New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

by Shelly Oria

  Maya was sleeping in the seat next to him now, hugging her backpack, and her hands looked so small that for a moment he thought perhaps he should talk to Netta about it, perhaps Maya’s hands weren’t developing properly. He leaned over and whispered, We’re going to have fun, Maymay. You’ll see.

  * * *

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he knew it was Gillian before he looked. Maybe he should have said yes, let her come. He almost never met a collector without Gillian; she was the one finding these buyers for him, affluent Jewish people, for the most part, who loved art or wanted to love art, or who Gillian thought might confuse supporting Avner with supporting Israel. And she’d have known her way around once they got to Albany—she’d lived there at some point, if he wasn’t mistaken—and maybe that would have allowed Avner to be less tense, more attentive to Maya. He assumed she understood, when he mentioned his daughter’s visit, that he’d take this one alone, and was surprised when she still asked. Should I tag along? She wasn’t even his gallerist, not yet—he needed to get more recognition for her to take him on—and while they worked together toward that, and while she was someone who seemed to believe in him as an artist, which meant a whole lot, wouldn’t they be crossing some line if she were coming on this trip with him, meeting his daughter? And he could see it, that was the truth, as if watching a film: Maya in the kitchen back in Tel Aviv; Netta with her back to her, chopping a salad. This woman was also there with me and Daddy, she speaks Hebrew but kind of funny. And Netta says, Really? How nice—in a tone that doesn’t give a thing away to the girl—but deep down she now thinks even less of him, if that’s possible, and she starts chopping just a bit faster. Would Netta have confronted him then? Are you seeing someone? Probably not. It’s been over two years now, and they’ve learned to—what, exactly?—not ask questions.

  * * *

  Ma kore, Gillian was asking, atem al rakevet? They spoke Hebrew sometimes—Gillian’s Hebrew was surprisingly decent, considering she’d only lived in Israel a short time, years ago—and the truth was he found it sexy, her American accent rounding the rough edges, making the throaty sound of Hebrew softer, more accepting. He didn’t want to feel that now, not with Maya there. Yup, on the train, he answered in English; what’s up? We can talk later if it’s a bad time, Gillian said. How different she was from Netta, how easily hurt. No, no, Avner said, I’m just quiet because Maya is sleeping, go ahead. I talked to Abe, Gillian said. Apparently, the art would be for a new office space he has up there—not for his home, like I thought—so keep that in mind. Avner wasn’t sure how exactly to keep that information in mind. Gillian had a special talent—she knew who would buy and who wouldn’t, who would like what. His brain didn’t work that way, but he often felt he had to pretend. That’s how artists were in New York, they knew how to play the game. Got it, he said. And, Gillian said and paused, he sounds very … pro-Israel, which is good for us. Right, Avner said.

  So once again only his “Israeli work” would be considered, and again after the meeting Gillian would probably push him to produce more of it. Maybe he should simply give up on the rest, on his actual work—he was doing conceptual, surreal self-portraits these days, and it was going well—and accept that these silly drawings he made off of old stills of various places in Israel were the only thing that sold, the only thing people in New York liked. He wanted to ask if she’d gotten a better idea why this trip was necessary, why he and Abe couldn’t meet in New York, but what difference did it make? He was already on his way, and it would only annoy her if he brought that up again. Gillian got impatient whenever he sounded unappreciative. I don’t know, Avner, she would say; I thought you really needed the money right now. Money seemed to be the end of so many conversations in New York. He needed it, they had it. So anything they wanted him to do—say, travel to Albany with his daughter, probably for no other reason than to establish a power dynamic—he did. I’m pretty sure this trip will be worth your while, Gillian said now. That’s exactly why she was successful—she easily intuited other people’s concerns. I wasn’t complaining, Avner said, though they both knew, of course, that wasn’t exactly true. Oh, I’m sorry, Maymay, he said, though his daughter was still sleeping beside him, did I wake you up? Maya opened her eyes then, which startled him. She used to sleep through anything when she was little. She looked at him without speaking—Netta’s daughter, no doubt—and Gillian said, Okay, you have to go, just one more thing, he particularly liked the Nuweiba series, so play that up. Sure thing, he said. Don’t be like that, Avner, Gillian said. Be like what, he said, I’m saying I got it, no problem. Gillian sighed. Call me after the meeting if we don’t talk before then, she said.

