Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

The Sabbath settled on the hilltop like a veil on the shoulders of a bride, quiet and airy.

Roni made his way to his brother’s home, the eighteen-liter jerry can of olive oil digging deep into his shoulder. The air filled with the smell of meals being prepared. He could hear the rustling of pages of weekend newspapers being turned. A young girl slept soundly in a hammock in one of the yards. The dogs, Condoleezza and Beilin, gnawed on bones. A dusty sedan, laden with bags and children, unloaded a visiting family that had arrived from God knows where to spend the Sabbath on the hilltop.

Final pre-Sabbath preparations were under way in Gabi’s home: his cell phone was switched off, the Sabbath hotplate was switched on, light switches were flipped up or down, toilet paper was torn into measured lengths, for the twenty-four hours ahead. The Sabbath dropped down like a generator that had crashed. The outpost’s generator crashed, and came back to life just minutes before the deadline. A siren heralding the Sabbath was barely heard coming from distant urban neighborhoods. The Sabbath came down like a setting sun, to the accompaniment of soft gusts of wind.

“What’s that?”

“Olive oil, man. Eighteen liters for two-ninety shekels, a great deal,” Roni responded. “It’s on me, my brother, use as much as you need. There’s enough here for months.”

“I thought you were broke. And suddenly now you’re spending three hundred on oil?”

Roni plucked a cigarette from the sky-blue box. “I had just the right amount,” he said.

Gabi looked at him, astonished. “Are you telling me you spent your last three hundred on olive oil? What are you going to do now?”

Roni bent over to reach into his sock and retrieved a purple banknote. “They weren’t my last,” he said. “Look, I have another fifty. And some dollars, too. I’m going to need a little help in the meantime.”

“I don’t get you. Do you expect me to fork over money? All I earn, I spend on my home and food. And why buy from the Arabs? We have excellent olive oil here, made by Jewish hands. I have some in the kitchen.”

Roni went into the kitchen. He opened several cupboards before he found the bottle, which still bore its price tag. He did the math in his head again, and his eyes widened. “Dude! It’s almost twice the price!”

“And right before Sabbath, no less,” Gabi continued. “You appear out of nowhere, without forewarning, you won’t tell me what has happened, and say you’ll be staying. I said you were welcome, but now all of a sudden, you’re asking for money… Didn’t you make millions in America? Where did that go?”

Roni smoked in silence and looked out toward the olive groves of Kharmish. His brain kept doing math.

“And I’d rather you didn’t smoke inside. Certainly not on the Sabbath.” Gabi went to his bedroom to take his white Sabbath clothes out of the closet.

Roni stubbed out his cigarette and called after him, “There we go, it’s out.”

“Why have you come here?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Gabi returned to the living room, buttoning his shirt. “No, I’m pleased you’re here. But what happened?”

The brothers exchanged a long stare. Neither backed down. Roni’s face finally broke into a smile. “Nothing, I’ve already told you,” he said. “I simply need some space, that’s all.” But the smile had faded, and the stare went on.

“What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into, Roni?” Gabi asked, the doubt in his eyes deepening. “Will anyone come looking for you?”

“No, no, what are you worrying about? You’ve always been one, a worrier. Take it easy.”

Gabi backed down. “I’m not worried. An eye that sees and an ear that hears, and all your deeds are written in a book,” he said. “Are you coming to prayers? At the very least, come help make up a minyan if we are short.”

Roni smiled. “Sure, I’ll be there. Go, go, I know where the synagogue is. I’m just going to change my shirt and I’ll come. Start without me.”

* * *

After the door closed behind Gabi, Roni rose from his seat, went over to the window by the door, pulled back the curtain, and watched his brother walking off down the path. An eye that sees, an ear that hears, what’s all that crap? He chuckled. He returned to the living room, heading straight over to the shelf on which his brother had left his cell phone. Roni switched it on. He sat on the sofa, the phone in his hand, and forced his eyes shut. He struggled to remember a number he hadn’t used in a long time. Finally, he dialed.

“Hello.”

“Ariel? It’s Roni.”

The line went quiet for three or four seconds. “Roni! Really? Where are you? I can’t believe it. Holy crap! What’s up? Have you popped over for a visit?”

“Yes. No… Never mind. I’ll explain another time, I’m a little rushed now. All okay with you?

“Never a dull moment with you, is there? Fucking hell.”

“Are you still married? Still at the office? Still looking for business opportunities?” Roni asked, knowing all too well that the answers to all would be yes. Ariel was one of the most stable people he knew. Aside from losing his hair, and perhaps having children, he would never change. And that’s why Roni had called him. He was a drab accountant, not one of the Tel Aviv bunch, whom Roni wanted to avoid. Ariel lived in Herzliya.

“Do you know of a business opportunity?” Ariel asked.

Roni smiled to himself. “Three hundred shekels for eighteen liters of olive oil, is that a good deal?”

“I’ll check it out. Is it good olive oil?”

“Good isn’t the half of it. It’s the crème de la crème of olive oils. Straight from the tree and into the bottle.”

“Organic? Organic’s the rage now.”

“Of course it is. Originally organic,” Roni said, glancing over at the unlabeled tin container.

“Which press does it come from?”

“Which press? Roni and Musa Limited. Who cares which press?” Roni said.

“Musa? Where are you? Okay, give me two minutes, I’ll get back to you. You’ve caught me on a Friday afternoon, but I know who to call.”

Roni used the time to rummage through his suitcase and find a nice shirt. He then went into the bathroom to roll on deodorant under his arms, apply a spray of cologne, and put the shirt on.

Ariel called back. “That’s rock-bottom,” he said. “Good olive oil sells in the stores in Tel Aviv for at least forty a liter, and olive oil boutique stores have begun sprouting up in the city. Have you seen them? It’s madness. I have a friend who’s a partner in one, the Olive Boutique, on Rothschild Boulevard. Do you know it?”

“I haven’t been to Tel Aviv in years, Ariel. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“Anyway, he said you should bring him ten pieces, to sniff out the market. Roni and Musa, you said? Where are they located?”

“Listen, I don’t know if I’ll be able to organize ten pieces so quickly. Let me have a word with the people here. I’ll see what I can do.”

“But is it really good? Organic? Baladi olives? All that extra-virgin, cold-pressed shit?” Ariel asked.

“I’ll be in touch, Ariel. Got to go.”

* * *

The Sabbath fell on the hilltop like rain, bounteous and fresh.

There was no one outside as Roni hurried off, but the sound of the prayer song drew him to the large structure at the center of the outpost, two trailers that had been joined together. Elsewhere, absolute silence reigned, with the occasional gust of wind disturbing a sheet of plastic somewhere.

The two halves of the synagogue teemed with life and prayer. The men, complete with their long beards, swinging tzitzit, and skullcaps as broad as their self-assured smiles, prayed rhythmically. Roni spotted Gabi at the front, close to the Torah scroll, immersed in his God, swaying fervently. It wasn’t prayer; it was a dialogue, a scream, an intense cry, ecstatic applause. An individual swept away to the point of utter detachment, crying one moment and laughing the next, his face displaying anguish, then pleasure. Roni watched his brother with a mixture of wonder and pride from a bench at the back of the synagogue. Wonder sparked by the fact that the kid was a champion, the outpost’s champion of wild prayer, whose fervid movements threatened to tip over the entire structure; pride sparked by the fact that the kid was whole, a believer. He appeared content, and to have found his place. Or so his elder brother hoped.