by Shelly Oria
I left Israel for personal reasons, Avner said, glancing in Maya’s direction. She was sitting on the floor and seemed engrossed in her drawing, but she could be misleading in this way. None of my business of course, Abe said, switching back to English and still smiling, but seems to me personal reasons should have kept you from leaving, if anything.
Avner shifted in his chair. What the fuck was going on today? Maybe Abe, too, would like to know if he was staying in New York forever. Avner’s face must have been showing his discontent, because after a few seconds Abe said, I apologize if that was too blunt, Avner—I truly don’t mean to offend. Only to see if we have a good … rapport, so to speak. If we see eye to eye on things. I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Avner said, but why does it matter? If you like my paintings, you like my paintings. It was the sort of thing you weren’t supposed to say, of course, the sort of thing Gillian would never let him ask if she were here. But Abe didn’t seem surprised. That’s a fair question, he said, and then paused—perhaps to think, perhaps for effect; Avner couldn’t tell. Let me first say, Abe finally said, that I’m looking at getting about twelve pieces. Two for each office, three for the conference room, three for the foyer. Okay, Avner said, doing his best to keep his voice steady. Gillian never mentioned twelve anything. Usually they looked at a few and chose one if he was lucky. Selling twelve works—he could never do the math in his head while talking, but it meant he’d be okay, more than okay, for a good while. He’d be able to see Maya much more often. He’d be able to take her to Disneyland.
So to be honest, Abe said, that’s part of the answer to your question—it’s a considerable investment, and I’d like to know who’s benefitting from it. Avner nodded. Perhaps that was all he needed to do, perhaps he could nod his way to the end of the meeting. But also, Abe said, shaking his head lightly and pursing his lips as if not quite sure how to put it—I’m always … on the lookout. For the right kind of people. For people who I may collaborate with on different projects. Avner had no idea what Abe was talking about, but suddenly felt like he was being vetted for something. What kind of projects? Avner asked. In a minute, Abe said, but let me ask you this first, Avner: what’s your competitive edge? My competitive edge? Avner repeated, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Abe said, Sorry, I’m used to thinking in business terms; if you think of yourself as a one-man venture, if this is a value proposition—what’s your edge? You mean as an artist? Avner asked. Sure, Abe said. And Avner started to explain about his real work then, how it captured the relationship between man and urban space, but Abe stopped him. I must have not explained myself very well, he said, his hand raised in the air between them. And he went on then to answer his own question. Avner’s competitive edge was that he was Israeli. Or, more specifically, that he was an Israeli and an artist and relatively young. He could appeal to some people, important people, who were afraid of the word Zionism.
I’m not only a Zionist, Avner, Abe said, I’m an active Zionist. Being Jewish and being Zionist should be synonymous. It stands to reason, doesn’t it? And yet in some circles it’s a become a word people hesitate to use. Do you know why that is, Abe asked, but didn’t wait for Avner to respond. Self-hate, he announced, if you ask me. Self-hate is what’s keeping so many Jews, so many Israelis, from supporting Israel. It’s so sad, when you think about it, Abe said, bringing one hand to his chest in a gesture so preposterous Avner struggled not to look away. So much hatred has been directed at the Jewish people over the years, and Israel was supposed to be the answer to that. Instead, Abe said, it’s become the main excuse for many people to hate Jews, and for many Jews to hate themselves. Don’t you agree?
This was a familiar feeling, his arm being pulled on in this way. It was the same with Netta—the convictions were different, but the pull the same. People who believed they had the answers were like paparazzi—so focused on getting the shot they wanted, so narrow in their aim.
