The Hilltop

by Assaf Gavron

  He returned to the apartment and the silent roommate who was glued to the television, and went out and down to McDonald’s, already knowing he’d order a Big Mac. He felt the tense urban atmosphere around his shoulders, heard the sound of loud youthful laughter, of customers at restaurants, smelled the oil and his own sweat and the grime of the city. He returned home and showered and waited in the living room for the roommate to finish watching television—and after the roommate went to his room and Gabi converted the couch into a bed and arranged the sheets and lay down on them, he remained awake for a long time, hours perhaps, and felt more alone than he had ever felt on his bed at the kibbutz.

  In the morning he called the office and they told him there was no work. He spent most of the day at home, went out only to eat. The next day they told him to come in. This time, he worked with a foreman by the name of Itzik, who spoke to him like a commander to a soldier and spoke to the driver—the same Victor—in a loud voice about parties and girls. They did a small move from the company’s storage facility in Queens to an office in New Jersey. Afterward they went to load up an apartment in Manhattan.

  The apartment—spacious, a high floor, spectacular view—was home to a middle-aged Israeli by the name of Meshulam, who was dressed in a suit and flip-flops and didn’t say much. Gabi followed Itzik’s orders and began taking the boxes downstairs to the truck. Victor waited in the truck’s cargo compartment and arranged the boxes inside. They worked like that for about half an hour, and then Meshulam replaced his flip-flops with a pair of polished shoes and informed them he was going out to a meeting. Gabi sensed an immediate drop in tension on the part of Itzik. Every time he returned to the apartment after a trip down to the truck, Itzik had made himself more comfortable, until eventually Gabi found him stretched out on the sofa, Meshulam’s cordless telephone pressed to his ear while he snorted loudly with laughter.

  When he heard Gabi enter, he signaled with his fingers for him to wait a moment, continued talking for another three minutes, and then said, “Listen, I’m going down to get something to eat with Victor. Stay here to keep an eye on the apartment. I don’t want the owner to return and find no one here. If he gets back before me, tell him we’re on a short break. We’ll take over afterward and you can go down and grab something.”

  The owner returned. Gabi passed on Itzik’s message. He nodded, loosened his tie, and sat down in an armchair. Then he sighed and turned away from the view to look at Gabi. “Been in New York for long?”

  Gabi shook his head. “Three days.”

  The man smiled. “It shows. You aren’t managing very well, are you?”

  Gabi wondered what he meant, what showed. “Not managing what?”

  “The city. The work.”

  Gabi looked at the man. Considered whether to be loyal to the company or to tell the truth. He smiled. “It shows?”

  Meshulam laughed. He asked Gabi about his background and Gabi responded with an appropriate summary. He gave Gabi a can of soda from the refrigerator and Gabi drank appreciatively and glanced out at the canopy of clouds and the sun that struggled to break through them from above, and the tall buildings that tried to pierce them from below. “This city is so huge,” he said.

  “You’ll like the place I’m moving to more,” said Meshulam. “It’ll remind you of the kibbutz.”

  “Where?”

  “Hollywood, Florida.”

  Gabi was confused.

  “It’s not the Hollywood you’ve heard of. It’s a different Hollywood. Nicer. You’ll see when you go there to unload.”

  “It won’t be me.” Gabi smiled. “We aren’t supposed to do long-distance in the first month.”

  The Fund

  Hollywood, Florida, was much nicer. According to company regulations, Gabi shouldn’t have been on the truck, but company regulations stipulated that at least one worker who was there for the loading must also be at the unloading, and because Itzik and Victor were called in to help with a huge twelve-truck job down on Wall Street, the dispatcher bent one rule to stick to another. Or he simply didn’t have any people.

