A Spy in Exile
: Chapter 38

BERLIN, DECEMBER 31, 2014

Ya’ara wrapped herself in the thick comforter, her body stretched out diagonally across the double bed in her rented apartment in Berlin. She loved the apartment, and when the cadets dispersed and all went their own separate ways, she got the chance to go back there again. Two spacious rooms in a building erected before World War I, a gleaming and glistening wooden floor. Like many others in the neighborhood, the structure had undergone a refurbishment of late. It was located opposite a small square, with access to the square itself along a quiet road, lined with tall overhanging trees, that also featured an Italian restaurant, a Pakistani restaurant, a local pub, and a secondhand bookstore. Visible from the end of the street, in all its sobriety, was a red-brick church, topped by a bell tower, the heavy bells peeking through the openings of the double arches. She thought about the architect who had designed it three centuries ago, and wondered about the journey he had taken, months on end in Genoa, Lucca, Florence, Naples, descending from the north to the south, the skies gradually clearing, the heat rising, the flowers boasting bold colors, clouds of bugs humming in the scorching air, the waves of the blue sea crashing up against white cliffs, the light breaking on them bright and blinding. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

For the thousandth time she watched a YouTube clip to which she was constantly drawn. A Beatles’ song, “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” from a performance at the Albert Hall in London. Eric Clapton was leading a huge ensemble, with Paul McCartney at the piano, three drummers, one of them Ringo Starr, at least five guitarists, two back-up vocalists, one black woman and one white, neither of them young, and a hyperactive old man with dark sunglasses banging his hands on a set of bongos at a furious pace, and Clapton himself playing wonderfully and singing in his flat-sounding baritone voice. But she was drawn most of all by one of the guitarists, whom the camera keeps panning back to. He was playing a large acoustic guitar, to the left of Clapton and a little behind him, playing with breathtaking self-confidence, quite surprising, considering he was sharing a stage with some of the greatest musicians in the world. He looked just twenty-something, so thin, so beautiful, his eyes hidden by his hair, wearing a big white shirt made from an airy cotton fabric, and he was playing like an angel, sadness in his eyes, singing along now and then, present on the stage. The circular hall was filled to the brim, packed with a thrilled and seemingly electrified audience. This was clearly no regular performance. By now she knew the identity of the young, the beautiful, the fragile and self-assured young man, whom the cameraman returned to time and again. Something about solving the mystery had left her disappointed; she should have guessed herself. The song was recorded during a one-off performance in 2002 in memory of George Harrison, who had died of cancer a year earlier.

The young man was Dhani Harrison, George’s musician son. Yes, she should have noticed for herself how much he looked like him, even though the famous father looked more dark and tormented and hermitlike than his beautiful son, and if she had realized that he was the son of George Harrison then she would have clearly understood what he was doing there on the stage with his father’s friends, and why the camera kept focusing on him, not simply because he was young and attractive and mysterious and talented but because he was so reminiscent of his father, like some kind of ghost, but she chose to forget what she had found out, and wanted to ask herself time and time again who that young man could be. Twelve years had passed since that memorial performance, and she had seen recent pictures on the internet of Dhani Harrison, and he looked different now, more rugged, less beautiful, filling small arenas in Portland and Seattle. He would never be a superstar like the late George or John, or their friends.

She was here while Matthias was in his house in Hamburg just two hours away from her. She was cuddled up, alone in her bed, watching videos on the screen of the phone she should have used to report all that had happened in Bremen, but she was putting it off. She would be in Tel Aviv tomorrow, breathing in the smell of the rain and wet leaves, tasting a hidden hint of salt from the sea on the air.

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