Of course, Avner said, self-hate never leads anywhere good. If this idiot wanted to buy his affirmation for thousands and thousands of dollars, Avner would sell it. There, I agree with you. Now pay up. Terrific, Abe said, terrific, but his expression seemed troubled, and he paused before he continued. Because the thing is, now more than ever, it is crucial for Jews to stand together, be united. Avner wasn’t sure why “now more than ever,” but he knew Abe believed what he was saying, believed, probably, that any moment now Israel might cease to exist. That was a fundamental difference between Israelis and American Jews: Israelis, at least those born after ’48, born into the reality of Israel as a state, could never imagine any other reality. And whether they were right or wrong, what Avner had come to recognize through his time in New York was the comfort that belief provided. American Jews didn’t seem to share that comfort; most of them, at least the ones Avner met, seemed to believe every time they opened the paper there might be an ad announcing the demise of the Jewish State. And Avner often felt guilty in these conversations, because what a luxury it was, taking the existence of anything for granted.
He glanced in his daughter’s direction. I agree, Avner said to Abe, and smiled; Jews should support one another. But again, what … projects are we talking about? Abe laughed. See, that’s why I love Israelis, he said—never let you get away with anything. But I truly wasn’t talking about anything in particular, Avner, not yet at least. Generally speaking, I’d love to invite you to some events, some galas. You can sell your pictures, talk to some people. How does that sound? Paintings, Avner said, although he knew that was petty, not the thing to say right now, but he couldn’t help it—I’m not a photographer. Of course, of course, Abe said, as I told you, I’m no big mavin when it comes to this stuff. Avner nodded, tried to smile. One more thing, though, Abe said. If we’re going to do all this, I’d like to make sure the … paintings carry that message. It seems to me it’s all a bit … open to interpretation, don’t you think? I mean, I look at those gorgeous pictures of Sinai, but all it says is Nuweiba, 1980. What does that mean?
It means it’s a painting of what Nuweiba looked like in 1980, Avner said. Yes, yes, Abe said. But you know what I’m saying, Avner. This was Israeli territory back then, but months later it was given to Egypt. Given back to Egypt, Avner said. For peace, Abe said slowly, looking straight into Avner’s eyes. Because that’s all Israel’s ever wanted.
Maya wasn’t drawing anymore. She was looking up now, looking serious. What was she able to pick up on from the Hebrew and English mix they were speaking? All I’m proposing is that the subtitle be a bit more accurate, Abe said. Something like Neviot in Sinai, Israel, 1980. A gentle reminder of Israel’s many sacrifices.
Avner felt Maya’s eyes on him. She probably didn’t understand what Abe was saying, what he was asking. And even if she did, Avner could explain it later. He’d say something like, This man loved my paintings so much he wanted to be part of them. He should be able to avoid the politics of it altogether, that wasn’t the point.
Abe was still talking. With some of the other pictures, he was saying now, changes might have to go a bit further, but I’m sure we can figure it out. He paused and looked at Avner. Avner knew what he was talking about—some of the older paintings had racier text, for sure, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit they were inspired by Netta’s politics more than his own. And yet the paintings were what they were, the text part of the work. Could he really … change them? This was only a test, that much was clear. This man didn’t care about Avner’s art any more than he cared about Palestinians dying in Gaza. Neither was real to him in the full sense of the word. But if Avner was willing to “edit” his paintings, that would prove he was the kind of man Abe and his friends wanted to … bring into the fold.
Avner felt the sweat on his face. Was it visible? He didn’t have it in him to stand up to this man, say no to all that money, the connections, everything that might befall him if he went along. You never knew where things might go if you befriended these types of people, people who sat on board
s, who had halls of libraries named after them. Maybe he’d just start this way, as this puppet Abe wanted to make of him, but once he met some people who did care about art, he’d explain that these paintings of Israel were a different phase and he was doing new things now. He’d show them his real work. And who knew what could happen then. That’s how people made it in New York. It’s not a problem, Avner said. Abe smiled. All right, then, he said. I’m sure you’ll need some time to do that, so how about we meet again in a couple months and go from there? For a few seconds, the two men looked at each other. So that was that.
Abe got up and shook Avner’s hand. Then he turned to Maya. Your daddy’s a smart man, he said, and Avner felt his muscles tighten. He turned to Avner again. Don’t be … shy about your views, Avner, all right? Can you teach your daddy to be less shy? Abe asked Maya. My dad isn’t shy, Maya said. Abe laughed. She’s feisty, the little one, he said, and Israeli, no doubt. Avner tried to chuckle, but what came out of him sounded more like a cough.