  They went by Meshulam’s apartment one more time to load a few more new items he had purchased. When they told him they were continuing on from there straight to Florida, Meshulam told the foreman that he was also about to leave, and offered to give Gabi a ride in his car. That wasn’t in keeping with company regulations, either, but worked best for everyone: for Meshulam, who clearly needed company and help with the driving on the long journey southward; for Gabi, who was worried at the thought of spending two or three days in the truck’s cabin with the two imbeciles he’d met ten minutes earlier who were treating him like he wasn’t even there; and most of all for the foreman, the ruling authority, who couldn’t believe his luck—not only had he managed to get out of the huge job in lower Manhattan but he could also head down to Florida with a friend and with extra room in the cabin.

  One thousand, one hundred and eighteen miles is a long way to go, lots of time, lots of nature, lots of air. Leaving the big city, Gabi felt the tension drain from his body—the few days he’d spent in New York were the longest of his life in a city. Within hours he got used to the pace of the journey, the softness of the Chevrolet’s beige leather seats, the regularity of the American road, the open spaces and rest stations and roadside diners. He ate something other than a Big Mac at last. And the English from the kibbutz began rolling off his tongue naturally again—the rust finally fell away.

  One thousand, one hundred and eighteen miles is sufficient distance for deepening an acquaintanceship. Meshulam Avneri had been in the United States for eleven years. He had a student son, a soldier daughter, and one ex-wife in Israel, another daughter who was traveling in Ecuador, and a second wife who had been living with him in New York until two weeks before and had returned to Israel. Her father had fallen ill, but that was probably just an excuse. He didn’t know if she’d be coming back. She wasn’t too keen on the move to Florida, and claimed, anyway, that Meshulam had promised her they’d go back to Israel, although he didn’t remember making such a promise. So now she was there and he was here and who knew what would happen. Besides, he traveled a lot and didn’t get to see her half the time, so things hadn’t changed much. On the other hand, he should have been doing less traveling from Florida, that was part of the improvement in the terms of his employment, his promotion. The New York office was the company’s main office in the United States, and it was good to be close to the honeypot, the tail of a lion rather than the head of a dog, and all the other clichés. But being handed the North Florida zone, Palm Beach County, the region with the highest concentration of Jews outside of Israel, and what Jews, too, Jews of the perfect age and social status for his kind of work—that isn’t an offer one refuses, and Nira could say and do whatever she pleased. When Meshulam said that, his words were tinged with bitterness, and his eyebrows scrunched up into his graying face.

  Meshulam worked for the Keren Kayemeth LeIsrael. Gabi recalled that it was the organization responsible for the forests in Israel, but Meshulam explained that that was only one of its activities. In America it was known as the JNF, the Jewish National Fund, and they were involved in raising money, which went toward all aspects of land development and land maintenance in Israel. Meshulam arrived as an emissary, and a few years later, after receiving a green card and subsequently an American passport, he became a local employee. His main job in Florida was to find people who would bequeath their money and property to the State of Israel, to make contact with them and to nurture the connection.

  “How do you find people who want to leave their money to Israel?” Gabi asked.

  “Ah, it’s complicated. A JNF person needs to be well rooted in the Jewish community and the synagogues. He’ll present brochures on the JNF activities and offer people the chance to adopt projects. He’ll give lectures, leave business cards. Sometimes he’ll hear of candidates in advance and make contact with them. Sometimes the donors themselves make the ap
proach. We also publish ads.”

  “And then what?”

  “You set up a meeting. They’re usually elderly Jews. Sometimes they have a family or friends or other organizations, and we get a portion of the inheritance. But the really big fish are people with money and assets who don’t have a family, no heirs, and then we step into the picture. That’s the real work.”

  “What’s the work?”

  “I meet with them for lunches. Call to maintain the relationship. I show them the work the JNF is doing, and befriend them, try to make them feel that the State of Israel cares about them. There are financial arrangements, too. Sometimes they’re complex, with lawyers and accountants. Sometimes it’s simpler. The details are finalized over time: the size of the bequest, the validity of the will, the precise wording, where exactly the money will go, what will be done with the property.”

