It means it’s a painting of what Nuweiba looked like in 1980, Avner said. Yes, yes, Abe said. But you know what I’m saying, Avner. This was Israeli territory back then, but months later it was given to Egypt. Given back to Egypt, Avner said. For peace, Abe said slowly, looking straight into Avner’s eyes. Because that’s all Israel’s ever wanted.
Maya wasn’t drawing anymore. She was looking up now, looking serious. What was she able to pick up on from the Hebrew and English mix they were speaking? All I’m proposing is that the subtitle be a bit more accurate, Abe said. Something like Neviot in Sinai, Israel, 1980. A gentle reminder of Israel’s many sacrifices.
Avner felt Maya’s eyes on him. She probably didn’t understand what Abe was saying, what he was asking. And even if she did, Avner could explain it later. He’d say something like, This man loved my paintings so much he wanted to be part of them. He should be able to avoid the politics of it altogether, that wasn’t the point.
Abe was still talking. With some of the other pictures, he was saying now, changes might have to go a bit further, but I’m sure we can figure it out. He paused and looked at Avner. Avner knew what he was talking about — some of the older paintings had racier text, for sure, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit they were inspired by Netta’s politics more than his own. And yet the paintings were what they were, the text part of the work. Could he really … change them? This was only a test, that much was clear. This man didn’t care about Avner’s art any more than he cared about Palestinians dying in Gaza. Neither was real to him in the full sense of the word. But if Avner was willing to “edit” his paintings, that would prove he was the kind of man Abe and his friends wanted to … bring into the fold.
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.
THIS WAY I DON’T HAVE TO BE
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.