The first owner to bring a garment to my new room was the woman with the embroidered panel. By then the landlord had found the cause of the damp, repaired the window frame and given Rafi a written account of the work. After the wall dried, he gave us separate terms to sign: the front shop hers, the room off the passage mine. I had waited for both the dry wall and the signatures before putting anything against it. The new light showed the panel’s torn edge and the smaller places where threads had been tied by an earlier hand.
I had a lockable cabinet, a bench I had paid for and a notebook with the first page left blank for the owner’s account. I asked her what she wanted the panel to do when I returned it. She said she wanted her daughter to be able to see it,…
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