The artist sat back in his chair and appraised his work. Out on the lanai it was already getting hot. The porch faced the ocean, so the sun had yet to come around. And the small breeze from the sea helped a little. Still, it was hot. Not so dissimilar from the weather in Tel Aviv, he thought.
Looking down at his work he was more than a little amused. It was quite step down from restoring 16th century masterpieces. Looking for all the world like Ari Shamron, the papier mache frogfish peered up at him. Sardonically. As if to say, “What did you expect when the office sent you away?”
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The Office, of course, was King Saul Boulevard, home of the Israeli secret service. For almost forty years the artist had led a double life. By day he was an art restorer. He would take in a masterpiece and do his magic with solvents and brush work, returning the painting to the glory it had known three or four centuries in the past. His studio might be in Cornwall on the southern coast of England, a villa in Tuscany or his flat in Tel Aviv.
Once or twice he had returned to Venice, that ancient city of the doges and the home of his lovely young wife Chiara. Chiara, the daughter of the rabbi of Venice, had given Gabriel a new life and become an intrinsic part of his own. Venice had been home to many a master painter, Titian, Veronese, Bellini. The list went on and on. It seemed that if he ever wanted work, there was an old masterpiece in one of the innumerable small churches, just waiting for his pads and brushes, guided by his knowing eyes.
But when the Office called, Gabriel would return to his alter existence, master spy and assassin, the mighty sword of the State of Israel. Now his position in the office was on hold. It had been suggested, rather pointedly by Uzi Navot, that he needed to step away, take a vacation. Far way. A villa in Spain or Italy would not do. Somehow the powers of good and evil would find him out and haul him back into the fray. He needed a real rest, uninterrupted. And so he found himself living surreptitiously in a small estate on the leeward side of the Big Island of Hawaii. Out on a shaded lanai. Painting frogfish.
The frogfish, its beaded eyes glistening with secret mirth, not so unlike Ari Shamron, looked up at him. As if to say, “You knew this would happen sooner or later.”
“I’d like to go to the beach.” That was Chiara calling out to him from the kitchen. At 11 AM it was heating up inside. Who could blame her if she wanted to have lunch on the beach, cooled by the ocean breezes.
Chiara set to work on lunch, flaking some blue fin tuna, which the locals called tambo, into a blue ceramic bowl. She chopped and added celery and a bit of onion, a scoop of mayonaise. Spreading the tuna on two slices of home made bread, she added a judicious number of capers. It certainly is difficult to purchase good bread in Hawaii, she thought to herself as she folded the sandwiches together. Bread was only one of the culinary mysteries that she had confronted when moving from cosmopolitan Tel Aviv to Kailua. The fruits and vegetables were delicious, but several were unknown to her.
While his wife was preparing lunch, Gabriel put away his painting project and changed into his swim suit. After making sure that the beach chairs were in the vehicle, along with a grass mat and some towels, he came to check on his wife. Chiara had the lunch packed in a cooler, one couldn’t go anywhere in Hawaii without one. She had donned her own swimming costume. The diaphanous sarong thrown artfully over the black DKNY one piece did little to hide her handsome figure. Life in Hawaii, Gabriel reflected as he admired her from across the room, might be a little too sedate. But it was not without its compensations.
The two Israelis motored down to the beach. The road down from Holualoa was steep. Their steep winding path reminded Gabriel of a certain road down from Caesarea. This route was far more tropical with its density of palm, plumeria and other lush tropical plants.
At the bottom of Royal Poinciana, they turned right, passing a brace of condominiums that faced the Pacific. Soon they were at the beach park that Chiara had in mind. A grass lawn, shaded by palms and large monkey pod trees, sloped down to the sea. The lawn ended in sand. A few tables waited in the shade of the trees.
Honl’s Beach had rapidly become Chiara’s favorite on the ocean around Kailua. As she sat in her beach chair, tucking her feet into the warm sand, she was able to watch the boogie boarders surfing the waves. Those waves were a bit larger today, maybe two foot fronts. Growing up in Venice, she had been exposed to the sea, but their were no brown bodies practicing their gymnastics on the waves.
