Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

He could never — not in all the years they lived together, not since — predict how she’d react to anything. When he started thinking about leaving Israel — when it stopped being a fantasy so secret he seemed to be keeping it even from himself and became something else, hours spent drafting inquiry letters of various kinds — he planned for long months what to say, how to say it. Time and again, he went over different things Netta might say, accuse him of, and he spent days thinking how he’d respond to each. I just need a few months, he was going to say, hoping some part deep down in her that loved him would find compassion for that, because if she could do that for Kleiman, as she had a few years back, why not for him? And maybe that was all it would be — a few months away. He’d focus on his art, get some recognition, figure things out.

When he got the acceptance from the Artists Awake Association, he stared at it for long minutes, frozen. It was a small thing — a studio space he’d share with other artists probably much younger than himself, a stipend that would buy him a couple dinners a week at best — but it was a nod, someone in New York thinking his work was good. He’d accepted and bought the plane ticket before he talked to Netta, feeling the pull so strong in him and afraid, as he always was, of her effect on him.

He woke up in an empty bed the next morning. That happened often — Netta was an early riser — but he usually knew, even in his sleep, if she was next to him or not. That morning he reached for her to find her gone. And there was something in that moment that gave him the courage he’d been waiting for. He got out of bed and didn’t wash his face. He went into the kitchen and didn’t say good morning. Any minute, he could lose his nerve. He sat down and said Netta we need to talk I think I need to move to New York for a while I got this residency it’s not a lot but it’s something I bought a plane ticket. Nothing changed in her face. She kept sitting there looking serene, drinking her coffee and reading the paper. When they first met, Avner was fascinated by how long Netta managed to make one cup of coffee last. She loved her morning ritual and didn’t seem to mind her coffee getting cold. Now she took another sip. He hadn’t been clear enough. I’m thinking it will be a few months, he said. Maybe some time apart will be good for us. And if I get some people in New York to notice me — maybe get in on some group shows, maybe even find a gallery — well, it might make all the difference. Right, she said, still reading. He might as well have said, I think we’re out of yogurt.

He stayed there a few minutes, sitting across the table and looking at her. This is a woman you can’t know, he thought. In the days to come, these words played themselves on repeat in his head, and for reasons he didn’t quite understand, they provided comfort. Later, in the New York apartment — his first apartment was a tiny studio in Washington Heights, with hospital-green walls and almost no furniture — he would whisper these words to himself. In the New York winter that awaited him with cold winds that burned his ears and that, being so used to Mediterranean weather, he couldn’t help but take personally, he would whisper these words to himself. On New York’s long avenue blocks that seemed to be asking out loud when he was going back, when he’d admit he’d made a mistake — he would whisper these words to himself. This is a woman you can’t know.

* * *

No, he wouldn’t call Netta. What would be the point? If she was having an affair with Kleiman, there was nothing he could do about it. Confronting her would only make matters worse. She’d talk to him when she was ready. If there was even anything to talk about, which there might not be. He might be reading too much into it. Things always appeared worse from a distance.

* * *

At night, back at the hotel (We’re home, he’d announced when they came in; he always called wherever he slept home ), he was going over his portfolio and Maya seemed engrossed in the Northeast Travel Guide —Hebrew edition — that he’d brought with him. Gillian had mentioned the Nuweiba series, but you never knew with these people; he might suddenly want to talk about other works entirely. And since none of it came easily to Avner in English, he’d gotten in the habit of looking at his portfolio before any type of meeting, for each work whispering to himself words he might need if he was asked about his intention, or process, or politics. These people often wanted to talk politics.

