The Clay Urn Read online

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  Is here, she wrote in English on the glass under her name. She felt his breath on her skin, and she wrote, AND HAPPY, in all capital letters.

  They sipped beer and swiped bread around the edges of the plates until they were dry. They clanged their bottles together and gulped in unison. The letters on the window blurred and dripped down the glass onto the wood ledge.

  “Let’s go back to the studio,” she said.

  “You want dessert first?”

  “No. I want to go to the studio.”

  She mixed her paints in rapid succession and applied without thought to form. Paint dripped down the canvas and onto her bare feet. In rapid motions she jabbed the canvas with the end of her thick brushes. Gabriel watched in silence from behind his canvas. The sun sank below the small window shifting the glow away from her face. For another hour she continued layering her paint with quick and firm movement until her energy was drained.

  Gabriel laid down his brushes and walked around to the front of her easel.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s incredible, Ilana. I love it. It’s powerful. I’ve not seen you do anything like this before. Maybe you inhaled too many Nigerian spices today.”

  Ilana lit a cigarette.

  “You can sign your name if you want,” Gabriel said. “But that wasn’t you working.”

  “It’s good to paint here,” she said as she stepped away from the painting. “That’s not my work, huh?”

  “You’ve taken a huge leap forward.”

  She sat down on the milk carton and stared at Gabriel.

  “You want some wine, partner?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  He returned to his easel and moved his arms in long, calculated strokes up and down the large canvas. Ilana found the cassette tape of his favorite singer and slapped it into the player.

  “You mind if I watch you?” he said.

  Gabriel moved the easel towards the diminishing beam of sunlight. Ilana filled another glass and followed his eyes. He slowed his strokes and worked until the light shifted away from her.

  “Come look.”

  The subject was an olive-skinned woman with sharp, angular features. She wore a traditional Nigerian headdress piled high in folds with bright colors. Ilana sensed an eerie familiarity about the woman’s face. A Star of David made from twigs rested in the cleavage between her bare breasts. Ilana pulled on her sweater and wrapped it tightly across her chest.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “It’s m’girl.”

  She breathed in deeply inhaling the paint fumes and turpentine.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Ilana.”

  A surge ran up her spine, over her scalp and penetrated her temples. He glided his brush slowly over the subject’s headdress and applied shadows between the folds.

  “Really?”

  He swirled his brush into brown paint and darkened the contours of the subject’s breasts. Ilana moved closer, dropped her hands and let her sweater open. She studied the creases in the side of his face. She took his hand and placed it on her breast. He leaned close to the canvas and added more detail. She breathed in and removed her undershirt. Gabriel turned and stared into her eyes and ran the wet brush hairs over her firm nipples. She pulled him close. His strong breath mixed with the stale studio air. She pulled down his pants, pressed her lips to his waiting mouth and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. She guided him to her opening and he entered. Sweat moistened between their chests and dripped slowly down her leg to the floor. He kissed her slowly and moved with her. She whispered, “this is good,” in Hebrew. Her body tightened and opened wide. A warm, pulsating wave moved through her. He pressed his lips against her neck.

  “Now I can paint you,” he said.

  She laid a drop cloth over the crate, aligned her back into position and pulled her knees tightly to her chest. She bent her head forward. Her hair tumbled over her arms. Closing her eyes she heard the familiar sound of wood and screws while he replaced the canvas. Stiff bristles scraped on the virgin canvas. She remembered the warm Mediterranean Sea lapping over her floating body. Her mother standing on the water’s edge, one hand on her hip, the other shading her eyes from the midday sun watching Ilana and her husband. “She might not be ready,” she screamed from the shore.

  Ilana looked into her father’s eyes. “Lean your head back and let your body float,” he said. “Then I’ll pull my hands away.”

  “Okay. I’m ready.”

