A Spy in Exile

They walked toward Strawberry Field. Once a wide-open stretch of land. Closed in today by ugly redbrick housing estates. But some green space remained, surrounded by a rickety fence with a layer of peeling paint. Just the gate, made of intricate ironwork, was painted a bright red. These were strawberry fields forever. It was a surprisingly warm day, the kind of day that leads people to remark gleefully to one another about the good weather. Ya’ara walked along with her head bowed, her fair hair covering her face, her hand almost touching Michael’s.

“Look,” she said to him, raising her head, her eyes squinting in the sun. “Just us and the Japanese tourists.”

The visitors from Japan were taking photographs alongside the sign displaying the name of the location, Strawberry Field, grinning at the camera lens each time someone from the group snapped his friends.

“Should we get our photo taken, too?” Michael asked.

“You know I don’t like to be photographed.”

“I thought you had stopped working a long time ago.”

“You’re right. Let’s ask them to take a picture of us with your iPhone. How come after knowing each other for so long we don’t have a single photograph of us together? We’re a little screwed up, right?”

“No, it’s just habit. Are you sure you don’t want a selfie?”

“There’s a limit to everything, Michael.”

A smiling Japanese girl was happy to photograph them. She waved them closer to each other. And then motioned with her arm for Michael to place his own around Ya’ara’s shoulders. And gestured a little more to tell Ya’ara to tilt her head toward him.

“A real Antonioni she is,” Michael muttered, grumpily, tugging Ya’ara closer to him at the same time. Ya’ara played along with an air of softness.

“Good that she’s an Antonioni and not a Tarantino. Otherwise there’d be a massacre here by now.”

“We’d look like figures in a Francis Bacon painting.”

“I’m not sure he painted women at all,” Ya’ara remarked, and Michael told her in response about the first time he saw a Francis Bacon self-portrait and felt as if someone had managed to capture the essence of humanity.

“Maybe there are some of his works on display here, at Tate Liverpool. It’s worth checking out,” Michael suggested.

Ya’ara wondered if he was trying to tell her something. Just yesterday she had met at the Tate with Ann and Helena. But his face revealed nothing.

“And while we’re on the subject,” he added casually, “maybe we should take a trip to Leeds tomorrow? It’s where Henry Moore studied, and some of his pieces are on display at the municipal gallery. Up for it?”

“Gladly. Why not? I’d forgotten that you’re such an art lover. And maybe we’ll find a good place to eat there, too. Let’s pretend we’re tourists.”

Michael looked at her and wondered when she wasn’t pretending, when she was really telling him the whole truth. But Ya’ara was standing there next to him, tall and erect, beautiful and happy, as if there wasn’t a single worry in the world weighing her down.

He decided he’d make do with that for now.