The Black Widow

When he was present during normal business hours, there was always music. La Bohème was a particular favorite. Indeed, he played it so often that Cohen, who spoke not a word of Italian, could soon sing “Che gelida manina” from memory. Once Gabriel entered his curtained grotto, he never reappeared until the session was complete. There were no strolls in the museum’s sculpture garden to clear his head, no trips to the staff lunchroom for a jolt of caffeine. Only the music, and the soft tap-tap-tap of his brush, and the occasional click of his Nikon camera as he recorded his relentless progress. Before leaving the laboratory he would clean his brushes and his palette and put his trolley in order — precisely, noted Cohen, so he would be able to detect whether anyone touched his things in his absence. Then the music would go silent, the halogen lamps would dim, and with little more than a cordial nod to the others he would be gone.

By early April, with the winter rains a memory and the days warm and bright, he was hurling himself headlong toward a finish line only he could see. All that remained was the winged angel of the Lord, an ivory-skinned boy who floated in the upper reaches of the composition. It was a curious choice to leave for last, thought Cohen, for the boy angel had suffered serious injury. His limbs were scarred by heavy paint losses, his white garment was in tatters. Only his right hand, which was pointed heavenward, was undamaged. Gabriel restored the angel in a series of marathon sessions. They were noteworthy for their silence — there was no music during this period — and for the fact that, as he was repairing the angel’s auburn hair, a large bomb exploded in Paris. He stood for a long time before the lab’s small television, his palette slowly drying, watching as the bodies were pulled from the rubble. And when a photograph of a woman named Hannah Weinberg appeared on the screen, he flinched as though struck by an invisible blow. Afterward, his expression darkened and his green eyes seemed to burn with anger. Cohen was tempted to ask the legend whether he had known the woman, but decided against it. One could talk to him about paintings and the weather, but when bombs exploded it was probably better to keep one’s distance.

On the last day, the day of Uzi Navot’s journey to Paris, Gabriel arrived at the lab before dawn and remained in his little grotto long after the museum had closed for the night. Ephraim Cohen found an excuse to stay late because he sensed the end was near and wanted to be present to witness it. Shortly after eight o’clock he heard the familiar sound of the legend laying his brush — a Winsor & Newton Series 7—on the aluminum tray of his trolley. Cohen peered furtively through the slender gap in the curtain and saw him standing before the canvas, a hand resting against his chin, his head tilted slightly to the side. He remained in the same position, motionless as the figures in the painting, until the fawn-eyed bodyguard entered the lab and pressed a mobile phone urgently into his palm. Reluctantly, he lifted it to his ear, listened in silence, and murmured something Cohen couldn’t quite make out. A moment later both he and the bodyguard were gone.

Alone, Ephraim Cohen slipped through the curtain and stood before the canvas, scarcely able to draw a breath. Finally, he plucked the Winsor & Newton paintbrush from the trolley and slipped it into the pocket of his smock. It wasn’t fair, he thought, as he doused the halogen lamps. Perhaps he really was an archangel after all.

6 MA’ALE HAHAMISHA, ISRAEL

THE OLD KIBBUTZ OF MA’ALE HAHAMISHA occupied a strategic hilltop in the craggy western approaches to Jerusalem, not far from the Arab town of Abu Ghosh. Founded during the Arab Revolt of 1936–39, it was one of fifty-seven so-called tower and stockade settlements hastily erected across British-ruled Palestine in a desperate bid to secure the Zionist endeavor and, ultimately, reclaim the ancient kingdom of Israel. It derived its name and very identity from an act of revenge. Translated into English, Ma’ale Hahamisha meant “the Ascent of the Five.” It was a not-so-subtle reminder that an Arab terrorist from a nearby village had died at the hands of five of the kibbutz’s Jews.