A bit further down the beach, there was a young family playing in the tail outs. The water would race up the sand, reaching the knees of a toddler. Holding a blue plastic bucket in one hand, he waved his arms like a bird each time the waves covered his feet. Finally his mother turned around and picked him up, while the father chased down the bucket which had been discarded and swept a short distance seaward by a receding wave.
Only two years before, Chiara had lost a child. Held hostage by a vicious Russian oligarch, the medications forced upon her, along with the cold and mistreatment had precipitated the miscarriage. Her body had healed rapidly, but as she watched this seemingly happy family on the sunny shore, she could not help but wonder if she and Gabriel might yet create a child of their own.
After they enjoyed their sandwiches, washed down with cold glasses of passion orange, which was apparently the beverage of choice here in paradise, Gabriel got up to walk down the beach. He, too, had been watching the surf and the swimmers and wondered if he might join them. The sand was hot on his feet, but he soon gained relief as he reached the wet sand and then the surf line. At this time of year, the water was still warm, at least 22 degrees, thought Gabriel.
Down the beach there was a lone girl standing ankle deep in the sea. As he walked towards her, a set came in. The larger waves brought the water level almost up to her swim suit bottoms, which Gabriel could not help but notice. Nice little tush.
As the set receded and the waves settled down, the girl turned towards him, captivating him with brilliant smile. “Isn’t this fantastic!” she exclaimed. “Its just so beautiful.” Gabriel politely allowed for the dazzling tropical scene. Palm trees, sun on the surf, what was not to like? “Do you think its safe to swim.”
“Are you a good swimmer?” he asked. “Sure.” she replied, “But I’ve never swam in the ocean. So... Do you think its safe?” As she said this, she moved beside Gabriel so the two of them were looking out to sea. He watched the boogie boarders for a long moment, noting the two foot faces associated with the larger waves.
“I suppose its safe enough. You would have to be careful of the rocks. And you would have time the sets.”
The girl turned towards him. At this close vantage Gabriel could not help but notice that she filled out a light weight violet swim shirt quite as well as she did her striped bikini bottoms. Her hair was ginger,short and naturally wavy. And she still had that infectious smile. Like a kid in a candy shop, Gabriel thought. Now she held out her hand. “My name is Rachel.” she said by way of introduction.
Gabriel took her hand, which was smooth and responded with a quick, firm grip. “Johann.” He gave her the name associated with his usual alias. He wasn’t on a mission and he had noticed no tail as they drove down Lako. This girl seemed so straight forward, but the enemies of Israel came in every shape and size. It would be foolish beyond reason to reveal himself, and Gabriel Allon had not made it into his late fifties by dropping his guard.
Releasing his hand, Rachel asked, “What’s a set?”
Gabriel looked at her more closely. “You really don’t know?”
“I’m from Wyoming.” she stated simply. “Lived there all my life. This is my first day in Hawaii. In fact, its the first time I’ve seen the ocean. I’m starting Monday at the University of Nations.” Rachel finished her little speech and asked again, “ So what’s a set?”
While formulating his answer, Gabriel tried to take in all the unlikely information. A pretty girl dressed for the beach who had never seen the ocean before? It was almost beyond his experience. And Wyoming? One of the least populated places in the western world. I suppose it goes along with the University of the Nations, he thought.
In his pre-vacation briefing, he had been appraised of the University of the Nations: a small institution associated with the Pentecostal movement, with hundreds of branches around the world. The so called university trained young, right wing Christians from the United States and Canada, Europe and, rarely, Africa and Asia. Most came here to Kailua, which was the largest campus for the university. The mother church, he decided. Kailua Kona was to the University of Nations what the Vatican was to Roman Catholicism. For the briefest instant Gabriel’s imagination drifted to the St. Peter’s Square. Not only had he restored art for the Vatican, but having saved his life from a terrorist attack, he was on a first name basis with the pontiff.