  * * *

  Maya’s eyes were still on him when he got off the phone. What could he say that wouldn’t be a lie? I didn’t mean to wake you, he told her. Who were you talking to? she asked. He was probably imagining the judgment in her voice. In English he could say, A friend who’s helping me sell paintings, a business acquaintance, but Hebrew doesn’t ever allow you to avoid gender. And he had nothing to hide, did he? It’s just work, he said, and Maya squinted, a small replica of Netta letting him know without words that she didn’t believe him.

  * * *

  But was he lying? Often it seemed the only thing about him that interested Gillian was his Israeliness. Couldn’t she see he wasn’t that guy—the typical Israeli macho, the man who lived eleven months of every year waiting for his chance to leave his family and reunite with his army buddies and M16 on reserve duty, the man with a Middle Eastern temper and eyes that followed every skirt? When they first met—Gillian visited the studios at the residency he got, the residency that was his excuse for leaving Israel—he tried to bring it up several times, but everything he said sounded wrong somehow, a man unaware of his core. He gave up eventually, figured that, if they worked together, over time she’d see him for who he truly was, and if they didn’t end up working together, well, what difference did it make then what she thought. But perhaps that was a mistake, and a familiar one, too—Avner was never good at telling people what he needed from them, and time and again he realized that once you’d known someone awhile, the dynamic between you was set, plaster that had hardened in its mold.

  * * *

  The hotel room was hoary and mildewed, as he’d suspected it would be for the price he was paying, but Maya didn’t seem to mind. She laid her purple backpack on the bed that was closer to the window. When is your meeting? she asked, a tiny businesswoman. She often seemed so much older to him than she really was. Not until tomorrow, Avner said. He pulled out the map the hotel receptionist had given them to find a picture of President Bush in that same paper bag, the words In God We Turst written across it and Welcome to New York State on the bottom. Was this put in there by accident, or was this a gift the hotel was offering new guests? And did no one ever tell them it had a typo? That’s the president of the United States, Maya said. Avner nodded. Probably not for long now, he said. Mom calls him President War, Maya said. Avner chuckled. Of course she does, he said. Netta lived and breathed politics, had always wished she could be a full-time activist. She had been taking Maya to protests with her since very early on, which Avner never appreciated but never said anything about. It’s not a bad thing, having an American president who’s got Israel’s back, Avner said. Maya seemed confused. This may have been the first time he addressed anything political with her, and who was he fooling? He didn’t care about any of it; one of the best things about leaving Tel Aviv was getting away from those constant and pointless arguments everyone was having. But something was pushing him now to say more. You know, Maymay, he said, Mom and I don’t always agree on these things, and I just think you should keep an open mind until you’re grown up enough to form your own opinions. I am grown up, Maya said, and he wasn’t sure if she was being funny or serious.

  * * *

  A little while later, they went out. I thought we could go see the Empire State Plaza, Avner said. He ex
pected Maya to ask what that was, but she just said Okay. Do you know about the plaza? Avner asked. A tiny nod, and another one. Maya always nodded twice. It’s a place with a bunch of buildings and you can see all of Albany from there, she said. Mom and I read about Albany together before I left.

  Avner could see them sitting on the living-room couch, Netta entirely absorbed in the girl, as she got whenever she was teaching Maya anything—a siren could go off and she wouldn’t hear it—determined to make sure something good came of this needless journey. He did miss Netta, underneath his mess of other feelings, and when Maya was visiting he always missed her more. It was a specific feeling—not the kind that made him reach for the phone, but the kind more based in fantasy: a happy family living in Tel Aviv, a father, a mother, and their eight-year-old daughter. Maybe he’s with them on that couch, reading a book. Or perhaps he’s in the kitchen, watching them with one eye and a smile, mixing lemon with tahini. Will they ever be that family?

  Then he realized, of course, what it meant, this prepping that Netta did. She didn’t trust him. He wasn’t the dad who’d sit down to read with his daughter, who’d think to look up kids’ activities. The only way for Maya to benefit from this trip was for Netta to take care of it herself.

