Abigail – The Avenging Agent: The agent appears again (8 page)

 
In
the late afternoon,
Abigail finished another portrait of the members of
her family but she wasn’t satisfied.  Her desire to recreate the people she had
abandoned in the desert in her paintings burned in her bones.  Her tubes of oil
paint were almost used up, and she only had two more canvasses.

            She
spread the finished paintings around and leaned them against the wall, stepped
back a few paces and studied them again.

            Standing
in the center of the room, was the large portrait of her mother working at the
dark colored taboun on which she laid the flat pita bread, and transparent
steam swirled above it.  On both sides of the picture, she depicted her sisters
and small daughter and Abigail’s eyes welled up with tears.  Her excitement communicated
itself to the ring on her finger, but Abigail ignored it.  She chewed on the
handle of the brush, staining her cheeks yellow with the color of the sand she
was painting.

            She
placed the four paintings that dealt with the darkest period of her life in the
corner of the living room.  The colors that dominated them were dark blue, gray
and black.  Not even a speck of yellow or orange was to be seen in them. She
turned the first painting around to conceal the ones behind it and then went
out to buy some more materials.

            It
was almost evening, and an autumn breeze arose and blew her hair across her
cheeks. She progressed slowly along the Tel-Aviv roads and after a few minutes reached
the ‘Dizengoff Center' mall and went to an adjacent arts supplies store.  There,
she purchased tubes of oil paint, two new paintbrushes and a roll of canvas.

            When
she reached her home, it was already dark outside.  As soon as she went inside
she looked at the four paintings from the dark time of her life and talked to
herself:

            “Why
hurt yourself?  Why not get rid of the paintings or hide them away forever?”

Then
a minute later she spread and stretched the canvas over a square wood frame and
began a new painting. 

Abigail
worked hard on the paintings for another two weeks until she had a whole series
of portraits around the walls.  When she went out and returned to her home, she
felt as if all of them were living close to her and that she wasn’t alone.

One day, at the art supplies store,
Yardena, the saleslady turned to her and asked

“Who
paints?”

“I
do,” Abigail laughed.

“Really?
I would love to see your work.”

            Abigail
stared at her and thought of inviting her home, and heard Yardena say:

 “I would be happy if you would show us
something you have painted even if it is unfinished.”

            “Ah, no problem, with
pleasure,” Abigail replied. “Do you also paint?”

            “Yes, and I also arrange
exhibitions for artists, but on the condition that there are enough finished
pieces and, of course if they’re worth exhibiting.”

            “No, no, no, I’m not
interested,” Abigail responded quickly, “and I’m not sure my work is worth exhibiting,
but I am prepared to show you my paintings.”

            Yardena came to Abigail’s
apartment that day and the moment she stood at the entrance, she raised her
voice in excitement and slapped her cheek.

            “I don’t believe it!  Your work
is stunning!  Where have you been hiding, you naughty little minx?”

            She moved slowly, tiptoeing
reverently in front of the paintings set against the walls of the living room
and could not stop expressing her admiration.

“I notice that the same characters appear
more than once.  Women, men and a little girl,” she remarked, “and they’re all
in a desert landscape, among tents.”

            When she stood and looked at
the large painting of Abigail’s mother, she was at a loss for words, peered at
her attentively and asked casually:

            “Where are you from?  I
don’t recall you even mentioned your name.”

            Abigail was embarrassed. 
She could not decide which name to use, and she swallowed loudly.  It was the
first time that someone other than people from the organization had cared about
her.  She thought again and said:

            “Naima.”

            “Naima?
Pleased to meet you, where are you from?”

            “From
here,” she answered without hesitating.

            “From here?  So, may I ask, who
are these figures you portray?”  Abigail recoiled but responded quickly:

            “Members of my family.” And
she added immediately:  “They aren’t all alive anymore.”

            “Your family?” Yardena was
surprised.  She frowned as she peered at Abigail again.

            “Look, I am sure that these
works are more worthy of greater interest than they are receiving here, at
home,” she declared.  “I believe I could arrange an exhibition and introduce
you to the public.”

            “No, no,” Abigail was
startled, “absolutely not.”

            “Hmm, really?” Yardena
replied, “and if, let’s say, I want to purchase one of your paintings? 
Perhaps, this one,” she said, pointing to the large work in which her mother is
seen at the hot taboun.

Yardena linked arms with Abigail and
pulled her to stand in front of the pictures and continued enthusing.

            “Look at the transparent
steam rising from the taboun and the pita.  I‘m scared of getting scalded if I
touch it.  It’s tangible!

            She pulled Abigail along the
length of the wall and then pointed to one of the paintings and asked:

            “That little girl, who
appears in several of the paintings – is that you?”

            Abigail trembled, and she
choked back her tears and the ring sent a current through her finger.  She
restrained herself from answering Yardena in order not to burst into tears and
shook her head.

            “She
looks like you. But, perhaps it’s a coincidence because the woman, who appears
in many of the works, resembles you.”  

            Abigail agonized at the
words she was hearing and wished that Yardena would end her visit and go away.

            “How much do you want for
this painting?” Yardena inquired.  Abigail didn’t even look at which one she
was referring to and shook her head vigorously.

            “I told you it isn’t for
sale.” Abigail raised her voice to almost a scream:  “My paintings are not for
sale!”

            She almost asked her to
leave right then but, Yardena was insistent:

            “Naima, quote me a price, whatever
you want.”

