Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

Maya’s eyes were still on him when he got off the phone. What could he say that wouldn’t be a lie? I didn’t mean to wake you, he told her. Who were you talking to? she asked. He was probably imagining the judgment in her voice. In English he could say, A friend who’s helping me sell paintings, a business acquaintance, but Hebrew doesn’t ever allow you to avoid gender. And he had nothing to hide, did he? It’s just work, he said, and Maya squinted, a small replica of Netta letting him know without words that she didn’t believe him.

* * *

But was he lying? Often it seemed the only thing about him that interested Gillian was his Israeliness. Couldn’t she see he wasn’t that guy — the typical Israeli macho, the man who lived eleven months of every year waiting for his chance to leave his family and reunite with his army buddies and M16 on reserve duty, the man with a Middle Eastern temper and eyes that followed every skirt? When they first met — Gillian visited the studios at the residency he got, the residency that was his excuse for leaving Israel — he tried to bring it up several times, but everything he said sounded wrong somehow, a man unaware of his core. He gave up eventually, figured that, if they worked together, over time she’d see him for who he truly was, and if they didn’t end up working together, well, what difference did it make then what she thought. But perhaps that was a mistake, and a familiar one, too — Avner was never good at telling people what he needed from them, and time and again he realized that once you’d known someone awhile, the dynamic between you was set, plaster that had hardened in its mold.

* * *

The hotel room was hoary and mildewed, as he’d suspected it would be for the price he was paying, but Maya didn’t seem to mind. She laid her purple backpack on the bed that was closer to the window. When is your meeting? she asked, a tiny businesswoman. She often seemed so much older to him than she really was. Not until tomorrow, Avner said. He pulled out the map the hotel receptionist had given them to find a picture of President Bush in that same paper bag, the words In God We Turst written across it and Welcome to New York State on the bottom. Was this put in there by accident, or was this a gift the hotel was offering new guests? And did no one ever tell them it had a typo? That’s the president of the United States, Maya said. Avner nodded. Probably not for long now, he said. Mom calls him President War, Maya said. Avner chuckled. Of course she does, he said. Netta lived and breathed politics, had always wished she could be a full-time activist. She had been taking Maya to protests with her since very early on, which Avner never appreciated but never said anything about. It’s not a bad thing, having an American president who’s got Israel’s back, Avner said. Maya seemed confused. This may have been the first time he addressed anything political with her, and who was he fooling? He didn’t care about any of it; one of the best things about leaving Tel Aviv was getting away from those constant and pointless arguments everyone was having. But something was pushing him now to say more. You know, Maymay, he said, Mom and I don’t always agree on these things, and I just think you should keep an open mind until you’re grown up enough to form your own opinions. I am grown up, Maya said, and he wasn’t sure if she was being funny or serious.

* * *

A little while later, they went out. I thought we could go see the Empire State Plaza, Avner said. He expected Maya to ask what that was, but she just said Okay. Do you know about the plaza? Avner asked. A tiny nod, and another one. Maya always nodded twice. It’s a place with a bunch of buildings and you can see all of Albany from there, she said. Mom and I read about Albany together before I left.

Avner could see them sitting on the living-room couch, Netta entirely absorbed in the girl, as she got whenever she was teaching Maya anything — a siren could go off and she wouldn’t hear it — determined to make sure something good came of this needless journey. He did miss Netta, underneath his mess of other feelings, and when Maya was visiting he always missed her more. It was a specific feeling — not the kind that made him reach for the phone, but the kind more based in fantasy: a happy family living in Tel Aviv, a father, a mother, and their eight-year-old daughter. Maybe he’s with them on that couch, reading a book. Or perhaps he’s in the kitchen, watching them with one eye and a smile, mixing lemon with tahini. Will they ever be that family?

Then he realized, of course, what it meant, this prepping that Netta did. She didn’t trust him. He wasn’t the dad who’d sit down to read with his daughter, who’d think to look up kids’ activities. The only way for Maya to benefit from this trip was for Netta to take care of it herself.

* * *

When they reached the plaza, Maya kept looking around with an expression he hadn’t quite seen before. Nice, huh? Avner said, and she nodded her two tiny nods. The complex was indeed impressive, and Avner was debating whether he should try to explain what was so special about its architecture.

Did you notice that you can almost see the entire city from here? he asked. Look over there, for example, he said, pointing east. Maya followed his finger with her eyes. You see how these buildings look a little similar to what’s around us? This complex relates to the city, rather than impose itself on it. Fits in like a piece in a puzzle, even though it’s only been around maybe thirty or forty years. See how nothing is blocking the view? It’s really quite incredible. Maya nodded, but Avner felt he wasn’t being clear. He was never very good at explaining things. Maya kept looking around, and Avner wondered if he should just shut up for a bit, leave her to her thoughts. As with Netta, leaving her alone so often seemed like the right thing to do. But was it? He waited a minute, and another. What are you thinking, Maymay? he asked finally. She wrinkled her nose the way she did when she was embarrassed. It looks like Disneyland, she said, pointing at the other side of the complex, which really did look a lot like the entrance to the Magic Kingdom. This made Avner laugh — the childish simplicity of it, the sweetness, so far from the pompousness of his failed architecture speech — and Maya raised her eyes to look at him, as if asking if he was laughing at her. He wanted to reassure her and was about to say that she was right, it truly did look a lot like Disneyland, when it occurred to him that she’d never been. You’re right, Maymay, he said, but how do you know that? I was there a few months ago, Maya said. You were at Disneyland ? Avner asked, his voice louder than he meant. His daughter had been at Disneyland and he didn’t know. His daughter had been in the United States and didn’t visit him. It was a gift from Noa’s dad for our birthdays, Maya said quietly. Avner felt a familiar tightening in his head, inside his ears. Kleiman took his daughter to Disneyland. And how come Netta didn’t mention it, and Maya hasn’t, either, until now? Did Netta figure he wouldn’t be thrilled and instruct the child to avoid the subject? Would she do that? And didn’t she think he needed to be advised before someone— anyone , even if it was his close friend — took their daughter on a trip abroad? But he couldn’t ask his daughter about any of this, it wouldn’t be right, so what he asked was why she was saying “Noa’s dad.” Didn’t she know Kleiman was one of his closest friends? Maya looked at him with wide eyes and said nothing. Perhaps he’d scared her. Never mind, Avner said, and tried to smile, it doesn’t matter.

* * *

The last time he had talked to Kleiman — it must have been a birthday or some holiday — when the subject of their daughters came up, as it always did, Kleiman talked about how transparent Noa was to him. That was the word he used, transparent , as if he could see through her skin. Isn’t it freaky? Kleiman was saying. Seeing their little minds figure things out, seeing an idea occur to them for the first time, seeing when they’re trying to bluff or pull one over on you …