* * *
They left the building in silence, walked slowly. He needed to call Gillian to give her the update, but he couldn’t. She’d make him feel better, but somehow he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted.
I didn’t like that man, Maya said. How come? Avner asked; he tried to sound casual but was bracing himself for a difficult conversation. He was fat, Maya said. This caught Avner unprepared, and he chuckled. Maymay, he said, that’s not very nice. But it was too late; she was giggling and blowing air into her cheeks, marking a fat stomach with her arms. I am Abe, she was saying, trying to imitate the walk of a heavy man, I am so fat I can hardly move. She was trying to keep a straight face as Fat Abe, but she kept giggling, and Avner couldn’t help but laugh. He’d never seen this side of her. Was his daughter playful? Was Netta’s daughter playful? Now Avner was walking funny, too. I am Fat Abe, he said. I am always late because I walk so slow.
Surely he’d heard her laugh that way before? There was something so pure in that sound, water trickling down a pond.
A little while later, he felt a tickle in his left palm. It took him a few seconds to realize it was Maya’s hand trying to make its way into his. He opened his palm, took his daughter’s hand. Soon, they’d arrive.
THIS WAY I DON’T HAVE TO BE
1. Waiting for the Eye Doctor in Tel Aviv
A man is playing with his son. He seems too young to be the boy’s father, and yet he clearly is. Dad, Dad, the boy keeps saying, leaving no room for doubt. A stack of cards is the centerpiece of the action. They are playing a game called How Far Can You Blow the Card.
* * *
Are you the last one? a woman with a baby asks me, and before I have time to answer, she starts telling me what happened this morning. This morning, she says with excitement that seems inappropriate, I suddenly noticed this thing in my baby’s left eye. See? See? she asks again when I fail to respond. I don’t see anything. There is nothing to see. I nod. Oh my God, you see it, too, she says; do you think it’s bad, do you think it’s something really bad? I really don’t, I say, subtle sarcasm in my voice, and the man turns his eyes from his son—turns his eyes from his son!—and looks at me. He smiles. I smile back. We are obviously the sophisticated ones among the people waiting for the eye doctor. Is he flirting with me?
* * *
An old woman comes out of the doctor’s room. I need to go in again in fifteen minutes, she announces. No one responds. I’m going to go now, she tells me, but I’ll be back in time, you’d better not try to cut in front of me. She seems to dislike me, but I have no idea why. Whore, she hisses before she leaves. Hey, hey, the man tells her. My knight. She’s just an old crazy woman, I tell him, to show that I don’t care and to remind him of our shared sophistication.
* * *
The eye doctor’s clinic is situated in an old building in the south of Tel Aviv, not far from where I grew up. There is nothing wrong with my eyes, but these routine checkups are a good way to keep busy when I visit; too much free time makes parents ask questions like, Anybody special in your life now? And, Would you like us to come visit you in New York in the spring?
* * *
Inside, there’s a waiting room with pictures of the human eye like you’ve never seen it. No windows. Outside, where we all wait on an oblong-shaped balcony atop a stairwell, the marble floor makes squeaky sounds every time someone moves, and the peeling paint on the banister looks like old cake batter. My eyes follow the woman down the stairs and onto the small street. She constantly looks like she might fall, but she doesn’t, and I taste guilt in my throat when I notice my disappointment. If she turns right and walks straight, she’ll hit the flea market. If she turns left and walks north, bookstores and small coffee shops will be the slow-moving background of her tour. I stretch my body in an attempt to see her choice, but she is gone.
* * *
The baby is staring at me. I smile at him or her. It is still staring. The mother is making ridiculous sounds, trying to get its attention. It won’t stop staring at me. You know, she says finally, studies show that babies tend to focus on beautiful people. Thank you, I say.
Is she flirting with me?
You want to look at the beautiful girl, don’t you, don’t you now. You’re already a little man, aren’t you. Yes, you are, oh yes, you are.