            She remained standing in
front of the large picture and spoke.

            “This work is unique.  The
woman looks alive, and not painted,”

            Abigail maintained her
silence and Yardena asked:

            “Naima, does this woman
exist?  Is there someone like her?  Is she real?”

            At
that, Abigail burst into tears and Yardena recoiled momentarily and then
embraced her and mumbled:

            “I’m
very sorry.  Oh, I didn’t mean to make you cry.  I’ll go away now.

            Abigail
wiped her cheeks, laughing and crying simultaneously and stared at Yardena as
she made her way quietly outside.

When the door closed, Abigail felt as
though someone had tried to enter her very soul that day and had harassed and
bothered the members of her family on the painted canvasses.  She went from
picture to picture, caressing each one as if to protest and wipe away the
injury and restore their calm.

Just then, the phone rang and Abigail
heard:

“Hey, Naima, can I come up now?”

It was Barak.  Less than a minute later
he closed the front door and stood in the hall as if nailed to the spot.  His
gaze wandered around the room as he scanned the pictures, and his mouth dropped
open.

“Naima, are you the artist?  Are they
all your work?”

She nodded in the affirmative as she
blushed and smiled.  Then, she pulled him by his sleeve to stand in front of
the portrait of her mother and daughter but something in the corner of the room
drew Barak’s gaze.  There the other works stood, hidden from view, one behind
the other with an oil-stained cloth thrown over them.

He saw the first picture tucked away behind
its partial cover and that was enough for him to understand its subject.  It
portrayed a man lying on the sand.  A deep, bleeding wound in his leg appeared
through the tear in his trousers.  He made his way to the corner of the room
and stood before the row of covered paintings.

“May I?” he requested.

“Ahh, I’m not sure they will be of
interest to you,” she claimed. “Leave it, Barak, these four paintings deal with
only two years, but the rest of the portraits tell a story of twenty years.”

Barak stood facing the four concealed
paintings, raised her chin and gazed into her incredible tear-filled eyes.

“Don’t you want to share with me what
you went through during those years?”

She shrugged as the tears threatened to
run down her cheeks and sighed out loud.

He turned her around to face him and
softly caressed her cheek and wiped away a tear that had fallen there.  Abigail
paused for another second and then jerked the paint-stained cloth of the paintings,
spread them out and stood there in silence.

He stood facing the pictures and
pondered on the veracity of the saying that a picture is worth more than a
thousand words. 

Barak bent down, turned the picture back
against the wall and spoke quietly.

“Abigail, my dear, I am the last person
who wants to spoil your fun.  Nevertheless, you must be aware that if strangers
see these pictures, you will be in great danger.  Do you hear me?”

Abigail noticed the term of endearment
he had used towards her, but she didn’t reprove him.  She wondered whether to
tell him about Yardena, the owner of the art store, but then he asked:

"
Has
anyone else seen them?”  She nodded.  “Only these,”  she said and pointed to
the paintings of her family in the desert.  Barak was horrified and shouted:

“Who saw these pictures?  When?  What’s
the matter with you?  How will you be able to hide the fact that you are alive
and kicking?”

“Ah, that’s not a problem.  The owner of
the art supply store came here and asked to purchase this painting.”  She
pointed to the portrait of her mother beside the hot taboun.

“Is that so?!  Why that one, in
particular?”

Abigail shrugged,

“But I didn’t agree.” And she added,
speaking faintly:  “She told me to name my price and was prepared to pay me as
much as I wanted.”

Barak did not say another word.  He went
to a corner of the living room, sat down and regarded the paintings from there. 
He tapped his lips with his fingers.  She was familiar with this habit he had
when he worried and she tried to mollify him.

“She didn’t understand it.  She thought
I was a novice painter, someone who refuses to part with her creations.”

Barak only asked:  Where is that store?”

“It’s on Dizengoff Street, near the
mall.  Yardena arranges exhibitions there and promotes artists; that’s all." 

She did not reveal that she had burst
into tears when Yardena inquired who the subjects of her paintings were.
Suddenly Barak got up, turned the large picture round and looked at the back of
it and on the corner of the painting.

“Yes, my dearest, so how will you
explain away your signature, especially since we unveiled a tombstone on your
grave before the date noted here?”

“Come on! I encoded my signature.

“Naima, you’re playing it too smart and tempting
fate and you know which of you determines the outcome and who will win.”

Just then, Abigail’s phone rang and she
opened her eyes wide in surprise when she heard Yardena’s voice.

“Hi Naima, I talked to my husband and he
wants to come and…"

“No, no, you can’t.”

“Wait, Naima, listen to me,” Yardena
implored, "Not to buy, just to look at the paintings and perhaps we can
pay for permission to photograph them.”

Abigail inhaled deeply, quickly ended
the conversation with a quick click of her fingers and looked up at Barak.

“You were right, she’s not giving up." 

Barak, who was busy counting the works,
looked at her with an absent-minded expression and made a call. 

“Get here with a van, you have to load
some artwork.” Just as he was about to end the conversation, he added:  “Bring
a blanket or a large piece of fabric to wrap thirteen big pictures.”

Barak's
visit had an
entirely different purpose.  He intended to prepare her next assignment and
stage a lookout from her new home into her previous apartment, into which someone
had fired a bug about five months earlier.  Now, as they waited, he turned to
her: