Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

Avner … was all Gillian said, and then nothing.

* * *

The hotel dining room consisted of two small tables, each covered with an oversized plastic tablecloth. Maya and Avner sat there alone, nibbling on stale Danishes. I’m sorry, Avner said; we’ll get something better later. It’s tasty, Maya said, and took another small bite. He smiled. Better than my French toast? he asked. Avner was no cook, but he made a better French toast than most — vanilla extract was the secret, and choosing the right bread — and he knew Maya loved it. She giggled. You should teach them how to make it, she said, and maybe then more people would come here! Avner laughed. No way, he said; then I’d have competition! But I will make it for you when we’re back home. Maya looked at him with serious eyes suddenly, and he wasn’t sure why. Home home? she asked. I meant my apartment, he said. Surely she knew that. But when are you coming home? Maya asked, her voice soft and quiet. Netta had explained it all to her, he knew; what did she need to hear?

Maymay, my decision to be here for a while has nothing to do with how much I love you, you know that, right? Maya nodded, but he could tell that wasn’t enough. Mom talked to you about it, remember? Maya nodded. But you never did, she said. She was right, of course. That just wasn’t how they did things. Netta was so much better at knowing how to manage it all, so much less likely to choose the wrong words, to end up harming Maya even more. Well, he said, what do you want to know? That was probably wrong, he probably wasn’t supposed to ask her. I just want to know if it’s forever, Maya said.

Did all kids have this skill, this ability to get to the heart of the matter immediately and with few words? I don’t know, Maymay, he said. Why not? she asked. He wasn’t getting away without giving her some real answers, that much was clear, and perhaps she was truly grown up, as she’d said the day before — at least more than he gave her credit for, and enough for some truth. I was very sad in Tel Aviv, Avner said. He paused for a few seconds. You know that feeling, Maymay, when you do a good job with your homework and the teacher praises you in front of the class? Maya smiled a tiny smile; she did well in school, and he remembered Netta’s mentioning her being praised last week. Well, it’s a good feeling because praise is important, it’s what keeps us going, and I never had that good feeling in Tel Aviv. The galleries and museums over there just didn’t like my paintings very much, he said, and shrugged, his shoulders asking her not to feel too bad for him. And in New York they do? Maya asked. Everything is bigger in New York, Avner said, so it takes time, but they do like them more here, yes. He was about to explain that’s what the meeting was, too, that he was basically trying to find as many people as he could who would like his paintings, but he paused when he heard the words in his head. It all sounded so … pathetic, and surely it wasn’t good for a little girl to see her father as pathetic. I like your paintings, Maya said. He put his hand over hers and noticed it was shaking. Thank you, Maymay, he said.

* * *

In the waiting room of Abe Chapman’s office, everything was large. The brown leather sofas were large, the wooden coffee table was large, the windows — overlooking Madison Avenue, which was nothing like its New York counterpart — were large. Maya had brought a book to keep herself busy, but when Abe’s assistant asked if she wanted crayons — holding them up so Maya would understand, asking, How do you say crayons in Hebrew but clearly not waiting for Avner to respond — Maya sheepishly nodded. Avner was surprised. He’d always wanted her to draw, wanted to teach her, but she’d had no interest. Such a cutie-pie, the assistant said. She’s all right, Avner said, and smiled. He wanted to sit by Maya and watch her draw but had a feeling that would make her self-conscious, so he just stood by the window, awkward and waiting. Shouldn’t be long now, the assistant said, and Avner nodded. But twenty minutes later there was still no sign of Abe. Was he in his office with someone, or running late? Avner tended to keep questions to a minimum in such situations. These people were unpredictable. Some wanted to be your best friend, some wanted to humiliate you, so it was hard to know how to be, especially when Gillian wasn’t around. He’d gotten pretty good at following her lead, but when he took a meeting without her it was up to him to figure out what the eyes looking at him wanted to see. Except now there were no eyes at all, not yet, and there was Maya, patiently drawing and looking up every few minutes. Didn’t he owe it to her, to be more than a forgotten-about appointment in some rich man’s waiting room? He took a deep breath. I can’t wait much longer, he told the assistant, and his voice sounded hoarse. Oh, I’m sorry, she said, and then in a lower voice, Abe can be so bad with time. I came all the way from New York, Avner said, as if the distance he’d traveled could make Abe materialize. Let me try him again, the assistant said.

She was holding the phone when a heavyset man walked through the front door, his voice immediately filling the space. You must be Avner, he was saying, so sorry to keep you! Oh that’s okay, Avner said, and reached his hand out. We were having a nice time.

* * *

Avner had assumed Maya would stay in the waiting room with the assistant, but she picked up her crayons when Abe gestured with his arm toward his office and was by Avner’s side in seconds. Little one wants to sit in on the meeting? Abe asked, looking at Maya. She doesn’t speak a whole lot of English, Avner said, and Abe hit his own forehead with an open hand. Of course! Ata rotze le yoshev bepgisha? Maya let out a small giggle. Abe’s American Hebrew made her into a boy. There was no way, it seemed, to suggest Maya should wait outside. And maybe that was okay. Maybe it was good for her to see him sell his work, maybe it would give a bit of balance to everything he’d said earlier.

Unlike the waiting room, the office itself was rather naked, a big empty space with only a desk and a couple of chairs. We just moved here a few weeks ago, Abe apologized in his broken Hebrew, we’re still waiting on a shipment of furniture from Japan. You don’t have to speak Hebrew, Avner tried, but Abe waved his hand. Please, he said, I love it, it’s good practice. Maya kept giggling at almost everything he said, which made Avner nervous. Didn’t she know it wasn’t polite?

So I’m going to be honest with you, Abe said, and tell you I don’t know much about art. But the lovely Miss Gillian tells me that’s what this office needs, and I trust that woman. She’s the best, Avner said, and smiled. There was a short pause now, the two men looking at each other. Was Avner supposed to say something?

What I do know quite a bit about, Abe said, leaning forward, and care about — deeply — is Eretz Israel . Is that something we have in common, Avner?

Avner had met people like Abe before, staunch supporters of Israel who considered it their job to make everyone else support Israel right along with them. Yes, Avner said, of course. Oh, it’s not of course , Abe said, not these days, sadly. And not when talking to an Israeli who’s no longer living in Israel. Abe smiled a wide smile. Was this man seriously judging him? This man who at best volunteered at some kibbutz for a year, who certainly never served in the army? This was unusual. Avner was used to questions about Israel, about his politics, about his politics in relation to his art. And to a degree, he’d always rationalized, that was fair. They wanted to know what they were buying, and often these were not people who knew what they were looking at when they looked at a painting. But he’d never been criticized or shamed in any way for leaving Israel. Most of the time, all he needed to do was talk about his military days and their eyes would light up.