Jerusalem Beach

by Iddo Gefen

  “What?”

  The bald man opened the car door. “Hop in. Quick, there’s no time. The meeting is in half an hour.”

  “I think you’ve got me mistaken for someone else,” I tried explaining.

  “Eyal Rubinstein? From the Meaning of Life Ltd.?” he asked, holding up his smartphone. There was a photo of me on his screen.

  “What? Yes, but—”

  “I spoke with Yaron, don’t worry. Come on, get in, I have no intention of being late.” He pulled me into the car and the driver set off.

  “Motty, the company CEO,” he introduced himself with a firm handshake. “I’ll put it all on the table—we’re running at a crazy deficit. If the French don’t buy us out, it’ll be a disaster. We’re talking two hundred people out of a job, including yours truly.”

  “Wait a minute, listen. I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He pulled a newspaper out of the glove compartment and handed it to me. The headline on page four read: “French corporation Better Life reported to purchase a vitamin company from Be’er Tuvia in the next few days.”

  “I’m guessing that’s your company? Great news.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Motty sighed. “Until a friend in Taiwan found out they also sent a representative to a Taiwanese vitamin company, the only difference being they had already made them an official offer. Those anti-Semites are only keeping us around as their plan B, in case something goes wrong.” He leaned forward.

  “Cut in front of him,” he ordered the driver, then turned his gaze to me. “So what do you propose we do?”

  “Me?”

  “You see another strategic advisor in the car?”

  “I’m not a strategic advisor.”

  “Crisis manager, negotiations expert, call yourself whatever you want. How do I get them to buy?”

  “Listen, I’m really not the person to—”

  “Yaron told me you’re modest,” he cut me off. “I don’t like it. Hey, pull over, we’re here,” he instructed the driver, who ground to a halt at the entrance to an upscale restaurant. Motty got out of the car, opened the trunk, and returned with a smart jacket and pants on a hanger.

  “Change. They’ll be here any minute.”

  Two minutes later I was decked out in the fanciest clothes I’d ever worn.

  “Custom made. Yaron sent me your measurements.”

  We got out of the car. A tall man with a mustache called out Motty’s name. Judging by his accent, he was undoubtedly one of the Frenchies. Motty shook his hand before introducing me in his heavily Israeli-accented English as a company consultant. I didn’t dare correct him. Motty opened the door and the three of us walked in and sat down at a round white table. The Frenchman immediately began to drill our waiter about the wine list, turning up his nose at every item until finally settling for a local merlot.

  “Any news about the offer?” Motty asked.

  The Frenchman apologized, saying their accountants were still going over the books. “We’re a thorough company, hence the thorough due diligence,” he explained, then suggested they go over the company’s business goals again.

  “Gladly,” Motty said, scratched his cheek, and began to tiredly recite financial data I had no way of comprehending.

  “How about we do it with the PowerPoint presentation, like last time?” the Frenchman asked while meticulously spreading a thick layer of butter on a piece of sourdough. Motty hesitated for a moment, then said it was no problem, we’d go fetch the laptop from the car.

  “Say, what’s up with you?” Motty asked once we made it to the car. “Your silence is some kind of strategy I’m not getting?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Having given up on getting an answer out of me, Motty lit a cigarette. A few moments later, my phone rang. It was Yaron, but I already knew it was too late to back out. I switched off the ringer.

  “What brand is that?” Motty asked, pointing at my phone.

  “Some sucky Chinese one. The battery lasts two hours.”

  “And they insist on calling them smartphones,” he smirked. “They market them as if every single one of them is a Harvard graduate.”

  “I guess it makes people buy them.”

  “Yeah, huh? Too bad we don’t have smart drugs. The French would have bought us on the spot.”

  “They don’t know you don’t have smart drugs,” I mentioned, not entirely sure what I meant.

  “Wait, what are you saying?” Motty asked. I told him I might have an idea, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t work.

  “Just tell me, it’s not like we have anything to lose.”

  I tried to explain. Unlike me, Motty seemed to understand what I was talking about.

  “I’m really not sure it’s a good idea,” I stressed, but Motty was already walking back into the restaurant.

  The Frenchman was chewing on a slice of smoked fish, and before we even took our seats, Motty announced: “I apologize, but we’re pulling out of the deal.”

  The Frenchman looked up from his plate, staring at us with puzzlement, perhaps wondering if this was some kind of Israeli joke.

  “We got an offer from a British company yesterday,” Motty said. He explained that given their lack of good faith in the negotiations, we had decided to go with the Brits.

  “What company? Good Life? Live Happy?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to disclose that information, but I certainly thank you for your time,” Motty said, and I added that we really were grateful. Motty’s smartphone rang. He glanced at the screen and apologized, saying he had to take the call.

  “No problem, we’re coming over to sign,” he spoke into the receiver. “Sure, the New York Times can write about the smart drug. But they need to make it clear that it’s an entirely new kind of drug, something that’s never been seen before.”

  “What smart drug?” the Frenchman asked me in an anxious whisper.

