New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

by Shelly Oria

  Something in Avner was pulling him down now, his body asking to sit or lie for just a moment or two, but it would be so dramatic to do so in the middle of the plaza, and Maya would surely be startled. No, all he needed to do was take her picture; it was a simple task, and he could do it. He held up the camera again. You’re not smiling, Maymay, he said in a voice that sounded foreign, the voice of a man he’d never met, and Maya said, Sometimes I like the regular pictures better. What was it about that simple statement? It made him want to close the small distance between them and hug her. But instead he took her picture, tiny and serious, the Disneyland of Albany behind her.

  * * *

  Once they were walking again, there was no pushing the thoughts aside. He wanted to call Netta, ask her point-blank. For once in his life he’d be direct, clear. Would she admit it, assuming there was something to admit? And if she denied it, and he said that, even still, they shouldn’t have gone on a trip like that, like a family without him, would she understand? Or would she say that they couldn’t have afforded it otherwise, which was true, of course, that Kleiman’s inviting them was the only way for Maya to go, and didn’t he want that for her? Or would she take it even further and finally say what she never had, that he was a bad father for leaving?

  He could never—not in all the years they lived together, not since—predict how she’d react to anything. When he started thinking about leaving Israel—when it stopped being a fantasy so secret he seemed to be keeping it even from himself and became something else, hours spent drafting inquiry letters of various kinds—he planned for long months what to say, how to say it. Time and again, he went over different things Netta might say, accuse him of, and he spent days thinking how he’d respond to each. I just need a few months, he was going to say, hoping some part deep down in her that loved him would find compassion for that, because if she could do that for Kleiman, as she had a few years back, why not for him? And maybe that was all it would be—a few months away. He’d focus on his art, get some recognition, figure things out.

  When he got the acceptance from the Artists Awake Association, he stared at it for long minutes, frozen. It was a small thing—a studio space he’d share with other artists probably much younger than himself, a stipend that would buy him a couple dinners a week at best—but it was a nod, someone in New York thinking his work was good. He’d accepted and bought the plane ticket before he talked to Netta, feeling the pull so strong in him and afraid, as he always was, of her effect on him.

  He woke up in an empty bed the next morning. That happened often—Netta was an early riser—but he usually knew, even in his sleep, if she was next to him or not. That morning he reached for her to find her gone. And there was something in that moment that gave him the courage he’d been waiting for. He got out of bed and didn’t wash his face. He went into the kitchen and didn’t say good morning. Any minute, he could lose his nerve. He sat down and said Netta we need to talk I think I need to move to New York for a while I got this residency it’s not a lot but it’s something I bought a plane ticket. Nothing changed in her face. She kept sitting there looking serene, drinking her coffee and reading the paper. When they first met, Avner was fascinated by how long Netta managed to make one cup of coffee last. She loved her morning ritual and didn’t seem to mind her coffee getting cold. Now she took another sip. He hadn’t been clear enough. I’m thinking it will be a few months, he said. Maybe some time apart will be good for us. And if I get some people in New York to notice me—maybe get in on some group shows, maybe even find a gallery—well, it might make all the difference. Right, she said, still reading. He might as well have said, I think we’re out of yogurt.

  He stayed there a few minutes, sitting across the table and looking at her. This is a woman you can’t know, he thought. In the days to come, these words played themselves on repeat in his head, and for reasons he didn’t quite understand, they provided comfort. Later, in the New York apartment—his first apartment was a tiny studio in Washington Heights, with hospital-green walls and almost no furniture—he would whisper these words to himself. In the New York winter that awaited him with cold winds that burned his ears and that, being so used to Mediterranean weather, he couldn’t help but take personally, he would whisper these words to himself. On New York’s long avenue blocks that seemed to be asking out loud when he was going back, when he’d admit he’d made a mistake—he would whisper these words to himself. This is a woman you can’t know.

  * * *

  No, he wouldn’t call Netta. What would be the point? If she was having an affair with Kleiman, there was nothing he could do about it. Confronting her would only make matters worse. She’d talk to him when she was ready. If there was even anything to talk about, which there might not be. He might be reading too much into it. Things always appeared worse from a distance.