Did you know people used to live there? Maya was asking suddenly, her voice angry. Where? he asked. Where we went today, that plaza place, she said. It says here — she said, pointing at the book — that people were forced out of their homes to build that place. People used to live there! He leaned toward her, and she handed him the book, marking the relevant section with her finger. He read: “Above the waterline, rising like a spearhead into downtown Albany, stands Nelson Rockefeller’s Empire State Plaza, which was built during the 1960s and 1970s, replacing roughly one hundred acres of nineteenth-century buildings (while forcing hundreds of families out of their homes) with a complex including underground parking lots, and decorated with impressive modern art. The view from the observation deck,” Avner went on, “looks as if it were specifically designed to make one feel like a triumphant conqueror, looking over the Hudson winding toward the Adirondacks…” He realized he’d gone past the relevant part. This was many years ago, he said to Maya, but her eyes were furious, and he knew his words were wrong. But which words were right? She had always had Netta’s uncompromising sense of justice. Or perhaps all children were like that, assuming the world can and should be good. So what if it was a long time ago? Maya asked. They forced people out of their homes! She was looking at him as if he himself had escorted each family out, and her eyes were tearing up. He didn’t think she cried anymore. It seemed she stopped doing that years ago, when she learned to talk. Did they use tanks? she asked. How slow he could be sometimes. How had that not occurred to him. Oh, Maymay, he said, it’s not the same as back home. It’s not what you think. Of course they didn’t use tanks. And they probably paid these people, too, for their old houses. It’s different in America. Maya looked at him suspiciously. He sighed. Remember what I said earlier, about keeping an open mind with this stuff? That’s kind of what I meant. I don’t want to go back to that plaza place, Maya said. There’s no reason to, Avner said, except we might just have to walk by there tomorrow on our way to my meeting. I don’t want to, Maya said. Avner was surprised by her insistence. It was unlike her, to be … difficult like that. Okay, he said. I’ll figure something out.

* * *

Later that night Maya was asleep — on her back, one arm on her stomach and the other on her forehead, her breath loud — and Avner watched her for a while. Every few minutes she’d murmur something and he would try to catch it. It mostly sounded like words in English. He knew she’d been taking lessons; Netta had mentioned it a few times, always emphasizing it, as if he was supposed to say something back— thank you ? — but still, why would she murmur in English in her sleep? He was probably wrong.

At some point, Avner grabbed his cell phone and sneaked to the bathroom. He sat in an empty bathtub and stared at the small screen. It was early morning in Tel Aviv. Netta might still be asleep. And what would he say? He called Gillian. Maya’s practically ready to march into Gaza and throw herself in front of tanks, he told her; I think Netta’s been overdoing it with the political zealousness. Gillian laughed. I’m sure you’re exaggerating, she said. Maybe, Avner said. They were quiet for a few seconds, until Gillian said, It’s late, and her words sounded like a question. I’m sorry, Avner said, should I not have called? No, no, Gillian said, it’s totally fine, I’m just surprised. Was that even really what was troubling him, Maya’s … politics ? He wasn’t sure. But Gillian was always easy to complain to. She never hinted at the fact that he’d abandoned his child , never even seemed to think it. He wondered about that sometimes — her absolute empathy, or perhaps it was merely indifference to anything that didn’t serve her interest, the art she could sell. I just need to talk to Netta about it, ask her to take it down a notch with the politics, Avner said, though he knew, of course, that he wouldn’t. Maya will find her own truth eventually, Gillian said. Gillian didn’t understand children, the open-endedness of their minds, how easily they could be manipulated. It’s not that simple, Avner said, and they were quiet again for a bit. He wanted to talk to her about Kleiman, about his suspicions. He’d never shared anything real about his marriage. There are many influences in her life, Avner said. Sure, Gillian said. Was she impatient, or was he imagining it? He didn’t know what to say next, and Gillian said, You have a big meeting tomorrow, Avner, better try to get some sleep. Had he imagined this whole time that Gillian was … open to some other connection between them, that if he ever became available she might be interested? She certainly didn’t sound interested now. Yeah, that’s really why I called, Avner said. I’ve been meaning to ask you — can I try to interest this Abe guy in some of my real paintings? I mean, they’re never going to sell if no one ever sees them or knows about them. There was a short pause before Gillian said, It’s all your real work, Avner, and if anything’s holding you back it’s this kind of thinking. Avner took a deep breath. I know you don’t believe they can sell, he said, but, please, tell me the truth: do you think they’re good?