The Contract

Ben burst into the loft a few minutes later. “They were impressed with us. We’ve got the job,” he said, hugging her. “What are you doing?”

“We need to figure out the costs for the contract. This is much more complicated than just printing like we’ve been doing. And I think one of us will have to quit their job.” The thought of losing a steady income scared her.

“It should be me,” said Ben. “I’ll give notice tomorrow.” 

“I agree. I’ll work at the school until the term is over. That’ll give you a month to complete all the plates. I’ll be available to print the editions.” 

Ben took her hand and kissed it. “We have the whole weekend to compile a list of the supplies and costs. And unlike me, you’re good at math. It’ll be fine.”

Ben was an easy-going optimist. On their first date, he’d arrived at her dorm room with fresh divorce papers in hand but had forgotten his wallet. She didn’t realize at the time, but that told her everything she needed to know about Ben.

“I wish we knew someone with experience who could give us advice,” said Celeste.

She slept badly worrying that the project with Tzvi might be too complicated for them, but she said nothing to Ben. She could see how excited he was. On her lunch hour she went to the art store and made copies of all the printmaking material prices. Ben promised to get costs at two other art stores on his way home from work.

*

On Monday morning, Ben lay in bed reading the paper, while Celeste took her shower. “Ben, someone knocked. Can you answer the door?” she asked from the bathroom.

 “Sure.” He pulled on his jeans and padded to the door. 

“Hello, Tzvi how’d you get into the building?”

“Your neighbors are very accommodating. All I uttered was ‘Ben and Celeste’ and the door opened like magic. Can I leave my bike here?”

Ben leaned it against the wall. “Celeste, Tzvi is here.”

“Can you bring me some clothes?” 

 “We didn’t expect you so early, Tzvi.” Ben passed a robe to Celeste.

“I’m anxious to get started.” He opened his backpack and unrolled a large sheaf of papers on the closest worktable. “My plan is to create a series of twelve etchings, each 30” x 40” with four plates each. Each etching will have a geometrical grid base plate of a different size, like a fence or a barrier. Then there will be two plates of diaphanous transparent tones like watercolor washes. The final plate will be deeply etched to form a raised image of a swash, like a sword or a claw. I want a very violent gesture above a serene background. It is brilliant, isn’t it? I want to make a statement about the forces of chaos conquering order. Harold has agreed to pay for everything including editions of 100 for each.”

Celeste joined them. “Forty-eight plates? That’s a huge project.”

 “Interesting. Very complex,” said Ben.

 “Correct. Also, I wake with the birds.”

“How early?” Celeste noticed that Tzvi’s open backpack was stuffed with clothes and a sleeping bag was tied to his bike. 

“I start at eight o’clock.” 

“I guess we can do that. How many hours do you plan to work each day? I’m sure you have other projects you’re working on at your studio.”

“No. I am very excited to do these etchings. I work all day. I have lots of energy.”

 “Where do you live?” Celeste asked.

“A tiny dismal sublet Harold found for me in Manhattan. I do not like the area. It is too noisy and smells of rotten food. It is very quiet here.”

“Wait until our space heater turns on. It sounds like a jet engine. And the subway train makes a terrible racket when it rumbles over the bridge all day and night,” said Ben.

Tzvi rolled up his drawings. “To me it sounds like the surf lapping the beach in Haifa, my hometown. Such a beautiful city. Good-bye for now.” He walked his bike to the door.

“He’s a little scary, isn’t he?” asked Celeste after Tzvi left.

“Harold said Tzvi lives for his art. He’s very passionate.”

“Do you like his work?” asked Celeste.

“No.” Ben wrinkled his forehead. “Our job is to make sure Tzvi likes it.”

When they added up the charges on the contract it seemed like a lot of money; surely it would cover any variables. Tzvi and Harold arrived in the black car a few days later and signed it. Harold wrote a check for $2,000.00. It was a third of the total amount, but more than twice what they’d ever been paid to print an edition. Celeste hoped it would be enough.

*

Tzvi arrived at the loft at 8:00am the following Monday.

“I prefer to work on my own,” said Tzvi waving away their offer of help. “How strong is this acid?” He held up the gallon jug and squinted over the frames of his glasses. 

“The standard solution: 2% potassium chlorate, 10% hydrochloric acid, 88% water. See how clear it is? It’ll turn green as it’s used.” 

Ben and Celeste had been up since dawn mixing the acid, covering all the worktables with fresh butcher paper, and crushing the rosin for the aquatint box. They wanted to be ready for anything. Celeste had taken the day off to help.

“I’m aware of that,” Tzvi said, lighting a cigarette.

“Will you start with hard ground?” asked Celeste. 

“Yes, I need to establish a perfect grid pattern on each base plate. Can you degrease the copper and set each plate at an angle so I can apply the ground?” Tzvi asked as he pulled his leather apron out of his backpack. “You have a hot plate?”

Celeste checked the bottle label. “This hard ground doesn’t require heat to dry.” 

“I prefer to heat it,” said Tzvi. “It makes it adhere better.”

Ben and Celeste put on aprons. They cringed silently as all the hard ground they’d bought for the project was used in minutes by the first quarter of the Tzvi’s copperplates. They spent the balance of the morning following him around and cleaning the floor, the walls, the table, the sink, the bathroom door, and everything he touched. He worked like a man possessed, not speaking, or acknowledging their presence. By ten, all twelve plates were ready for Tzvi to begin needling to expose the copper for etching. He’d brought his own raised straight edge and hand rest. He measured each increment precisely as if it was brain surgery.

“I’m out of smokes.” Tzvi stubbed out the last of the pack he’d smoked since arriving.

“There’s a cafe on the next block with a cigarette machine. You can get lunch there too if you’re hungry.”

“Is it kosher?” asked Tzvi. 

“I doubt it. It’s Dominican. Rice and beans, chicken or fish.” Ben held the door. 

“I’ll see you in an hour.”

Ben shut the door behind him and took off his apron. He joined Celeste, heating soup in the kitchen. They’d dedicated a majority of the 2500 square foot loft to their atelier. Their tiny living space was in one corner ­– a basic kitchen, a bathroom, and a sleeping alcove.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Celeste said not looking up. 

“We’re going to need more hard ground, that’s for sure.”

“He’s oblivious of everything except what he’s doing.” Celeste poured soup into two bowls. “At least this afternoon, he should be busy drawing the base plates. I have some etchings to print. I promised John, I’d deliver them later this week.”

(Click on number 4 to continue reading the story.)