His attention returned to the Hawaiian beach and his new young friend. He imagined she would be here in Hawaii for a month or so and then sent along as a missionary, bringing the knowledge of Jesus and the particular beliefs and politics of the pentecostal church to the unenlightened folk of the west Pacific. Pentecostals,he had been told in his briefing, supported the State of Israel. Their position had little to do with the ongoing conflict with the Palestinians and their arab supporters. Rather, they held a belief that Armageddon, the second coming and their ultimate salvation depended on the existence of a physical State of Israel.
If this was cover, it was at least plausible. And the pretty girl did exude a convincing aura of wide eyed innocence. Furthermore, if she believed the nonsense about Armageddon, then she was on the side of the nation that he defended. Gabriel was not particularly religious, but fiercely patriotic. If she and her tribe supported Israel, that was good enough for him, regardless of their convoluted theology.
Gabriel, in the guise of Johann Schlechter, decided to play it straight, at least from the standpoint of his assumed identity. “If you watch the ocean, you will notice that it is pretty flat. However, every so often large waves come in, usually three large waves and then it settles down again. Those three large waves are the set.”
Rachel regarded the ocean, smiling openly when a set came in with such force that they were both moved up the sand. Despite his ingrained caution, Gabriel was being recruited by her simple, childlike enthusiasm. That infectious smile was taking its toll. “I will tell you what.” he volunteered, his English colored by a slight German accent that came naturally from his mother, “If you would like, I will go swimming with you.”
Rachel was more than agreeable. “Here is my plan,” Gabriel said before they set off. “We will swim out past the break, about forty meters.” Appraising his new colleague, he asked, “Do you know how to swim under waves? Of course not. Well, if we encounter a large wave, dive down all the way to the bottom and let the wave pass over you. You swim under water? Good. Well lets go.”
The newly formed companionship set off after the next set had spent its force. Walking to the edge of the sand, where the water was only up to Gabriel’s knees, they started swimming. Flashing Gabriel another gleeful smile, Rachel exclaimed, “The water is so salty!” Gabriel smiled back and thought to himself, well, after all, it is the ocean.
Luckily they made it past the break line without problem. Diving to the bottom wasn’t necessary. Once they were past the break line, Rachel started talking again. “This city is so much larger than where I live. Its almost overwhelming.”
“Really?” Gabriel replied laconically. He had been born and raised in the Jezreel Valley, his mother an immigrant from Germany, a survivor of the holocaust. Near Alufa and Nazareth, his childhood home was vastly different than this small oasis in the modern United States. There had been no superstores like Walmart and Target, but he had been surrounded by lots and lots of people, both jews and arabs. And it was only twenty kilometers to the port city of Haifa. Only one hundred to Tel Aviv. Furthermore, by the time he was 17 he was in the Israeli Defense Force. And that was certainly not a bucolic existence. “I live near Frankfurt.” he kept up his half of the conversation with a small piece from the identity of Johann Schlechter. “Many, many people.”
“I live five miles from the nearest town,” Rachel couldn’t stop talking. “ And there’s less than a thousand people living there. Now that I’ve graduated, I want to see the world.”
Gabriel couldn’t restrain himself. “Graduated?
“From high school. Like, Go Grey Bull Buffs. I love my church, but, gosh, its all so small.”
Gabriel noticed that they were drifting out. Forty meters had stretched to eighty, perhaps a hundred. And in all probability the girl was only 18. In Israel, she would be in the army. But here in the U.S? Were there laws about this sort of thing? “Perhaps we better swim back in.”
As they swam back, Gabriel reflected that he and Chiara had been using fins when swimming in the ocean. Now, swimming back without fins was considerably more difficult. As he neared shore, he noticed that the current had pushed him south. In fact, he was five meters south of the sandy beach where he hoped to come ashore. Turning north, parallel to the beach, he noted ruefully that Rachel was a better swimmer than he. She was a couple meters closer to the beach and on a good course. She would make the sand without difficulty.