  “I’m sorry but I honestly can’t talk about it,” I said, shook his hand and followed Motty to the car.

  * * *

  Two hours later, the Frenchman called with an official offer. Forty-five million. Motty nearly closed on the spot, but I told him to wait a day and demand another million. He nodded, unable to hide his smile.

  “What will you do when they ask about the smart drugs?” I inquired, and Motty said it wasn’t a problem—he’d ask the Meaning of Life Ltd. to send him a biotechie who could whip some up. I told him I wasn’t sure it was that simple, but Motty just waved his hand dismissively.

  “You did your job like an ace, and that’s all that matters,” he said and slapped me on the back; then he talked me into going to a bar for a celebratory drink.

  5.

  I FINISHED MY first search day at four in the morning, a little drunk from my first champagne. Ten minutes later, as I was brushing my teeth, I heard a knock on the door. For a moment I thought maybe I had forgotten something in the taxi, but when I opened the door I found a guy in a green jumpsuit glaring at me.

  “What’s the deal, Eyal? We’ve been waiting for you for half an hour.”

  “My parents are sleeping, could you come back some other time?”

  “There is no other time, trust me.”

  Reluctantly, I followed him downstairs. The rattle of the engine coming from below was my first hint. A big garbage truck was standing at the entrance to the building. “Oh god,” I muttered.

  The guy hopped onto the back of the truck and waved me over.

  * * *

  At first I thought I’d hate every minute of it, but in truth, it wasn’t too bad. There was something nice about experiencing the world before it woke up. Hanging out on the streets and not being stuck inside some office. Not that dealing with dumpsters was especially enjoyable, but it wasn’t as bad as I had expected it to be.

  * * *

  That afternoon, people started showing up at my house for psychotherapy. One woman didn’t utter a single word the entire session, whil
e another burst into tears when she started talking about her fear of growing old alone. The following day, I found myself in a police officer’s uniform, chasing down a drug dealer through the streets of Tel Aviv, and I finished off the week as a sweaty wedding singer in a small banquet hall. In the next group session I said I had never imagined life had so much to offer me, and Yaron assured me I didn’t know the half of it yet.

  6.

  THREE WEEKS WENT by. More and more people in my group started to discover their meaning. Yakov realized he was born to be a medical clown, Miri enrolled in a yoga teacher training course in Rishikesh, and Lian opened a hummus joint in Haifa. I was the only one who still hadn’t really gotten his act together.

  “All these search days are really interesting, but at each one of them I feel like there’s something missing,” I explained to Talia. “Being a strategic advisor means working crazy hours, and being a psychologist seems too emotionally taxing. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure I’m getting an answer as to why I should wake up every morning so much as I’m discovering a lot of good ways to evade the question.”

  Talia was quiet for a while, then told me she remembered those days well, when she didn’t feel up to anything. “Before I signed up for the Meaning of Life Ltd., I’d go to the beach in Ga’ash every Tuesday afternoon.” She told me how she used to sit on the cliff at the edge of the trail, with no one else around. She’d look at the waves until the sun sank into the sea, trying to understand how she still had the energy to wake up every morning.

  “Do you still go to that beach?” I asked.

  “No, the Meaning of Life Ltd. gave me the answers I was searching for,” she said, “and I hope you’ll find your answers too. I honestly do.”

  7.

  TOWARD THE END of the summer, Yaron pulled me aside for a conversation. He said I was probably one of his toughest cases, and that the deluxe program didn’t seem to be working for me.

  “But here at the Meaning of Life Ltd. we can’t afford to give up,” he said, and explained they were about to launch the diamond program especially for people like me. A program designed for seasoned meaning-seekers, based on innovative methodologies devised in Austria, where this field was highly developed.

  “Obviously I can’t force you,” Yaron said, “but I do think quitting now is like giving up a few meters before reaching the peak of Mount Everest.”

  I called Talia and told her I couldn’t make up my mind. That on the one hand I was too tired to go on, but on the other hand I felt I’d come too far to quit now.

  “Maybe the Meaning of Life Ltd. isn’t for everyone,” she replied hesitantly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That maybe, maybe you really should give up. Even if it’s just for the time being.”

  “Give up?”

  “Yes. I don’t think they’ll be able to help you.”

  “But you said they helped you. You yourself said that if it wasn’t for the Meaning of Life Ltd. you’d still be sitting on the beach in Ga’ash.”

  “But you’re something else,” she said, and I realized that sentence had been lingering in her head for some time. “I mean, I just think you’re right. That in your case all these search days are just distracting you.”

  “Distracting me from what?” I asked, not sure how to respond to her sudden resolve. To the feeling that she had given up on me.

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t. But lately I’ve been thinking that maybe there isn’t always one right answer, and that’s also something one needs to learn how to live with,” she said, and took a few deep breaths. “Maybe people should stop searching for one grandiose meaning and start living for the small, simple things, like a child’s laughter, or green grass. I don’t know, whatever makes them smile.”

  Now it was my turn to be quiet. After a few moments of silence, I asked, “You really think that’ll be enough for me?”

