be carved out in the desert sand.'
'The work is his. I've verified that.'
'Who paid for it?'
'I told you. An American group, some kind of fine arts foundation.'
'Why choose him?'
'Perhaps out of pity.'
'Perhaps this, perhaps that. There's something wrong here, Tola. I want facts. You must find out for me: Why Sokolov? Why?'
At night Targov visited the warehouse where 'The Righteous Martyr' was stored. Rokovsky had arranged for the sculpture, covered with a plastic sheet, to be placed upon timbers so that it was suspended a foot above the floor.
Targov, wearing work clothes, wriggled beneath it, dragging along a flashlight, a hammer, and a pot of clay.
If it should fall now and squash me, he thought, it would probably serve me right.
Once beneath the hollow bottom, he sat up straight so that his torso was literally inside the statue. Using the hammer, he carefully broke the seal he had painted to match the bronze, then reached up, unclasped the hidden tube, pulled it out, and set to work patching up the hiding place with clay.
When he was finished he shined his flashlight around. Finding his repairs seamless, he lowered himself and wriggled out. When he stood up, triumphant, grasping the tube, he moved too fast and strained his back.
In three days the unveiling would take place. The plumbers had installed the pipes, the sod had been laid, and now masons were busy positioning the paving stones so that viewers could circle 'The Righteous Martyr' without treading on the grass.
'There seems to have been some sort of military fund,' Rokovsky said. He and Targov were on the first of their three daily inspections of the site.
Targov grimaced. 'You told me a foundation.'
'A joint venture. Each put up a certain amount. The foundation funded the design; the military paid for the actual work. The work, by the way, is entitled 'Circle in the Square.' '
'How much?'
'Ten thousand for Sokolov. Impossible to estimate how much to move the sand.'
'Ten thousand dollars! Impossible!'
'That much, Sasha, is a fact.'
'But something's not a fact-is that what you're telling me?'
Rokovsky nodded. 'There is something queer about the deal.'
'What?'
'Difficult to say. Maybe it's just my feeling. The designs were drawn in a most exacting manner, like architect's plans, precise to the centimeter, as if the measurements were crucial, and the exact angles to the compass points as well.'
'Tola, for God's sake! What does all that mean?'
Rokovsky shrugged. 'Maybe Sokolov didn't make the drawings.'
'He could have come up with the idea, then hired a draftsman…' But why the hell am I arguing the other side?
'I spoke to the engineer in charge of the project. He was quite certain about this, absolutely firm: Sokolov never, ever, not one single time, contacted him or visited the site.'
Targov strode away. He couldn't understand it. The whole business was just too maddening.
'Okay, rent a car,' he yelled across the freshly watered lawn. 'No more planes. This time we drive. We'll leave right after lunch.'
Down rocky roads, across sinuous sands, through a stony wasteland of sweltering emptiness. When they finally arrived, exhausted, eyes tired, throats parched, Targov shook his head.
'You see, Tola, in the middle of nowhere it serves no purpose, none at all. Oh, I know the theories-I've read them in the art magazines: how the difficulty in reaching the site is inextricable from the work; how the inaccessibility is the point, blah-blah-blah… But Sokolov the trinket carver! Such grand concepts never entered his brain. I'm telling you: Israelis don't waste money. There's a fraud being perpetrated here.'
'Good. Now what are we going to do about it?'
'To begin with, get out the Polaroid and photograph the damn thing from every side. I'm telling you, this shape means something. 'Circle in the Square'-that's not even what it is. It's a circle in a trapezoid. I've seen it before, too, but, in my pathetic dotage, I just can't remember where…'
On Sokolov's face an expression of bemused contempt. 'So it's you,' he said, blocking the door.
'Pardon me, Sergei, but were you expecting someone else? Irina's gone home. She didn't say good-bye? Oh dear!'
Sergei, glancing meaningfully at the tube in Targov's hand, stepped back into his room. 'Is that the punishing instrument?' He asked. 'I meant it, Sasha. I decline to participate in your self-serving little farce.'
'I brought it anyway, in case you changed your mind.'
'I won't.'
'Don't be so sure. I may give you a new reason to want to knock me off.'
'Don't you understand: the sweetest vengeance I can have is to wake up every morning thinking of you waking up remembering what you did.'
'I'm not here to discuss vengeance, Sergei. My unveiling is tomorrow. I'm inviting you to come. I'd like you to be my honored guest.'
'So if I won't lie in the shrubbery with your ridiculous rifle, I'm to sit at your right hand cheering with the notables.'
'You're in trouble, Sergei Sergeievich!'
'Not me, Aleksandr Nicholaivich! I bear no guilt.'
'Twice I've been out to see your earthwork. You didn't design it. You acted as a proxy. For whom? And why? You'd better tell. Because I promise you this, Sergei: The fraud won't stand.'
Now, at last, a stricken look. The crafty old zek was scared. He said nothing, just gulped and turned away. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Well, here's food for thought,' Targov said, rising, pulling out an envelope, laying it carefully on his chair. 'Since I know you've never been out there, you couldn't possibly know what's been going on. Here are my photographs. When you recover from your little terror, examine them closely and compare them to your own. I think you'll find some interesting changes. There have been-how shall I put it?-erosions. Yes, certain erosions which most certainly do not coincide with the pristine vision you conjured up during all those painful years on strict regime.'
Out on the street, Targov walked briskly to Rokovsky, waiting in the rented car.
'He's scared now. Maybe unnerved enough to move. Wait here and follow. I'll get myself back to Mishkenot.'
They were alone in the luxury restaurant behind the artist's residence. Anna, looking unhappy, said that she and her cello had unaccountably become estranged.
'Renew the friendship,' Targov suggested.
'Easier said than done.'
'The detective-maybe he's the problem.'
She shook her head. 'David wants desperately to help.'
Targov thought for a moment. 'There's a drawing by Balthus. The Guitar Player.' It's very sexual.'
'Naturally.' She smiled.
'A man sits on a stool plucking at the genitals of a woman who lies across his lap like a guitar. He makes her sing. You could do that with your cello. Indulge yourself. Make love to your instrument. Think of it as, well…a little outside affair.' She giggled. 'Seriously, I wonder if it was a mistake for you to settle here. Everyone's so tormented. Loudmouths too. The pressures. The paranoia. All that's bound to take a toll.'
'Oh, Sasha,' she said, 'you don't understand. I wouldn't dream of living anyplace else. No outside affairs either-if that's what you're hinting at.'