As he could see the bottom through the clear water, Gabriel reached down and pushed off against the rocky bottom. That seemed to work so well that he did it again. Instead of a firm push against a rock, he experienced a loose shattering sensation that ran the length of his body. He had the impression that he could hear the crackling, as if Ivan Kharkoff had put his fist violently through a bowl of potato chips. Almost immediately he felt pain and numbness in his foot.
He had never stepped on an urchin before. Though he was no marine biologist, it was obvious that this was what he had done. Snorkeling with Chiara, he had seen them attached to the rocky bottom, like miniature ceramic spaceships bristling with spines. At those times, he and his wife had been wearing fins. No chance those spines would perforate the rubber fin. But now, judging from the sensation in his foot, there were a number of those small sharp spines embedded in his foot. Damn.
He was still five meters from shore and he plowed ahead. Rachel seemed to detect a change in his stroke. Over her shoulder she asked, “Are you alright?” What could he say? “Certainly.”
She hit the beach before him and he surfed the last couple meters. Gaining his feet in the sand, he walked gingerly up the beach. His pride prevented him from limping any more than necessary as he made his way up from the shoreline to the table where he had left his sandals and towel. “There’s a shower across the street,” he called to Rachel, who was already arranging herself on a grass mat.
“Oh,“ she replied, “Should I wash off the salt?” As Gabriel limped across the street, he wondered if the girl could really be that naive.
After his shower, he retrieved Chiara and the beach chairs. Soon they were back up to the estate. If possible, Gabriel hoped to avoid the hospital. He and Chiara repaired to the internet. There were a variety of opinions regarding the results of stepping on a sea urchin and the appropriate therapy. All the sources agreed in cleaning the wound and soaking the affected area in hot water. As soon as it was cleaned and soaked, they looked at the wounded foot. As the internet suggested, there were multiple dark lesions where the spines had penetrated. Apparently the pigment in the spines stains the soft tissue.
The second commonly suggested step surprised both of them. In addition to the obvious spines one sees when they look at an urchin, there are smaller spines called pedcillaria, which contain a toxin. In some urchins this toxin is quite dangerous. The urchins in Hawaii apparently had a milder toxin, painful but not fatal. Two articles suggested using a razor to scrape them away. As the wound wasn’t all that painful, Gabriel decided to skip that part.
Removing the spines was another matter. There were no spines protruding, so pulling them out wasn’t an option. One article suggested that they could be frozen and removed surgically. Vinegar was touted by some, but others said that it was of no use. One said you should bind a dressing soaked with vinegar over the wound before you went to bed.
As there was a jug of vinegar in the laundry room, Chiara settled Gabriel on the lanai, reading a novel by Daniel Silva. She dumped a quarter of a liter of vinegar in a soup bowl and had her husband immerse his foot.
Thirty minutes later the phone rang. She picked up and spoke a few words. Stepping out on the lanai, she held the phone out for Gabriel. “Its Uzi.”
“Vacation’s over, beach boy.” Uzi Navot, head of the Office, was abrupt as usual. “The memunah has been talking with the British PM, of all people, and they want you back here right away. You board the American flight out of KOA in four hours, transfer to El Al in Los Angeles and we pick you up twelve hours later at Ben Gurion. You know the drill.”
“But Uzi,” Gabriel attempted to explain, “ I stepped on a sea urchin.”
“Well, isn’t that too bad.” Navot had no sympathy for the man who was rumored to be in line for his job. “I doubt Shamron cares if you stepped on a porcupine, just get your butt on that plane.” The line went dead.
“Good news sweetheart,” Gabriel called to Chiara, “We’re going home. And be sure to pack the frogfish. I'm giving it to the memuneh.”
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| The author and his son James at Honl's Beach |
I hope that Daniel Silva doesn't mind greatly that we have borrowed his signature character, Gabriel Allon. I present him with profound humility. Sandra and I do enjoy a picnic at Honl's Beach, just south of the Royal Kona Resort. Legend has it that boogie boarding was invented on this beach in 1971. Despite all the swimmers one sees from shore, I would not recommend this beach for beginner swimming. All the characters in this story are purely fictional.
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