  * * *

  When they reached the plaza, Maya kept looking around with an expression he hadn’t quite seen before. Nice, huh? Avner said, and she nodded her two tiny nods. The complex was indeed impressive, and Avner was debating whether he should try to explain what was so special about its architecture.

  Did you notice that you can almost see the entire city from here? he asked. Look over there, for example, he said, pointing east. Maya followed his finger with her eyes. You see how these buildings look a little similar to what’s around us? This complex relates to the city, rather than impose itself on it. Fits in like a piece in a puzzle, even though it’s only been around maybe thirty or forty years. See how nothing is blocking the view? It’s really quite incredible. Maya nodded, but Avner felt he wasn’t being clear. He was never very good at explaining things. Maya kept looking around, and Avner wondered if he should just shut up for a bit, leave her to her thoughts. As with Netta, leaving her alone so often seemed like the right thing to do. But was it? He waited a minute, and another. What are you thinking, Maymay? he asked finally. She wrinkled her nose the way she did when she was embarrassed. It looks like Disneyland, she said, pointing at the other side of the complex, which really did look a lot like the entrance to the Magic Kingdom. This made Avner laugh—the childish simplicity of it, the sweetness, so far from the pompousness of his failed architecture speech—and Maya raised her eyes to look at him, as if asking if he was laughing at her. He wanted to reassure her and was about to say that she was right, it truly did look a lot like Disneyland, when it occurred to him that she’d never been. You’re right, Maymay, he said, but how do you know that? I was there a few months ago, Maya said. You were at Disneyland? Avner asked, his voice louder than he meant. His daughter had been at Disneyland and he didn’t know. His daughter had been in the United States and didn’t visit him. It was a gift from Noa’s dad for our birthdays, Maya said quietly. Avner felt a familiar tightening in his head, inside his ears. Kleiman took his daughter to Disneyland. And how come Netta didn’t mention it, and Maya hasn’t, either, until now? Did Netta figure he wouldn’t be thrilled and instruct the child to avoid the subject? Would she do that? And didn’t she think he needed to be advised before someone—anyone, even if it was his close friend—took their daughter on a trip abroad? But he couldn’t ask his daughter about any of this, it wouldn’t be right, so what he asked was why she was saying “Noa’s dad.” Didn’t she know Kleiman was one of his closest friends? Maya looked at him with wide eyes and said nothing. Perhaps he’d scared her. Never mind, Avner said, and tried to smile, it doesn’t matter.

  * * *

  The last time he had talked to Kleiman—it must have been a birthday or some holiday—when the subject of their daughters came up, as it always did, Kleiman talked about how transparent Noa was to him. That was the word he used, transparent, as if he could see through her skin. Isn’t it freaky? Kleiman was saying. Seeing their little minds figure things out, seeing an idea occur to them for the first time, seeing when they’re trying to bluff or pull one over on you …

  So freaky, Avner said, because he didn’t want to tell Kleiman—Kleiman of all people—how far his own experience was from that. His daughter was a mystery.

  * * *

  When Maya was about a year old and Noa a newborn, Kleiman came knocking on Avner’s door late one muggy summer night. He was loud in the hallway, angry about the heat.Your fucking AC better be on, Kleiman was shouting at the door as Avner was opening it. This was a barking, sweating man facing Avner—quite different from the usual Kleiman, the man nicknamed Buddha in their unit years ago for his calm nature. He stormed in, looking for a button to push. Where is it, where do I turn it on? I need air! The word “air” he shouted even louder. Please be quiet, Avner said; Netta and the baby are asleep. But seconds later Netta was at the end of the hall—blue robe, arms crossed. She stood there, saying nothing; Netta always treated words as if they were in limited supply. He just showed up, Avner started apologizing as if Kleiman weren’t in the room, but Netta ignored him and turned to Kleiman. Can I make you some coffee? I think we’re done with beer for the night. Kleiman thanked her as if that’d been the point of everything all along, for someone to offer him coffee. This was a special talent of Netta’s: people usually wanted what she offered. Netta signaled with her hand, and Kleiman followed her to the kitchen. No one said anything to Avner, but he assumed he should stay in the living room. He’d been struggling for some time to find words that would help his friend, who got a call one day from a woman he barely remembered, telling him she’d just had his baby.

