Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

One wintry evening Ariel showed up with a friend. It was a quiet evening at the bar and Roni wandered over to their corner. The friend had come to Israel from Boston for the Christmas holiday. He worked there for a strategic consulting firm. Roni didn’t really understand what the friend did at his job, but after he left, Ariel quietly told him how much the friend had earned that year, and how much he’d earn next year, and Roni looked around at the bar and felt pathetic.

He would have forgotten about that episode had Ariel’s friend from Boston not come in the following day in the company of someone else, someone whom Roni recognized immediately. It was Idan Lowenhof, who’d served ahead of him in the commando unit. They shook hands and smiled. He had studied business together with the other guy and was now living in New York and working as an investment manager for Goldman Sachs. “What about you?” he asked Roni and looked around. “Cool place. Yours?” Roni nodded, and felt just as pathetic as the evening before. He was again drawn to their corner of the bar, again failed to understand half of what was said, and this time, when Idan went to the bathroom, heard in a drunken whisper from his friend the size of the yearly bonus Idan had just received.

He was captivated not only by the sums but also by the sense that these guys were living real lives, not some phony bullshit. They were at the very heart of things, at the pinnacle of the world economy. Were involved in real matters, serious business, were responsible for portfolios worth billions, consultants to leading companies. Just as the two were leaving, Oren Azulai replaced them at the bar and began talking to some guy from the Haifa suburbs about opening a megaclub in a hangar at Tel Aviv Port. Azulai appeared so bloated with self-importance and so small.

Idan, the army commando — turned — Wall Street analyst, continued to show up at Bar-BaraBush every evening for a week. His mother lived around the corner, and after having dinner with her, he had to escape for a while. Sometimes he came with friends, sometimes he came in late, after a night elsewhere, but during the course of that week, he and Roni connected. He told Roni of the path he had followed, and Roni lapped up his words. Law school and a quick rise through the ranks at a large firm in Tel Aviv, a loan of tens of thousands of dollars, MIT’s Sloan School of Management in Cambridge, an internship at Goldman Sachs while still at school, a job offer from the same firm after graduation, a gradual rise up the ladder and a move to New York. The work also sounded interesting, a competitive world filled with risks and opportunities. Endless hours of work, mountains of money. Idan used terms that were Greek to Roni— private equity, hedge fund, margin call —but he was mesmerized. And Idan said if Roni wanted, he’d help him.

“Your business experience is impressive,” Idan said. “A chain of bars, new concept. We could piece it all together in an application just the way they like — an entrepreneur in the food and entertainment industry. Dressed up nice and pretty.” He chuckled. “And we’ll include the whole story of the kibbutz, the humble socialist background, they’ll love it.”

Roni smiled. “They’d probably like the fact that I’m an orphan, too, right? A real Cinderella story.”

“You’re an orphan?” Idan cried out. “You’re kidding me! Awesome, you’re in without doubt, we’ll weave them a heart-wrenching personal story.” Roni smiled, until Idan said, “But you have to finish your degree with good grades. What are you studying? Economics?” Roni nodded but felt as if the wind had been knocked from his sails. He was far from completing his degree, and not all of his grades were high. “Listen,” insisted Idan, who saw the expression on Roni’s face, “there aren’t any shortcuts here. You need to put in the effort, work hard. But it will repay the investment, big-time. It’s a different world. You’ll love New York, it isn’t Tel Aviv, it’s the real deal. And half of our commando unit’s already there.”

Roni was busy behind the bar that night, caught up in that whirlwind of activity, but Idan’s words echoed in his mind while he rushed back and forth to the kitchen and the bar and the tables and the customers. Idan arrived the following evening, as usual, and asked Roni if he’d already downloaded the application, if he wanted to go through it together. Roni said he hadn’t had a chance yet. He didn’t know if it really suited him. It would take him at least another year to complete the degree, and if he wanted good grades, he would have to devote more time to school. Then another two years of studies in New York, all in English, not to mention the fact that he didn’t have money, and a loan of that size stressed him out.

“I haven’t got it too bad,” he said. “Why are people always hungry for more? I have a successful business, an income, a good life.”

“Yes, people are apprehensive about the loan thing,” Idan said. “It’s a lot of money, but with hard work, you pay it back in five years at the most, and then you are left with a job on Wall Street. On top of the world.” Idan flashed a white smile and said, “And you know, after having worked with the cattle and completed the commando training course and established this business, you can handle hard work with ease. I’m telling you, you can.”

“And all that time? And the English?”

“Your English is just fine,” Idan responded. “I heard you earlier with the tourists. And I’m not going to say anything about the time, because the time will go by whatever happens. But if you’re content with your life, that’s cool, forget it.”

Roni didn’t respond, he simply towel-dried a beer glass and stared at Idan, and did the math in his head and said to himself, God, it’s been ages since I last spoke to Uncle Yaron. Just then a pretty customer signaled him, and he hurried over with a smile to serve her. Even Idan, who hardly knew him, noticed something amiss in the smile.

Meshulam was pleased with Gabi’s success in New York. He’d received enthusiastic calls from Jennifer Shulman-Zimmerman and her father, and was happy about the additional donation of the forest. It was a promising start, he said to Gabi one evening as he grilled steaks on the small barbecue in the yard and sipped beer from a bottle. Gabi simply had to want it, and he’d be able to move up in the organization. “What’s most important,” the boss said as he flipped a bloody steak with a pair of tongs, the drops of blood and fat fueling the flames under the grate, “is that you’re doing something for your country. Zionism, right?”

Gabi himself would admit perhaps, albeit only years later, that Meshulam’s talk about a career, and certainly Zionism, must have struck a chord in his heart. But at that precise moment his heart was elsewhere, seized for Anna. The aura of the twenty-four hours they’d spent together enveloped him. They had soared together to unscaled heights and struggled to come back down to earth — and time froze there, from their perspective, and their thoughts fanned the fire like the fat that dripped onto the orange coals of Meshulam’s barbecue grill. Gabi asked Meshulam if it would be okay for him to have a female friend come stay, and kept a close eye on the expression on his boss’s face — surprise? disappointment? apprehension? — as he responded, “Certainly.” Three weeks later, Gabi and Anna shared an excited embrace when she landed at the airport with a large backpack filled with everything she owned, everything she needed.

And Gabi, all he needed was her. The following months were a perfect honeymoon. Florida’s pleasant weather, the freestanding house with the yard, the warm turquoise sea along which they walked hand in hand every evening, taking in movies at the cinema. Most of the time they made dinner together at home, then stretched out on the sofa to watch a video. Sometimes they borrowed Meshulam’s car and drove around Florida: sea, alligators, sleepy Southern towns that appeared to have stepped out of old movies.