  * * *

  At night, back at the hotel (We’re home, he’d announced when they came in; he always called wherever he slept home), he was going over his portfolio and Maya seemed engrossed in the Northeast Travel Guide—Hebrew edition—that he’d brought with him. Gillian had mentioned the Nuweiba series, but you never knew with these people; he might suddenly want to talk about other works entirely. And since none of it came easily to Avner in English, he’d gotten in the habit of looking at his portfolio before any type of meeting, for each work whispering to himself words he might need if he was asked about his intention, or process, or politics. These people often wanted to talk politics.

  Did you know people used to live there? Maya was asking suddenly, her voice angry. Where? he asked. Where we went today, that plaza place, she said. It says here—she said, pointing at the book—that people were forced out of their homes to build that place. People used to live there! He leaned toward her, and she handed him the book, marking the relevant section with her finger. He read: “Above the waterline, rising like a spearhead into downtown Albany, stands Nelson Rockefeller’s Empire State Plaza, which was built during the 1960s and 1970s, replacing roughly one hundred acres of nineteenth-century buildings (while forcing hundreds of families out of their homes) with a complex including underground parking lots, and decorated with impressive modern art. The view from the observation deck,” Avner went on, “looks as if it were specifically designed to make one feel like a triumphant conqueror, looking over the Hudson winding toward the Adirondacks…” He realized he’d gone past the relevant part. This was many years ago, he said to Maya, but her eyes were furious, and he knew his words were wrong. But which words were right? She had always had Netta’s uncompromising sense of justice. Or perhaps all children were like that, assuming the world can and should be good. So what if it was a long time ago? Maya asked. They forced people out of their homes! She was looking at him as if he himself had escorted each family out, and her eyes were tearing up. He didn’t think she cried anymore. It seemed she stopped doing that years ago, when she learned to talk. Did they use tanks? she asked. How slow he could be sometimes. How had that not occurred to him. Oh, Maymay, he said, it’s not the same as back home. It’s not what you think. Of course they didn’t use tanks. And they probably paid these people, too, for their old houses. It’s different in America. Maya looked at him suspiciously. He sighed. Remember what I said earlier, about keeping an open mind with this stuff? That’s kind of what I meant. I don’t want to go back to that plaza place, Maya said. There’s no reason to, Avner said, except we might just have to walk by there tomorrow on our way to my meeting. I don’t want to, Maya said. Avner was surprised by her insistence. It was unlike her, to be … difficult like that. Okay, he said. I’ll figure something out.

  * * *

  Later that night Maya was asleep—on her back, one arm on her stomach and the other on her forehead, her breath loud—and Avner watched her for a while. Every few minutes she’d murmur something and he would try to catch it. It mostly sounded like words in English. He knew she’d been taking lessons; Netta had mentioned it a few times, always emphasizing it,
as if he was supposed to say something back—thank you?—but still, why would she murmur in English in her sleep? He was probably wrong.