  She rested her buttocks on the crate, stretched out her legs and arms, and slowly lowered her head onto the cement floor. She held herself in place and waited. A soft patter of footsteps approached her. His warm hand pushed gently on her stomach and hips. She exhaled and guided the fingers to the rim of her moist core. Kneeling on the hard floor he touched her forehead and stroked her hair. She felt the warm water on her back and felt buoyant. A seagull screamed in the distance. He pressed his lips to her tight stomach. Deep in colorful thoughts she lifted her head off the ground, nestled into his chest and felt an intensity of pleasure. The limited light pulled back from the small window and she exhaled. He guided her head back to the hard floor and returned to his easel. Ilana listened to the scraping sound of his brush against the canvas, inhaled and opened her dark eyes wide.

  Chapter 5

  Hold your positions,” Ari whispered to his platoon. “I want to get positive identification.”

  Arched forward, he inched towards the old stone house. Intelligence from the morning meeting had given them positive information about a cell that was planning an attack inside Israel. Ari, the newest commander in the platoon, knew the other lieutenants would be watching how he handled his company. After some early setbacks and struggles with the routine of the military, Ari had slowly come into his own as a responsible soldier and focused leader. Ilana had helped him set his priorities and ensured him that if he got closer to the other soldiers and made small efforts, eventually he would find the rigors of elite combat training bearable.

  “Don’t focus on the day-to-day,” Ilana told him. “Look ahead and take responsibility. It will be hard in the short term, but you’ll benefit in the end.” She encouraged him to volunteer for guard duty and small assignments whenever possible. It would allow his commanders to see that he was invested and dependable. This was second nature for most soldiers but for Ari it had to be learned. On his twentieth birthday he received a recommendation from his company commander for officer training. He wrote a long letter to Ilana about how elated he was and thanked her for helping him turn things around.

  A crescent moon cast a sliver of light over the stone house and the rocky landscape around it. Ari dropped to one knee and signaled to his staff sergeant, Itamar, to settle near him. Itamar opened his canvas bag and handed Ari his night vision goggles.

  “He’s in there,” Ari whispered. Itamar handed Ari a photo he received at the briefing. The image matched the face of the boy at the table. “It looks like he’s talking with his mother and father.”

  Ari closed his eyes and recalled the details of the captain’s orders. “We want this guy for questioning,” the captain had said. “His name is Naser Abdul Naser and was recently recruited into the military wing of Islamic Jihad. We have intelligence they’re planning something, but don’t have all the pieces in place—yet. It’ll be a good find if we bring him in alive.”

  Ari glanced down at the photo again. There was no doubt it was him. He clicked open the safety latch of his gun, inhaled, and filled his lungs with the dusty air from the dirt path.

  Months of training taught the young soldiers not to second guess their instincts. From their first day of induction they were trained by officers who had gained firsthand experience leading platoons during the nation’s darkest hours. Their methods and tactics, tried and perfected in battle, would be passed along to th
e next generation of special forces. The shouting and confusion from the first day of basic training was meant to recreate the fog of war and quickly eliminate those who would not be worth the investment needed for elite combat training.

  “Pick up the cots. Move it there. Three minutes. Let’s go,” the drill sergeant had barked. “Now put ‘em here.”

  The recruits ran together. Their fresh red boots thumped in muffled rhythm.

  Elevated on a wooden box with both hands on his waist, the drill sergeant eyed three large concrete platforms about a hundred feet apart from each other. Each platoon would cram thirty metal cots on the concrete platforms—fifteen on each side of the square concrete floor and a narrow path down the middle. The sergeant kept track of the not-quite-yet- soldiers as they dropped their beds onto the concrete, picked up thin foam mattresses from the other end of the camp and laid them down on the metal springs. They then ran to the other corner of the camp to grab the sleeping bags, all before rolling them out on the mattresses to complete the task. If a platoon didn’t finish on time, they would have to break down the beds and set them up all over again on another platform. Despite intense fatigue, every recruit worked and thought as a team to complete a singular mission for the good of the company. Thirty beds, mattresses, and sleeping bags set in two perfectly straight rows, fifteen on each side and ready in three minutes. Ari knew it was possible if they all worked together. The strongest soldiers went in front. They lifted the beds and handed them to the next soldier in line. Ari stood in the middle, twisted his body to grab the weight and handed it off to the last two soldiers in line who organized the cots into their respective rows.

