The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

He tried to tell them he was okay, moved his lips. The people in white nodded and smiled. Gurgled.

He treaded water a while longer, gave up, sank to the bottom.

The second day, his head cleared slightly, but he remained weak and the pain returned, stronger than ever. He was disconnected from his tubes, allowed to sip liquids, given pain pills that he concealed under his tongue and discarded when the nurse left.

Laura sat by his bedside, knowing what he did and didn't need. When he drifted off to sleep, she read or crocheted. When he awoke, she was there, holding his good hand, wiping his forehead, tilting a water glass to his lips before he asked for it.

One time, toward evening, he woke up and found her sketching. He cleared his throat and she flipped the sketch pad around, showed him what she was working on.

Still life. Bowl of fruit and wine bottle.

He heard himself laughing. Sank back in pain, then slept and dreamed of the day they'd met-a hot, dry morning, the first September of a unified Jerusalem. Just before Rosh Hashanah, the birth of a new year that promised nothing.

He was a patrolman, still in uniform, nursing a soda at Cafe Max. Winding down after a rotten day in the Kata-monim: the bad hand aching from tension, a bellyful of verbal abuse form pooshtakim, and the torment of wondering if he'd made the right decision. Had Gavrieli used him as a pawn?

Across the cafe sat a group of art students from Bezalel. Young men and women, long-haired, nonconformist types with laughing mouths and graceful hands. Their laughter grated on him. They took up three tables, drank iced coffee, gobbled cheese toast and cream pastries, and filled the tiny restaurant with cigarette smoke and gossip.

One of the girls caught his eye. Slender, long wavy blond hair, blue-eyed, exceedingly pretty. She looked too young to be studying at the institute.

She smiled at him and he realized he'd been staring. Embarrassed, he turned away and finished his soda. Calling for the check, he reached into his pocket for his wallet, fingered it clumsily, and dropped it. As he bent to pick it up, he caught another glimpse of the art students. The blond girl.

She seemed to have separated from the others. Had moved her chair so that she faced him, and was drawing in a pad. Looking right at him, smiling, and sketching.

Doing his portrait! The nerve, the intrusion!

He glared at her. She smiled, continued to sketch.

Bubbles of pent-up anger burst inside of him. He turned his back on her. Slapped down a few bills and stood to leave.

As he exited the cafe, he felt a hand on his elbow.

"Is something the matter?"

She was looking up at him-short girl. Had followed him out. She wore an embroidered black smock over faded jeans and sandals. Red bandanna around her neck-playing artist.

"Is something wrong?" she repeated. American-accented Hebrew. Terrific, another spoiled one, spending daddy's money on fantasies. Wanting a fling with a uniform?

"Nothing," he said in English.

The force of the word startled her and she took a step backward. Suddenly, Daniel felt boorish, at a loss for words.

"Oh," she said, looking at his bandaged hand. "Okay. It's just that you were staring at me, and then you got angry. I was just wondering if something was wrong."

"Nothing," he repeated, forcing himself to soften his tone. "I saw you drawing my portrait and was surprised, that's all."

The girl raised her eyebrows. Broke out laughing. Bit her finger to stop. Continued giggling.

Spoiled baby, thought Daniel, angry once more. He turned to walk away.

"No. Wait, "said the girl, tugging on his sleeve. "Here. "She opened her sketch pad, flipped it around so he could see it.

Still life. Bowl of fruit and wineglass.

"Pretty bad, huh?"

"No, no." Idiot, Sharuvi. "It's very nice."

"No, it's not. It's dreadful. It's a cliche, kind of a joke-an art school joke."

"No, no you're a very good artist. I'm sorry, I thought-"

"No harm done." The girl closed the sketch pad and smiled at him.

Such a wonderful smile. Daniel found himself hiding his scarred hand behind his back.

Awkward silence. The girl broke it.

"Would you like your portrait done?"

"No, I don't, I have to-"

"You have a terrific face," said the girl. "Really. Great contours." She raised a hand to touch his cheek, pulled it back. "Please? I could use the practice."

"I really don't-"

She took his arm, led him up King George. Minutes later he was sitting on green grass, under a pine tree in Independence Park, the girl squatting across from him, cross-legged and intent, sketching and shading.

She finished the portrait. Tore the paper out of the pad and handed it to him with lovely, smudged fingers.

At this point in the dream, reality receded and things got strange.

The paper grew in his hand, doubling, trebling, expanding to the size of a bed sheet. Then larger, a banner, covering the sky. Becoming the sky.

Miles of whiteness.

Four faces rendered in charcoal.

A thoughtful Daniel, looking better than life.

Three laughing, round-faced infants.

This doesn't make sense, he told himself. But it was nice. He didn't fight it.

The portrait took on color, depth, achieved photographic realism. A sky-sized mural.

Four giant faces-his own face, smiling now. Beaming down from the heavens.

"Who? he asked, staring at the infants. They seemed to be smiling at him, following him with their eyes.

"Our children." said the girl. "One day we'll make beautiful babies together. You'll be the best father in the world."

"How?" asked Daniel, knowing her, but not knowing her, still dream-baffled. "How will I know what to do?"

The blond girl smiled, leaned over, and kissed him lightly on the lips. "When the time comes, you'll know."

Daniel thought about that. It sounded right. He accepted it.

At eight-thirty, Gene and Luanne arrived with flowers and chocolates. Gene chatted with him, slipped him a cigar, and told him he expected a speedy recovery. Luanne said he looked great. She bent and kissed his forehead. She smelled good, minty and clean. When they left, Laura went with them.

The next afternoon was spent tolerating a visit from Laufer and other members of the brass. Faking drowsiness in the middle of the D.C.'s little speech.

Laura returned at dinnertime with the children and his father, bringing shwarma and steak pitas, cold beer and soda. He hugged and kissed all of them, stroked Mikey's and Benny's buttery cheeks, let them play with the wheelchair and fiddle with the television. Watched Shoshi stare out the window, not knowing what to say.

His father stayed late, taking out a Tehillim and singing psalms to him in a sweet, soothing voice, using ancient nigunim from Yemen that synchronized with his heartbeat.

When he woke up, it was nine forty-five. The room was dim; his father was gone. Only the psalmbook remainded closed on his nightstand. He picked it up, managed to open it one-handed, chanted the old tunes softly.

Shmeltzer burst into the room minutes later. A heavyset nurse followed on his heels, protesting that visiting hours were long over; this patient had already, had too many visitors.

"Off my back, yenta," said the old detective. "I've put up with your rules long enough. This is official police business. Tell her, Dani."

"Official police business." Daniel smiled. "It's all right."

The nurse placed her hands on her hips, adjusted her cap, said, "It may be all right with you, but you don't make the rules, Pakad. I'm calling the attending doctor."

"Go, call him," said Shmeltzer. "While you're at it, take a tumble with him in the linen closet."

The nurse advanced on him, fumed, retreated. Shmeltzer dragged a chair to the bed and sat down.