  They came out of the kitchen two hours later. Avner was half asleep in his recliner. Help him with the couch, would you? Netta said to Avner, and turned toward the hall that led to their bedroom. Avner and Kleiman opened the sofa bed in silence, as if Netta had pushed both Play and Mute before leaving the room.

  The following morning, Netta took Kleiman to the travel agency on Dizengoff Street where she’d worked part-time years before, and where she still had connections. The next day, Kleiman was on a flight to India—back to where he’d spent long months after his military service, an Israeli tradition Avner had always been critical of, believing it only kept people from facing their lives. That evening, Avner overheard Netta on the phone with Noa’s mother, offering her help. It was the sort of thing Netta did; she often went out of her way for people she hardly knew. Noa’s mother must have mentioned that Netta had a baby of her own to take care of, because Avner heard Netta say, Well, but I’ve got Avner here. Was Netta only saying what the moment required, or was it possible she actually relied on him in some way? In that first year of Maya’s life, he’d only stayed alone with her twice, and for less than two hours each time. He had this horrible fear back then that Maya would somehow die while Netta was gone. He’d mentioned it to Netta once, very early on, and they’d joked about it, but there was something in their laughter, a plea made and heard.

  * * *

  Nine weeks later, Kleiman returned. He seemed to have shed all his angst and anger, left it in India; he was Buddha once again. She’s a smart one, your wife, he told Avner.

  * * *

  In the months that followed, something strange happened: Kleiman kept reaching out to Avner for parenting advice. The first time he changed Noa’s diaper, the first time he took her to the doctor, the first time she stayed with him overnight. Avner found, amazed, that he knew the answers to most of Kleiman’s questions. Since no live demonstrations were ever needed, and since he could always use generic language—not outright lying, simply describing what he’d seen Netta do and letting Kleiman infer, perhaps, that it was his own actions he was describing—he was able, it seemed, to be helpful. He had been a father
a year longer than Kleiman, after all, and to Kleiman, who seemed oblivious to Avner’s own troubles with his little family, that was enough to consider Avner an authority. There was a quality to these talks—a lie repeated until you started believing it—that made them so dear to Avner, and he hid them from Netta, sneaking out to talk or meet with Kleiman as if having an affair. And the affair lasted quite a while, Avner always being one year of fatherhood ahead. But everything changed, of course, when Avner decided to move to New York, a decision the new Kleiman simply couldn’t understand. You have a five-year-old here, he whispered to Avner on the balcony of the Tel Aviv apartment, as if reminding his friend of a crucial detail he must have forgotten about, as if forgetting his own history. It may only be for a few weeks, Avner said then.

  These days it was Kleiman offering the advice—advice Avner never asked for—and always, it seemed, wanting Avner to confess something. His guilt? How little he knew his daughter? How true that had always been, even before he left? It’s freaky, isn’t it, how transparent they are.

  * * *

  Would you like me to take your picture with Disneyland in the background? Avner asked now. When Maya nodded he remembered he’d left the camera back at the hotel, but his daughter was taking off her backpack, then squatting down and hunting for something. A few seconds later, she was holding a small camera in the shape of a butterfly, stretching her arm up so he could reach. She’d always loved to be photographed. Even back when she was a toddler, Avner remembered, she used to smile and make giggly sounds whenever someone was taking a picture of her. She has a sense of her own beauty, Netta used to say, and then in a lower voice, I hope that never changes. You have your own camera? How great, he said, taking it from her extended hand, looking for the viewfinder. I know what I can do, Maya said suddenly, her voice high with excitement, I can put this in one of those double frames, right next to a real Disneyland one! It will be so funny. I even have a pretty one that Mom took when I was wearing this shirt! Avner pushed the button without meaning to. Mom was in Disneyland, too? he asked. Maya nodded, but her excitement was immediately gone. Was it, like, a group? he asked. Were other people there? Maya shook her head no, her eyes on him. He must be misunderstanding. So it was just Kleiman and Mom, with you and Noa, he said very slowly. Maya nodded. Noa’s dad said maybe next time you’ll come, too, she said.