  At some point, Avner grabbed his cell phone and sneaked to the bathroom. He sat in an empty bathtub and stared at the small screen. It was early morning in Tel Aviv. Netta might still be asleep. And what would he say? He called Gillian. Maya’s practically ready to march into Gaza and throw herself in front of tanks, he told her; I think Netta’s been overdoing it with the political zealousness. Gillian laughed. I’m sure you’re exaggerating, she said. Maybe, Avner said. They were quiet for a few seconds, until Gillian said, It’s late, and her words sounded like a question. I’m sorry, Avner said, should I not have called? No, no, Gillian said, it’s totally fine, I’m just surprised. Was that even really what was troubling him, Maya’s … politics? He wasn’t sure. But Gillian was always easy to complain to. She never hinted at the fact that he’d abandoned his child, never even seemed to think it. He wondered about that sometimes—her absolute empathy, or perhaps it was merely indifference to anything that didn’t serve her interest, the art she could sell. I just need to talk to Netta about it, ask her to take it down a notch with the politics, Avner said, though he knew, of course, that he wouldn’t. Maya will find her own truth eventually, Gillian said. Gillian didn’t understand children, the open-endedness of their minds, how easily they could be manipulated. It’s not that simple, Avner said, and they were quiet again for a bit. He wanted to talk to her about Kleiman, about his suspicions. He’d never shared anything real about his marriage. There are many influences in her life, Avner said. Sure, Gillian said. Was she impatient, or was he imagining it? He didn’t know what to say next, and Gillian said, You have a big meeting tomorrow, Avner, better try to get some sleep. Had he imagined this whole time that Gillian was … open to some other connection between them, that if he ever became available she might be interested? She certainly didn’t sound interested now. Yeah, that’s really why I called, Avner said. I’ve been meaning to ask you—can I try to interest this Abe guy in some of my real paintings? I mean, they’re never going to sell if no one ever sees them or knows about them. There was a short pause before Gillian said, It’s all your real work, Avner, and if anything’s holding you back it’s this kind of thinking. Avner took a deep breath. I know you don’t believe they can sell, he said, but, please, tell me the truth: do you think they’re good?

  Avner … was all Gillian said, and then nothing.

  * * *

  The hotel dining room consisted of two small tables, each covered with an oversized plastic tablecloth. Maya and Avner sat there alone, nibbling on stale Danishes. I’m sorry, Avner said; we’ll get something better later. It’s tasty, Maya said, and took another small bite. He smiled. Better than my French toast? he asked. Avner was no cook, but he made a better French toast than most—vanilla extract was the secret, and choosing the right bread—and he knew Maya loved it. She giggled. You should teach them how to make it, she said, and maybe then more people would come here! Avner laughed. No way, he said; then I’d have competition! But I will make it for you when we’re back home. Maya looked at him with serious eyes suddenly, and he wasn’t sure why. Home home? she asked. I meant my apartment, he said. Surely she knew that. But when are you coming home? Maya asked, her voice soft and quiet. Netta had explained it all to her, he knew; what did she need to hear?

  Maymay, my decision to be here for a while has nothing to do with how much I love you, you know that, right? Maya nodded, but he could tell that wasn’t enough. Mom talked to you about it, remember? Maya nodded. But you never did, she said. She was right, of course. That just wasn’t how they did things. Netta was so much better at knowing how to manage it all, so much less likely to choose the wrong words, to end up harming Maya even more. Well, he said, what do you want to know? That was probably wrong, he probably wasn’t supposed to ask her. I just want to know if it’s forever, Maya said.

  Did all kids have this skill, this ability to get to the heart of the matter immediately and with few words? I don’t know, Maymay, he said. Why not? she asked. He wasn’t getting away without giving her some real answers, that much was clear, and perhaps she was truly grown up, as she’d said the day before—at least more than he gave her credit for, and enough for some truth. I was very sad in Tel Aviv, Avner said. He paused for a few seconds. You know that feeling, Maymay, when you do a good job with your homework and the teacher praises you in front of the class? Maya smiled a tiny smile; she did well in school, and he remembered Netta’s mentioning her being praised last week. Well, it’s a good feeling because praise is important, it’s what keeps us going, and I never had that good feeling in Tel Aviv. The galleries and museums over there just didn’t like my paintings very much, he said, and shrugged, his shoulders asking her not to feel too bad for him. And in New York they do? Maya asked. Everything is bigger in New York, Avner said, so it takes time, but they do like them more here, yes. He was about to explain that’s what the meeting was, too, that he was basically trying to find as many people as he could who would like his paintings, but he paused when he heard the words in his head. It all sounded so … pathetic, and surely it wasn’t good for a little girl to see her father as pathetic. I like your paintings, Maya said. He put his hand over hers and noticed it was shaking. Thank you, Maymay, he said.

