Ari did not look up from his plate. Ilana felt tension between the two of them and sensed they might have argued earlier in the day.

  “Mom, we are gonna take a walk. We’ll be back later.”

  “Okay. Be careful.”

  “Be careful of what?” Ari said. “Just to be careful.”

  Ari pushed his chair away from the table.

  “Let’s get outta here.”

  Ilana felt uneasy.

  “Let’s clean up first,” she said to Ari.

  “It’s Okay,” Shira said to Ilana. “You go and enjoy the evening.”

  Ilana walked over to Shira and put her hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. It was really delicious.”

  A warm breeze pushed through the ridge of the city. Ari reached for Ilana’s hand. They walked through the narrow streets of the Yemin Moshe neighborhood and down to the Valley of Genome where they found a large sprawl of grass to sit on. The moon’s bright glow reflected off the stones of the old city walls above them.

  “I miss you,” Ari said.

  “I read your letter. Want to talk about what happened?”

  “Maybe later.”

  Ilana closed her eyes, breathed in and let the sweet scent of thyme and rosemary fill her lungs. She felt uneasy but knew she had to tell him about her decision before returning to Tel Aviv.

  “I’m going to New York.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I want to spend some time painting.”

  “You can do that here.”

  “It’s not the same. Besides, it’s only for a year.”

  Ari squared up in front of her face.

  “That’s a long time. You know things are tough for me and it’s not like I have lots of people that I can talk to. I barely talk to my mom these days, and most of the time it ends up in an argument.”

  She exhaled, pulled at a piece of grass and flicked it into the air. She watched as the grass sailed across the lawn and out of sight. She wanted him to say that he’d miss her, but he’d be fine, and if this is what she wanted then he’d be there for her when she was ready to return.

  “You can always call me.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “What if I gave you the name of a therapist. Would you call her?”

  “Why?”

  “To talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Stuff.”

  “I talk to you, Ilana. That’s good enough for me.”

  The attraction that pulled her towards him at the grocery store a year ago had evolved. Ilana understood that the path to a future with Ari would be tied to his ability to empathize with his mother. He needed to endure difficult conversations with her that might end in flare ups and possibly deeper resentment, but she was hopeful that ultimately there would be a shift. This would take time and sacrifice. Ilana waited for signs.

  Later that week Ari called Ilana from his base to say goodbye.

  “Hey,” Ilana said. “How are you?”

  “Counting the weeks before I get out. My mother wants to organize a party for me next month.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I told her not to bother.”

  “Why shouldn’t she?”

  “Don’t know? Just came out like that.”

  “You should let her do what she wants. It’s important to her.”

  Ilana looked up at the white ceiling and noticed a fly had landed near the light.

  “I didn’t want her to go through the motions and stress out, and then be a no-show the day of. I went shopping Saturday night after I dropped you off at the bus station, and when I got home I heard her crying in her room. It was bad. She was calling out my dad’s name. I know I really hurt her.” Ilana inhaled, pushed the receiver cap close to her ear and swiveled the handset so the transmitter was away from her mouth.

  “It’s a small breakthrough, Ari,” she whispered.

  There was a long period of silence. The clear connection was interrupted by increasing crackling sounds moving through the phone lines. She laid her head on the pillow, looked up at the ceiling and closed her eyes. She saw Ari, his arms extended wide, walking inside a long tunnel. Stepping slowly to balance himself he moved towards a beam of light streaming through the opening at the far end of the tunnel.

  “You there?” Ari said. “It’s hard to hear you.”

  There was a ticking sound moving through the lines followed by the wailing sound of a child.

  “Ilana. You there?”

  Ilana watched the fly walk across the ceiling towards the window. She knew it would be difficult to leave Ari, especially at this time, but felt it was what she needed. The interference dropped and the connection cleared.

  “I suffered also,” he said. “You try growing up without a father.”

  Ilana found a small apartment in the East Village and shared one bedroom with a girl from Ohio. Her roommate helped her land a job at a restaurant, and by the end of her first month she had enough money saved to pay rent and purchase canvases and paint. Every time Ilana pushed open the metal doors of her apartment building and walked down the cement steps to the streets, she felt the rush of the city’s energy pulsating from the streets. She loved drawing the people that hung out in Tompkins Square Park. She was intrigued with the punk scene and the youth that came to New York City, like her, to escape the boredom of routine and the intensity of familiarity. One evening after sunset, when the park became overrun with rats and drug addicts, she packed up her sketchpad and pencils and walked through the grittier parts of the East Village across Houston Street to the Lower East Side. There was a long line of punks waiting to get into CBGB’s. She exhaled and pushed her way through the crowd.

