They had last seen each other some four or five years ago. They had met in his office. She walked in, and the first thing he noticed was the string of large pearls around her neck. He got up from behind his oversized desk and gestured toward the comfortable seating area in the corner of the office. He always did this when he wanted to demonstrate a lack of formality and a certain degree of intimacy. Ya’ara had come to seek his approval for a lengthy period of unpaid leave. She wanted to study film, she said, and she wanted to find someone to love at long last. She was tired of the endless string of men who couldn’t come to terms with her absences, her erratic traveling, their inability to pick up the phone and call her whenever they wanted. They weren’t satisfied with the fact that at strange hours, from remote unnamed locations, dead tired and almost blatantly indifferent, she did them the favor of calling to ask what was up. She couldn’t even find the will or strength to say “I miss you.”
They spoke about her interest in film, her love for American movies from the 1970s. She was the first woman, he thought, who had spoken to him with such enthusiasm about the Godfather movies, about the grandiose splendor of breathtaking mob hits to the sound of celestial music, about the deep-seated oath hidden in the Mafiosi’s battle cry of “going to the mattresses.” With their conversation moving along with such ease and amiability in his conformist, bureaucratic office, he wondered why they had never before discussed such things so freely and directly. Why hadn’t the long evenings and nights they spent together—waiting, waiting, pressing ahead patiently and persistently with their mission—led to the same kind of straightforward and simple relationship, a relationship like the one that appeared to be evolving during the course of their conversation about, yes, about all things that weren’t work and missions and the Mossad? It was the first time that this young woman, a spectacular oyster in his eyes, had allowed him a glimpse through a small opening in her shell. After all, he had never been able to even guess what she was thinking or feeling at any given moment. Perhaps he hadn’t tried. He had always focused on her calculated and efficient ability to get things done, which so impressed him. For the first time perhaps, in the small lounge area of his office, of all places, she suddenly appeared to him as a woman with depth and softness, with youthful enthusiasm and charm.
Ya’ara did indeed go on unpaid leave, a leave of absence that had already been extended every year for the past three years. They hadn’t kept in touch, and only on very rare occasions would he hear someone mention her name, or say something about her in passing. Someone once said, “She’s happy. I saw her a few days ago; there’s a light in her eyes.” And now, on the phone, when he said, “Ya’ara? Hi, it’s Michael Turgeman from the office,” he knew she had recognized his voice even before he said his name, and hers rang with a musical chime he had never heard before. He didn’t have to explain. When he said he needed to see her in an hour’s time, she knew right away that he was talking about work and that it was urgent.
He’s cute, she thought, when he suggested they meet at Café Bueno, near the moshav where she lived. She put on her favorite leather jacket, a biker’s jacket, and, collecting her keys on the way, said to Hagai: “I’m going out, darling. Yes, I remember, we’re at your parents this evening. I’ll be back in time.”
15
Seeing him approach from afar, she thought, oh my, he’s even thinner than he used to be, and his hair is grayer, yet he still carries himself as if he’s the master of his domain. Yes, she said to herself, without doubt, Michael Turgeman is someone who occupies a place in this world. When she stood up to greet him with a smile, he thought, oh my, she’s looking very beautiful these days. And he saw shards of light in her blue-gray eyes.
They reached out to shake hands, and then Michael said, “Really? Come on,” and tugged her toward him and they embraced. She smelled wonderful, as always; this time, however, despite the January cold and the wind coming off the sea, her fragrance was tinged with passionate shades of spring. He looks like a spy in that long coat, she smilingly thought, and then corrected herself—because one thing she already knew, someone had spoken and she had listened—he looks like a retired spy.
A double espresso for him, a mint tea for her. Michael told her about the new office he was opening and his plans to focus on human rights cases, as soon as he got himself organized and caught up on twenty-five years of legal material. She told him about her final project at the School of Film and Television, about the short film she had already shot and was now in the editing stage of. Two people, she said, a woman and a man, who meet up again after several years and find themselves together in a shuttered apartment in a residential tower in Netanya, and the woman says to the man: It’s very simple, you’ve been in love with me now for a very long time, you’ve loved me since way back when. They remain in the apartment for an entire week without ever going out, living on coffee and dates they find in one of the large apartment’s sterile cupboards, going from room to room and from bed to bed, with the shutters opening gradually all the while to allow light and the smell of the sea inside. Michael recalled their conversation about the bold cinema of the 1970s, about raging bulls and bikers tearing down dirt roads, easy riders. But he didn’t say a word about The Godfather. We all choose our own individual paths, he thought.
He told her about his meeting with Aharon Levin, and said: “I need you on the team. Three months. We’ll finish things up and move on. We’ll go back to our lives. We’ll get started on Sunday. I need you, Ya’ara, what do you say?”
“Don’t turn on your charming face. It doesn’t work on me and you don’t need it anyway. Hagai’s gonna kill me; but if the request comes from Aharon, I’m in.”
I’m no fool, Michael thought, and Ya’ara knows so, too. When she said, “If the request comes from Aharon,” she was actually telling him, “I’m not doing it for you or because you want me. Your request is up against all the other things I’m doing right now and it may not win out. But if it’s Aharon…”
And a few seconds later, as if she had read his mind, Ya’ara added, “So how do I address you from now on? Sir? Or can I still call you Michael?” And Michael’s heart filled to the brim with warmth, and he said to himself, I’ve made the right choice. She was one of a kind, this young woman, you offer her adventure and danger and she doesn’t even think of saying no. She was up for it from the get-go, the scent of war in her nostrils and eager to play a part. As if she had never really left.