Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

Avner felt the sweat on his face. Was it visible? He didn’t have it in him to stand up to this man, say no to all that money, the connections, everything that might befall him if he went along. You never knew where things might go if you befriended these types of people, people who sat on boards, who had halls of libraries named after them. Maybe he’d just start this way, as this puppet Abe wanted to make of him, but once he met some people who did care about art, he’d explain that these paintings of Israel were a different phase and he was doing new things now. He’d show them his real work. And who knew what could happen then. That’s how people made it in New York. It’s not a problem, Avner said. Abe smiled. All right, then, he said. I’m sure you’ll need some time to do that, so how about we meet again in a couple months and go from there? For a few seconds, the two men looked at each other. So that was that.

Abe got up and shook Avner’s hand. Then he turned to Maya. Your daddy’s a smart man, he said, and Avner felt his muscles tighten. He turned to Avner again. Don’t be … shy about your views, Avner, all right? Can you teach your daddy to be less shy? Abe asked Maya. My dad isn’t shy, Maya said. Abe laughed. She’s feisty, the little one, he said, and Israeli, no doubt. Avner tried to chuckle, but what came out of him sounded more like a cough.

* * *

They left the building in silence, walked slowly. He needed to call Gillian to give her the update, but he couldn’t. She’d make him feel better, but somehow he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted.

I didn’t like that man, Maya said. How come? Avner asked; he tried to sound casual but was bracing himself for a difficult conversation. He was fat, Maya said. This caught Avner unprepared, and he chuckled. Maymay, he said, that’s not very nice. But it was too late; she was giggling and blowing air into her cheeks, marking a fat stomach with her arms. I am Abe, she was saying, trying to imitate the walk of a heavy man, I am so fat I can hardly move. She was trying to keep a straight face as Fat Abe, but she kept giggling, and Avner couldn’t help but laugh. He’d never seen this side of her. Was his daughter playful? Was Netta’s daughter playful? Now Avner was walking funny, too. I am Fat Abe, he said. I am always late because I walk so slow.

Surely he’d heard her laugh that way before? There was something so pure in that sound, water trickling down a pond.

A little while later, he felt a tickle in his left palm. It took him a few seconds to realize it was Maya’s hand trying to make its way into his. He opened his palm, took his daughter’s hand. Soon, they’d arrive.

1. Waiting for the Eye Doctor in Tel Aviv

A man is playing with his son. He seems too young to be the boy’s father, and yet he clearly is. Dad, Dad, the boy keeps saying, leaving no room for doubt. A stack of cards is the centerpiece of the action. They are playing a game called How Far Can You Blow the Card.

* * *

Are you the last one? a woman with a baby asks me, and before I have time to answer, she starts telling me what happened this morning. This morning, she says with excitement that seems inappropriate, I suddenly noticed this thing in my baby’s left eye. See? See? she asks again when I fail to respond. I don’t see anything. There is nothing to see. I nod. Oh my God, you see it, too, she says; do you think it’s bad, do you think it’s something really bad? I really don’t, I say, subtle sarcasm in my voice, and the man turns his eyes from his son — turns his eyes from his son! — and looks at me. He smiles. I smile back. We are obviously the sophisticated ones among the people waiting for the eye doctor. Is he flirting with me?

* * *

An old woman comes out of the doctor’s room. I need to go in again in fifteen minutes, she announces. No one responds. I’m going to go now, she tells me, but I’ll be back in time, you’d better not try to cut in front of me. She seems to dislike me, but I have no idea why. Whore, she hisses before she leaves. Hey, hey, the man tells her. My knight. She’s just an old crazy woman, I tell him, to show that I don’t care and to remind him of our shared sophistication.

* * *

The eye doctor’s clinic is situated in an old building in the south of Tel Aviv, not far from where I grew up. There is nothing wrong with my eyes, but these routine checkups are a good way to keep busy when I visit; too much free time makes parents ask questions like, Anybody special in your life now? And, Would you like us to come visit you in New York in the spring?

* * *

Inside, there’s a waiting room with pictures of the human eye like you’ve never seen it. No windows. Outside, where we all wait on an oblong-shaped balcony atop a stairwell, the marble floor makes squeaky sounds every time someone moves, and the peeling paint on the banister looks like old cake batter. My eyes follow the woman down the stairs and onto the small street. She constantly looks like she might fall, but she doesn’t, and I taste guilt in my throat when I notice my disappointment. If she turns right and walks straight, she’ll hit the flea market. If she turns left and walks north, bookstores and small coffee shops will be the slow-moving background of her tour. I stretch my body in an attempt to see her choice, but she is gone.

* * *

The baby is staring at me. I smile at him or her. It is still staring. The mother is making ridiculous sounds, trying to get its attention. It won’t stop staring at me. You know, she says finally, studies show that babies tend to focus on beautiful people. Thank you, I say.

Is she flirting with me?

You want to look at the beautiful girl, don’t you, don’t you now. You’re already a little man, aren’t you. Yes, you are, oh yes, you are.

* * *

Score! the man’s son shouts out. Way to go, Oren, the man says, and winks at me, letting me know he didn’t really lose to a five-year-old. He’s just being a good father. High five, he says, and raises his hand. But you lost, the boy says, keeping his hands to himself. It’s okay to be happy for somebody else’s victory, Oren, the man says, glancing at me to make sure I’m listening. He obviously has the whole fatherhood thing nailed down. Nobody says high five anyway, the boy says, only old people. The man looks sad. Or amused.

* * *

There’s some confusion as to who should go in first, the woman with the baby or a woman in a dress that looks like a blanket. What about you, blanket woman says to the man with the son. It’s all good, my knight says. Take it easy, ladies, that’s what Fridays are for; we’ll all get in at some point. He’s clearly not the typical Israeli; there is no aggressiveness in him, no sense of urgency. I think, That should be interesting in bed.

* * *

I’m not a baby, but I focus on beautiful people too, he tells me on his way out. It’s not a great line, but I smile anyway. The son is right there. He seems to be concentrating on his cards. Is he okay? I ask the man. Minor infection, he says, and pats the boy’s hair. Right, big guy? The child doesn’t seem to hear his father’s question. Life, to him, is very much about those cards. The man isn’t wearing a wedding ring, and I’m trying to fool myself, like this: Maybe he’s divorced, he could be divorced. But the truth is that Israeli men often don’t wear their wedding rings, and I know that he is in fact married, the way I always know immediately when I look at a man. It’s a feeling that comes over me, a tickle of excitement that never lies. It starts behind my belly button, then spreads. I think, Be strong be strong be strong. But I am not strong. He hands me the doctor’s business card, and I write my number on the back, smiling. Better not waste time, I tell him, handing him back the card; I live in New York and am here for only two more days.