  “Maybe,” she replied.

  “Then apparently you don’t understand.”

  “Apparently.”

  There was silence on both ends of the line, until I told her the MADA ambulance was already waiting for me outside.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  8.

  TALIA LEFT. YARON called me the following day, said she had been invited to continue her research in some Swiss institute and had to fly out without saying goodbye. “But don’t worry, you’ll meet your new sponsor tomorrow. A lovely guy named Amir who has just set up an Australian mongoose farm in the Arava. He can’t wait to meet you.”

  And then it dawned on me.

  I caught a northbound bus, got off at a stop on Highway 2, crossed the bridge, and kept going until I found myself standing in front of a fence sealing off the entrance to the beach. I slipped in through a small hole and started walking along the dirt trail leading to nowhere.

  She was sitting right at the end of the trail, looking out at the sea. I sensed she wasn’t surprised to see me there.

  She said she was the last person who could talk about the meaning of life. “I’m hardly a whiz kid or some science prodigy, I’ve never even stepped foot in a lab. I also haven’t been to any conferences in London, and I don’t have a boyfriend from Denmark.”

  She explained she was just some girl who had been in the drama club in high school and was sick of working as a waitress while waiting for her draft date. The Meaning of Life Ltd. had paid her to play someone who had seen the light, to convince people that if they only upgraded to the diamond program they’d find all the answers.

  “After a program or two, most people believe they’ve found the life they’ve always wanted, and that their problems have been solved. But in reality, only a very small percentage actually find meaning,” she said. “Within a few months most of them realize the answers they were looking for aren’t located on the tallest building in Hong Kong or a Druze village up north. But at that point they’ve stopped searching for the answers inside themselves.”

  She raised her arms as if about to hug me, then changed her mind and let them fall by her side. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I’m glad you don’t have a boyfriend from Denmark,” I replied.

  She smiled.

  9.

  WE SAT SILENTLY on the beach for maybe an hour. She was a good person to be quiet with.

  I think I’ll keep on searching for meaning in life. But that day, sitting beside her by the sea, it was nice to live for a few moments without needing to know why.

  Three Hours from Berlin

  1.

  TAMARA INSTANTLY RECOGNIZED HIM, despite the new round-rimmed glasses and black beard adorning his face. Unfortunately he recognized her as well, and she realized they were condemned to talk. She hoped the conversation would be brief, but knew the chances were slim: a preliminary update would take at least two minutes, reminiscing about their university days three minutes, and a general account of his life in Germany another five. And god help her if they accidently stumbled upon the subject of housing prices in Berlin.

  * * *

  Approaching him, she feigned a smile.

  “Well well well,” she affected surprise.

  “I know, right?” he replied and hugged her. His red sweater was soft and thick. “What brings you to Hadera?”

  “A three-day seminar.”

  “Wow, terrific. What’s the topic?”

  “Taxes in the digital age,” she said, boring even herself. All she could remember was that his name was Michael Tsabari, that he had studied accounting with her in Jerusalem, and that one day, sometime after graduation, he had moved to Germany and become a video artist in a small town whose name she couldn’t remember. “But never mind that, what’s going on with you? What are you doing in Israel?”

  * * *

  He told her he was here on a short visit, something work-related, but she wasn’t really listening. Sometimes, when engaging in such meaningless conversations, she felt like throwing in a r
andom question like “Do you believe in god?” or “What did you dream of becoming as a kid?” But this time she couldn’t even toy with the possibility, because he apologized and said he had to rush off, had a meeting with a famous curator who was interested in his art. “Too bad I don’t have a few more minutes,” he said and disappeared into the nearby alley. She found herself offended without knowing why.

  2.

  AT THE END of each day, she’d put the kettle on, study the white bits swimming at the bottom, and make herself a cup of black coffee with sweetener. Then she’d settle onto the living room couch, rest her tablet against her legs, and peek into the life of one of her hundreds of distant, virtual friends. That evening she checked out Micael’s profile, devoting considerable time to the matter:

  One year in Germany and still don’t get Brecht

  How do I break it to Grandpa that I’ve become a Bayern fan?

  #MilkyProtest: It is cheaper in Berlin—but I still don’t like Milky pudding.

  She thought about how there were three types of people in the world: those whose lives were worse than hers, those whose lives were just as boring as hers, and those whose lives she couldn’t help but be jealous of. In Tsabari’s case, one photo at a world heritage site and she succumbed without a fight. Tamara perused a few more photos. Michael was a good-looking guy. There was a childlike quality to his smile, especially against the sober black jacket he wore in many of the photos. Some of them featured a chubby German woman with a permanent smile on her face. Tamara wondered whether she was his girlfriend, thinking how she herself would never dare date a German man. She concluded that his life was better than hers, turned on the TV, and watched a trivia show in which the eliminated contestants plummeted through a trapdoor in the floor. Within less than an hour, Michael Tsabari had joined the dozens of people she was very jealous of and then completely forgot about. But later that night, he called.