  “You gotta ticket?” one of the punks asked.

  “No. No, I don’t have a ticket.”

  “You wanna ticket?”

  “No, I don’t want a ticket.”

  His blue eyes flashed at her face and stayed for a moment longer than she was used to.

  “You sure?”

  She watched his jaw flex as he spoke. Thick veins criss-crossed his muscular arms. “Who is playing?”

  “The fuck it matters.” />
  His head and arms twitched with the rhythm of his speech.

  “Well, yes it does,” Ilana said.

  “I’ll tell you this, you’ll never forget ‘em. How’s that for five dollars.”

  Grinning, she stared into his eyes and pushed her hair off of her face.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She crossed over Houston Street and found an open stool at a cavernous bar called Artists Only. A woman with silver spiked hair wrapped her arms tightly around another woman. Her partner peered out from beyond the spikes and looked at Ilana. A middle-aged man in a three-piece suit scolded his partner, who watched another man with a cut off t-shirt fly through the entrance door and move towards Ilana. The swirling air sucked the oxygen out of the crowded space and made the windows shake. Ilana’s ears popped.

  “You know where Tommy-O is?” said the man with the cut off t-shirt.

  “What, no. I don’t know. Who is this Tommy-O?”

  He bounced onto the empty barstool next to Ilana. “Where you from?” he said.

  He wore green military pants tucked into black boots. His straight black hair was piled high and slicked back. Ilana stared at the greasy lines left behind by a wide tooth comb and at his pockmarked face and green eyes. She wondered if the news was true of an Israeli clamp down in the territories. Did Eyal ever apologize to the Palestinian father he pushed. She dropped her hand to her hip and remembered the cold steel of her machine gun.

  “Mexico.”

  “I thought so.”

  He swirled off the barstool and disappeared into the crowd.

  “You want another one?” the bartender asked. “Sure, one more.”

  She removed her sketchpad and pencil and sketched the scene. It appeared the man with the cut off t-shirt found Tommy-O. They whispered something, looked back at the bar, and found a seat next to Ilana.

  “This is Tommy-O,” he said while pinching his nose.

  He pointed to her sketch pad and squinted.

  “This me?”

  “Sort of.”

  “It’s good.”

  Ilana tipped her glass and banged out the last drop of wine. She looked out from inside the glass. The two men were watching her shirt stretch as she leaned further back. She liked the edginess of the bar, but was unsure of the two men.

  “You want another one?” Tommy-O said. “No. I’m done for now.”

  The humid air pushed down on her bare skin. She lit a cigarette and retraced her steps back to the punk club to look for the boy selling tickets. She stopped at the corner of Houston Street and Avenue A and waited for the light to change. A young couple sat at an outdoor café drinking wine and laughing. She closed her eyes and inhaled. The warm breeze touched her skin and blew her hair off her face and bare shoulders. She remembered the still morning in the white room on the kibbutz. Her hunger and the sound of chirping birds in the bush below the window. She breathed in, removed a map from her back pocket and held it close to her face. The street lines slowly blurred. She stretched the cloth from her halter top to reach her eyes and wipe away the tears that pooled around them.

  “This yours?”

  Ilana quickly turned and saw a dark-skinned man bending over and picking up a pack of cigarettes. He was toned and muscular and had a soft voice.

  “What?”

  “This pack of cigarettes. Is it yours?”

  Ilana patted her back pocket.

  “Yes. It is.”

  The man removed a small pack of tissues from his pocket.

  “I’ll trade you this for a cigarette.”

  “Thank you, but there’s only one left.” Her eyes slowly scanned his face.

  “You lookin’ at something?” the man said.

  “No, just wanted to…”

  “To what?”

  She turned her ear towards him to follow his vocal inflections.

  “Where you from?” he asked.

  On his black t-shirt was a worn image of Bob Marley.

  “Asia.”

  “Asia?” he asked.

  “Yep. We also love Bob Marley where I come from.”

  “Where in Asia?” he said.

  “The Middle East.”

  “You Israeli?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m heading to the store to get some cigarettes.”

  “So why did you ask me for one?”

  “Guess I needed to move my mouth a bit.”

  Ilana smiled. “Nobody is talking to you today?”

  “Something like that. My name’s Gabriel.”

  “I’m Ilana. Where are you from?”

  “Africa.”

  “Should I guess which country?”

  “If you guess right, the Marlboros are on me.”