  * * *

  In the waiting room of Abe Chapman’s office, everything was large. The brown leather sofas were large, the wooden coffee table was large, the windows—overlooking Madison Avenue, which was nothing like its New York counterpart—were large. Maya had brought a book to keep herself busy, but when Abe’s assistant asked if she wanted crayons—holding them up so Maya would understand, asking, How do you say crayons in Hebrew but clearly not waiting for Avner to respond—Maya sheepishly nodded. Avner was surprised. He’d always wanted her to draw, wanted to teach her, but she’d had no interest. Such a cutie-pie, the assistant said. She’s all right, Avner said, and smiled. He wanted to sit by Maya and watch her draw but had a feeling that would make her self-conscious, so he just stood by the window, awkward and waiting. Shouldn’t be long now, the assistant said, and Avner nodded. But twenty minutes later there was still no sign of Abe. Was he in his office with someone, or running late? Avner tended to keep questions to a minimum in such situations. These people were unpredictable. Some wanted to be your best friend, some wanted to humiliate you, so it was hard to know how to be, especially when Gillian wasn’t around. He’d gotten pretty good at following her lead, but when he took a meeting without her it was up to him to figure out what the eyes looking at him wanted to see. Except now there were no eyes at all, not yet, and there was Maya, patiently drawing and looking up every few minutes. Didn’t he owe it to her, to be more than a forgotten-about appointment in some rich man’s waiting room? He took a deep breath. I can’t wait much longer, he told the assistant, and his voice sounded hoarse. Oh, I’m sorry, she said, and then in a lower voice, Abe can be so bad with time. I came all the way from New York, Avner said, as if the distance he’d traveled could make Abe materialize. Let me try him again, the assistant said.

  She was holding the phone when a heavyset man walked through the front door, his voice immediately filling the space. You must be Avner, he was saying, so sorry to keep you! Oh that’s okay, Avner said, and reached his hand out. We were having a nice time.

  * * *

  Avner had assumed Maya would stay in the waiting room with the assistant, but she picked up her crayons when Abe gestured with his arm toward his office and was by Avner’s side in seconds. Little one wants to sit in on the meeting? Abe asked, looking at Maya. She doesn’t speak a whole lot of English, Avner said, and Abe hit his own forehead with an open hand. Of course! Ata rotze le yoshev bepgisha? Maya let out a small giggle. Abe’s American Hebrew made her into a boy. There was no way, it seemed, to suggest Maya should wait outside. And maybe that was okay. Maybe it was good for her to see him sell his work, maybe it would give a bit of ba
lance to everything he’d said earlier.

  Unlike the waiting room, the office itself was rather naked, a big empty space with only a desk and a couple of chairs. We just moved here a few weeks ago, Abe apologized in his broken Hebrew, we’re still waiting on a shipment of furniture from Japan. You don’t have to speak Hebrew, Avner tried, but Abe waved his hand. Please, he said, I love it, it’s good practice. Maya kept giggling at almost everything he said, which made Avner nervous. Didn’t she know it wasn’t polite?

  So I’m going to be honest with you, Abe said, and tell you I don’t know much about art. But the lovely Miss Gillian tells me that’s what this office needs, and I trust that woman. She’s the best, Avner said, and smiled. There was a short pause now, the two men looking at each other. Was Avner supposed to say something?

  What I do know quite a bit about, Abe said, leaning forward, and care about—deeply—is Eretz Israel. Is that something we have in common, Avner?

  Avner had met people like Abe before, staunch supporters of Israel who considered it their job to make everyone else support Israel right along with them. Yes, Avner said, of course. Oh, it’s not of course, Abe said, not these days, sadly. And not when talking to an Israeli who’s no longer living in Israel. Abe smiled a wide smile. Was this man seriously judging him? This man who at best volunteered at some kibbutz for a year, who certainly never served in the army? This was unusual. Avner was used to questions about Israel, about his politics, about his politics in relation to his art. And to a degree, he’d always rationalized, that was fair. They wanted to know what they were buying, and often these were not people who knew what they were looking at when they looked at a painting. But he’d never been criticized or shamed in any way for leaving Israel. Most of the time, all he needed to do was talk about his military days and their eyes would light up.