  As Ari grew exhausted his thoughts drifted, and he saw the urn. He saw his mother in her nightgown, her long hair wet from a shower. He wanted to shut out the clamoring noise and close his eyes and lay down and sleep. A sharp pain shot through his stomach. He wanted to go to the bathroom and sit there and let the noise settle.

  “Stop daydreaming,” the recruit behind Ari said while jamming a cot into his hands. Ari heard his finger joint crack. “I’m going as fast as I can,” Ari said while shaking out his hand. They worked quickly, expending as little energy as possible in case they had to do it all over again.

  “Look at that aisle. It’s a mess,” the sergeant barked. “Three minutes. Move.”

  “Fuck him,” Ari whispered to the recruit next to him in the line. “He enjoys the bullshit.”

  “We forgot to arrange the aisle. It’s our fault.”

  “Fuck that.” Ari said. “He’s messing with our heads.”

  “We wanted this.”

  “Fuck we did. You might have wanted it.”

  “You didn’t volunteer for paratroopers?” Itamar said.

  Before Ari could answer a crack of orange light broke through the black sky. Each soldier stood stiff near the front of their bed. The drill sergeant dropped his hands from his hips and saluted the platoon commanders. He returned to his tent. The wind died down and a subtle morning calm settled in. Large eucalyptus trees filled the air with the scent of mint. With a collective sense of accomplishment, the recruits exhaled, and climbed into their sleeping bags. Ari stuffed his shirt behind his head, closed his eyes and remembered the last time he tried to converse with his mother.

  “Mom, you think I should try out for special forces?”

  “Your father was special forces.”

  “I know, but do you need me around to help out?”

  “Whatever you think is right.”

  Ari grew tired of her indecisiveness. He got up from his chair and started to walk towards his bedroom.

  “Three years is a long time, mom. I really don’t know what to do. I need some help with this one.”

  “You know as a son of a fallen soldier you don’t have to go into a combat unit. You can choose to do your three years at headquarters in a nice airconditioned office.”

  “All my friends are volunteering for good units.”

  “Office work is important, too. Besides you can return home in the evenings and check on me and make sure I’m taking the right medication, and check that your sister is ready for school.”

  He breathed in and watched the late afternoon light cross over his mother’s face and cast a shadow on the wall behind her. He turned away from her and exhaled.

  “Can you get the urn down from the shelf.”

  “What?” Ari said.

  “Please take the urn down from the shelf.”

  “Why?”

  “We can read your father’s poems.”

  Ari breathed in again and let the air expand his lungs. He got up slowly from his chair and looked over at the urn.

  “What’s the matter, Ari?”

  He watched his mother’s lips surround her teacup as she swallowed the steaming liquid. He remembered the day when they told him about his father’s death.

  “You want to get the letters?” his mother said.

  A pain shot through his stomach. He felt isolated and alone.

  “I’m in the middle of talking about my future and you want to read the letters?”

  “I thought we were done talking about you?”

  “Another time,” Ari said.

  Shira inhaled and smiled.

  “Put the kettle on,” his mother said. “We’ll have another cup of tea and read the one you like.”

  Ari opened his eyes and looked around at the cots and the strange surroundings. For a moment nothing made sense. He listened to the sounds of hungry chicks chirping for food. He inhaled and closed his eyes and sank into a deep, numbing slumber.

