Read Online Cafe Nevo by Barbara Rogan - Free Book Online Page A

me, Sarita. Was I wrong about the exhibition? And I did get you this commission.”
    â€œBut who is it from?”
    â€œFrom someone,” said Moriah, “who wishes to remain anonymous.”
    â€œAnd what am I supposed to paint?”
    â€œNevo,” Moriah said.
    â€œNevo! The mountain?” The picture presented itself to her: a white stone peak rising from the Moab plateau, fierce and barren under the midday sun. At its summit stands a man alone, pale robes shimmering in the heat, casting a shadow so deep and black it seems to cast him. Motionless, he gazes out at the land which as surely as it has been promised to the people has been denied him. His back is to the observer, his face hidden; all the tragic clash of hope and fate is in the set of his head, the slope of his shoulders, the lines of his dust-hemmed robe.
    Moriah’s voice recalled her. “Not the mountain,” she said, laughing. “The café, on Dizengoff. Nevo.”
    And yet the picture was slow to fade. She saw it for a moment superimposed on an image of the café, then both were gone, and she was back in her studio, with Moriah studying her quizzically.
    â€œI can’t paint Dizengoff,” she said.
    â€œNot Dizengoff. Nevo.”
    â€œNevo is on Dizengoff.”
    â€œOn it, but not of it. Don’t you know the café, Sarita?”
    â€œI’ve passed by it. I know my parents used to sit there.”
    â€œThen you know it’s a special place, not your standard Dizengoff café. It’s loaded with atmosphere.”
    â€œDo you sit there?”
    â€œMe?” Moriah said scornfully, caught off guard.“Iwouldn’t be caught dead there.” Sarita laughed. “It’s not my scene, but so what? Nevo has character. You could do it.”
    â€œI don’t know that I like the idea of painting someone else’s idea. I don’t know if it’s possible.”
    Moriah waved a bejeweled hand dismissively. “You think what you do is original? Let me tell you, my dear, that there is nothing in your work that you have not taken from other artists, and don’t be offended, it’s not only you. All art is derivative; if it weren’t, no one would understand it. So what does it matter if the idea for a subject comes from outside you, as long as it’s appropriate?
    â€œBesides,” she added, “can you afford to turn down eight hundred dollars?”
    Sarita said wonderingly, “Who would pay so much?”
    â€œAn admirer,” said Moriah, and added in response to Sarita’s look, “Of your work, my dear, of your work.”
    â€œIf you don’t tell me who it is, I won’t do it.”
    At last Moriah admitted that she did not know. A letter had arrived, with a bank check for $500 payable to Sarita Blume. She produced the letter.
    The handwriting was small and spidery, the language unusually formal. “If Miss Sarita Blume will undertake this commission,” it read, “I will pay $1,000 for a single painting of Café Nevo on Dizengoff. I would wish the painting to be realistic, faithful to the tone of the café and its constituents. It will, therefore, be necessary for Miss Blume to spend some time in the café before composing her work. The enclosed check is a retainer, to be cashed if she accepts the commission. The remaining sum will be paid upon completion of the painting.”
    It was signed: “With all good wishes, Yours sincerely, An art lover.”
    The mystery, the challenge of discovering the art lover, and the money all attracted Sarita; what repelled was the prospect of sitting in that seedy old café for hours and days on end by herself. So she did not, despite Moriah’s urging, deposit the check immediately, but went the following Friday to test the waters of Nevo.
    By choosing Friday, Sarita meant to try herself. She went early and was in time to get a table inside the café, near the bar,