* * *
Score! the man’s son shouts out. Way to go, Oren, the man says, and winks at me, letting me know he didn’t really lose to a five-year-old. He’s just being a good father. High five, he says, and raises his hand. But you lost, the boy says, keeping his hands to himself. It’s okay to be happy for somebody else’s victory, Oren, the man says, glancing at me to make sure I’m listening. He obviously has the whole fatherhood thing nailed down. Nobody says high five anyway, the boy says, only old people. The man looks sad. Or amused.
* * *
There’s some confusion as to who should go in first, the woman with the baby or a woman in a dress that looks like a blanket. What about you, blanket woman says to the man with the son. It’s all good, my knight says. Take it easy, ladies, that’s what Fridays are for; we’ll all get in at some point. He’s clearly not the typical Israeli; there is no aggressiveness in him, no sense of urgency. I think, That should be interesting in bed.
* * *
I’m not a baby, but I focus on beautiful people too, he tells me on his way out. It’s not a great line, but I smile anyway. The son is right there. He seems to be concentrating on his cards. Is he okay? I ask the man. Minor infection, he says, and pats the boy’s hair. Right, big guy? The child doesn’t seem to hear his father’s question. Life, to him, is very much about those cards. The man isn’t wearing a wedding ring, and I’m trying to fool myself, like this: Maybe he’s divorced, he could be divorced. But the truth is that Israeli men often don’t wear their wedding rings, and I know that he is in fact married, the way I always know immediately when I look at a man. It’s a feeling that comes over me, a tickle of excitement that never lies. It starts behind my belly button, then spreads. I think, Be strong be strong be strong. But I am not strong. He hands me the doctor’s business card, and I write my number on the back, smiling. Better not waste time, I tell him, handing him back the card; I live in New York and am here for only two more days.
2. Going Back
He takes me to an area outside of Tel Aviv where signs claim a beautiful mall will soon dazzle every passerby; for now, there is nothing but sand dunes. His car is an old Subaru; he parks it and tries to recline, but the seat screeches its resistance. When he wins this small battle, I see clearly that he’s a man who can’t leave his wife behind; I know the type, and I’m disappointed. Invisible wives make men’s bodies seek only a sense of accomplishment, not pleasure. When he climaxes, I am a magician halfway through her show, with a passed-out audience. Then he sighs, relieved that it’s behind us. Reaching for the Kleenex on the tiny dashboard, he asks, Did you come?, but doesn’t seem to expect a response. I roll down the window and let the sand
y Israeli air tickle my nostrils until I sneeze.
* * *
I call Lizzie right when I get back; it’s a transatlantic call, but I tell myself my parents must not mind the charge, judging by how often they call me when I’m in New York. I say, Liz, I fell off the wagon. She says, I knew it. She’s upset, and probably disappointed, which is sort of why I called; this way I don’t have to be. I can hear one of the Lizzies thinking: She’s really hopeless, this one. That’s always the scariest moment, and it stretches out like a whole life, a life in which I’m alone with my problems. I know better, I know Lizzie would never give up on me, I know to wait for the other Lizzie; but there’s always that moment, and that voice that says, But what if. Finally she says, Are you ready to work hard. It doesn’t sound like a question, and her voice is gruff. I say, Of course, of course. But the truth is, I can’t feel it. I can’t feel my readiness to work hard. When are you coming home? she asks, although she knows the answer.
* * *
On the plane, on the way back, a man is sitting next to me. His wedding ring flickers. I think, By now, what’s the difference if I do or don’t? Then I think, Be strong be strong be strong. And he’s not even good-looking. But then I look at the ring again and think, This has gotten so bad that clearly I’m going to clean up when I get back, and so what’s the difference, really, if I have a little fun right now? It doesn’t matter, when you think about it. I close my eyes and imagine us in the tiny lavatory, a voice-over announcing impending turbulence. Ooh, he says. Apparently, the turbulence turns him on. Ooh, I say to his neck, and then fake another one, ooh.