  During the next eighteen weeks of basic training the young recruits’ mental toughness would be tested. Daytime was set aside for physical and tactical training. At night they set out on long marches with full gear into the country’s interior. They become adept at moving quickly across the rough terrain and fighting in total darkness. Each soldier had a specific role. Precision and teamwork was paramount to achieve each mission’s objective. A minute of altered focus would result in terrible repercussions: a mother wailing from grief or an explosion resulting in civilian loss. They referred to each other as brother and shared the contents of packages sent to them from home. The recruits that saw the light at the end of the narrow, dark path would be chosen for officer’s school and lead the next generation of special operations forces into combat. At times Ari’s vision was blurred, and he had difficulty seeing through the fog. The light at the end was dimmed, the path strewn with both obstacles and visions of himself as a young child.

  “Come in from the garden. It’s getting late,” his mother had said to him the last day of summer vacation before starting fourth grade.

  “I’m busy.”

  “What are you doing out there?”

  “Building a fort.”

  “Did you use my clean sheets?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come inside. There are dangerous people all around,” his mother said.

  One evening after dinner, while cleaning their guns for evening inspection, Ari handed Itamar a cigarette.

  “You alright?” Itamar asked Ari. “You seem a bit down.”

  “Not sure.”

  “You want to talk?” Itamar said. “You guys are always Okay.”

  “What d’you mean,” said Itamar.

  “You guys seem to enjoy this.”

  “We don’t think too much about it. We all have to get through it. That’s it.”

  “I’m in it with you guys. You know that. But sometimes I think too much.”

  “What do you mean,” Itamar said.

  “When we’re on night missions my mind races. I’m awake, of course, but this dream comes to me.”

  “What about?”

  “My funeral,” Ari said. “What my friends and commanders will say at the service. Who will attend?”

  “We’ve all had these moments that we think about a funeral. If I go down,
I want to go down as a hero. Helping the platoon,” Itamar said.

  Ari lit his cigarette and sipped on his black coffee.

  “His commanders recognized a delayed response in his decision making,” Ari said, mimicking the lieutenant’s low voice. “But we gave him a chance anyway.”

  Itamar laughed.

  “I see my mother collapsing when I’m dropped into the ground. Rain gushing into the hole. This is the shit I think about.”

  Itamar lit another cigarette and inhaled.

  “It’s natural,” he said. “We got some tough stuff ahead of us. But we’ll get through it.”

  Ari sipped from his glass. The steam moved around his face and dissipated into the cool night air.

  “What d’you think about when we’re on our long hikes?” Ari asked.

  “I think of my girlfriend. The night after high school graduation. We went to the beach. We drank and smoked. We took our clothes off and went into the water. The moonlight reflected off her body. We kissed.”

  “What else.”

  “Sex.”

  Ari took a long drag from his cigarette and pushed the smoke out through clenched lips.

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “What?”

  “I should be thinking about sex. Instead, I’m thinking about all this other shit.”

  Ari took another sip of coffee and threw the rest out the opening of the tent. The other soldiers were asleep, tucked into their sleeping bags. Ari inhaled. His lungs filled with the pungent odor of shoe polish.

  “You’re up next,” the guard reminded him. “Okay. Wake me when it’s time.”

  He fell back on his cot and looked up at a single bulb hanging from the center of the tent. He remembered his father’s desk lamp in his study and how he’d stood up on the swivel chair and pretended to be him. He had moved papers from one side of the desk to the other, stacked them and placed them inside the leather briefcase. He also remembered the tone of his father’s voice, but his face was blurred. Ari closed his eyes and fell into darkness. The ancient clay urn rested in the middle of a long tunnel. A bright light streamed in and cast a long shadow the length of the narrow path inside. The tunnel was damp and cold. It was hard to breathe without coughing. Thick fog rolled in from both ends. He ran to find the urn. The mist thickened. He leaned over and reached down to where he thought it rested but could not feel it. The last of the remaining light pulled back and complete darkness surrounded him. He fell on both knees and moved his hands over the soft earth but could not feel the urn.