Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

Maya seemed to be looking at the drops of sweat trickling down his forehead. It was genetic, this sweating; his father had sweated just this way before him — fast, face-first. You’ve been spared, little girl, he wanted to say, be grateful. But suddenly she wasn’t next to him. A split second of horror, as if he’d inhaled ice instead of air, and then he spotted her, three steps behind. Her pigtails were messed up from the plane, and she had stopped to undo them. His chest felt like it was a couple seconds ahead, already on its way to reach her. He quickly closed the gap between them. Need help with that? he asked. She raised her eyes as if seeing him for the first time, and pulled out the second hair tie, her face slightly twitching from the effort. She put both hair ties in her pocket, and he said, Maya, let me know when you need to stop, okay? I don’t want to lose you. She nodded.

They kept walking, but where? The signs all looked the same. Numbers, arrows, words. Signs in this country always confused him, and transportation hubs of all kinds were enormous; in Israel he’d have easily found his way by now. He turned his head to his side every few seconds, trying to keep his daughter in sight. It occurred to him how trusting she was, never doubting that he was leading them to the right place. He wanted to be worthy of that trust, but he also had the urge to teach her never to trust anyone unless she knew what to do if that person fucked up. He wanted to teach her that people very often fucked up.

* * *

Looking ahead, he saw the information booth. He stopped, and she immediately stopped as well. That way, he said, pointing and trying to sound authoritative. Maya followed him, but suddenly seemed suspicious. Two people were in line, and Avner and Maya stood behind them. That’s where the train’s supposed to be? Maya asked. How quick, these shifts, how sharp. Up until just now, at least he was the dad who knew how to get to the train. We’re very close, Avner said.

* * *

On the train, the Netta in his head was berating him for his bad judgment, the needlessness of this trip. Poor Maya, she was saying, being dragged like that after such a long flight. (In reality, when he told Netta about the plan for this visit she only said, Sounds nice, and he appreciated that.) An art collector calls, you go, he said to imaginary Netta now; that’s just how it is for artists in New York. He would look her straight in the eyes, too; what did she know about his life in New York? She hardly asked him anything anymore. You could have pushed her visit back a few days, he heard Netta say. With few words, she was winning the argument; Netta was incapable of losing. Because, yes, wouldn’t it have been better? Easier for Maya, easier for him. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It would have meant a shorter visit, three days lost. And he was seeing so little of her, it seemed criminal.

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.