  She stepped back and inhaled. His aroma filled her lungs. She looked at his arms and hands and the red paint in the gap between his thumb and index finger.

  “Senegal,” she said.

  His dark eyes opened wide.

  “Oh, my lord. You Jews are so smart. Okay, come on. My treat.”

  They walked up Avenue A to a small store crammed with tobacco products.

  “You’re a painter?” she asked.

  “Yep. I’m working on a solo exhibit set for next year.”

  “Impressive.”

  “It will be at the Nigerian Cultural Center. What about you?”

  “You said you’re from Senegal.”

  “Well, I needed to move my mouth a bit. Americans don’t talk to me. Besides, if you didn’t win the bet you’d be gone, right?”

  “You Nigerians are so smart.”

  “Here’s your Marlboros, and here’s the address of my studio. You come by anytime and tell me what you think of my work.”

  “Here’s your tissues,” Ilana said.

  “You keep them.”

  “No. I won’t be needing them,” she said smiling.

  Gabriel’s studio was in the basement of a building a block south of Canal Street. Ilana walked through the throngs of small Chinese food stalls and markets that lined the streets and spilled out onto the sidewalks. Gabriel encouraged her to use his studio whenever she wanted. He found an old easel and set it up opposite his. In return for the studio space she brought a weekly supply of wine and cigarettes. They talked while they painted, sharing stories of home and family. She liked when he peered over the top of his canvas to study her face and watch her body and arms move while she stroked her brush. During the week, after her lunch shift, she swept the studio and organized his paints. On the weekends, she arrived early with fresh bread and cheese. They put on music and painted till mid-day. After lunch they went to galleries and record stores, and as the weather cooled, they took long walks to Central Park and sketched the trees and the leaves in their autumn glory.

  “My friend opened a Nigerian restaurant. If you are hungry, we can go there and have dinner.”

  “I’m starving.”

  “So, let’s go.”

  The fragrance of African spices hung in the air and aroused Ilana’s senses. The restaurant was packed with elegant women in brightly colored head wraps speaking in various tones and languages.

  “You look a bit pale,” said Gabriel. “You feel alright?”

  He pulled out a chair and guided her into it. Like the first time they met, Ilana stared at his face for longer than she should have. Her eyes scanned the contours of his nose and chin. He sat down and tapped his fingers on the wooden table. A hot surge flashed through Ilana’s cheeks. She saw him standing in front of her naked and uncircumcised.

  “Maybe we should go?” he said.

  He opened his eyes wide waiting for her to answer. Watching the dark lines on his furrowed brow multiply she breathed in. He looked concerned. Ilana tapped her fingers on the wooden table next to his.

  “I’m really hungry,” she said. “Let’s stay and get something to eat. I’ll be Okay.”

  “Maybe it�
�s the turpentine in my studio?”

  Ilana looked at the faces of the Nigerian women chatting. She exhaled slowly, letting all the air out of her lungs, and felt Gabriel’s fingers move gently over the top of her hand. His eyes wide and still, waiting for her to answer.

  “I don’t think so. I’m just really hungry.”

  Gabriel spoke to the cook and returned with water and a deep bowl of cooked rice, tomato, peppers and onions. “This’ll hold you over until our lunch comes.”

  Ilana put her face over the steaming dish and felt the warmth surround her face.

  “This feels good.”

  “You want to just inhale the food?”

  She laughed.

  “Thanks for getting this for me.”

  “Just something to tide you over.”

  Ilana leaned back in her chair and exhaled.

  “I wrote my grandparents a letter today,” she said.

  “What did ya write?”

  “I told them I met a nice African boy.”

  “Ha! I told my mother I met a nice Israeli soldier.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. She asked if he has female friends that he would introduce me to.”

  The waiter unloaded a tray of steaming plates overflowing with sauces, deep fried bean cakes and cooked yams. Ilana dug in and shoveled the multi-colored food into her mouth.

  “We usually drink beer with this. You want one?”

  Without breaking her stride, she nodded. He leaned forward and gently pushed back her hair that had fallen into her plate.

  “Don’t forget to breathe.”

  He drew a map of Nigeria on the fogged window in front of them.

  “How do you write Ilana in Hebrew?”

  Still chewing, she stretched her arm and outlined her name on the glass with the tip of her finger. Her white cotton shirt brushed against him and lifted above her waist. Gabriel stared at her bare stomach. She turned to see his eyes and then balanced a knee on the table and outlined the last letter of her name. The warm air from the heat pipe circling under her shirt and around her breasts. She inhaled and looked through the letters at the people outside moving on the sidewalk.