  They drank coffee at a truck stop. Meshulam, who insisted on wearing his suit and tie the entire journey, suddenly sighed, and Gabi wondered what he was truly feeling. “So your work is really just making friends with old people, sucking up to them, making sure they don’t pick up the phone to a lawyer to tell them they’ve discovered some distant relative whom they’ve decided to leave everything to, and waiting for them to die.”

  Meshulam smiled. “Not all the work, but that’s a part of it.”

  “Not bad.”

  “You’re away from home a lot, you eat with them, listen to them, treat them well. It’s not that simple.”

  “Actually, doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

  “It’s tough with those people sometimes. They’re not the most interesting. Or they’re angry with someone, or something hurts them. You have to be there for them all the time.”

  “Better than carrying boxes and sofas on your back.”

  “I guess. And also, don’t forget, it’s Zionism in the end. We’re building the country. We need that money.”

  They resumed their journey. Gabi drove. Meshulam drove. Gabi drove and Meshulam slept. They stopped to spend the night in a city called Charleston, and at dinner Meshulam told Gabi about a client he once had in that city, not even a Jew, but he contacted the organization and decided to bequeath his home, a beautiful house with a large garden in the heart of town. Meshulam met him for dinner, at an amazing fancy seafood restaurant. It was a fascinating evening, the man had an interesting life story, he was a CIA agent in Italy for many years. They finalized all the details, the man was supposed to call his lawyer the following morning to change the will, but before he had a chance, he suffered a heart attack and died of food poisoning, and Meshulam himself spent all day hanging over the toilet throwing up and having diarrhea.

  As he slowly emerged from sleep after the night at the motel, Gabi thought about Meshulam’s work. He didn’t like the parasitic element of it, the way the State of Israel sent emissaries to hover like vultures over human carcasses, or worse, even, over living people, waiting for them to become carcasses and then swooping down and scavenging whatever they leave behind the moment they die. There was something disturbing about the cold and calculated process by which they found candidates for death, secured their bequests, waited for their demise. On the other hand, he thought, they offer the caring and warmth that’s missing from the lives of childless people who’ve come to the end of the road. Even if the motive is a selfish one, it’s still caring and warmth that no one else offers, and who says the warmth and caring offered in more conventional ways, by family members or friends, stems from less selfish motives?

  The next morning they continued in driving rain. Gabi liked rain, but quantities like that were too much even for him, and in the month of June as well. Meshulam smiled and said it was the norm in this part of America, there were hurricanes sometimes, too, which was a lot crazier. They drove slowly, a bit pensive and withdrawn, the wipers working vigorously and noisily, the rain slamming down on the metal.

  After one more night at a motel, they arrived at Meshulam’s new house. The foreman called to say the stormy weather had slowed the progress of the truck, which wouldn’t arrive until evening, thus leaving Gabi and Meshulam with an entire day to wait in an empty house. Hollywood, Florida, did indeed remind Gabi of the kibbutz. The contrast with New York surprised him. In front of every house was a well-groomed square of lawn, the houses themselves were tidy, spacious. The storm passed, maybe didn’t even reach that part of Florida, and it was the most sun-filled day since he’d landed in America. He sat on a deck chair someone had left in Meshulam’s yard, sipping the coffee in a paper cup that Meshulam got from around the corner.

  Meshulam took him on a tour of the neighborhood. Gabi got into the Chevrolet and three minutes later caught sight of the most beautiful sea he had ever seen, a deep and intoxicating turquoise, and long white beaches, and the girls . . . He took off his pants and went into the sea in his underwear, and couldn’t believe how gratifying and familiar it felt when the water engulfed him. Like the kibbutz? The kibbutz wished. It was a hundred times better; it was like the kibbutz, only without strange looks in the dining hall and with the most beautiful beach you’d ever seen, with all due respect to the Sea of Galilee.

  He lay on the sand and said, “This is paradise, Meshulam. This is what I dreamed of when I dreamed of overseas. Not about a million people and tall buildings in which I go up and down with furniture.” Meshulam smiled. He took him to eat at a restaurant on the beach, and when they returned home, he showed Gabi the small apartment adjacent to the main house. It had a separate entrance, one small room with a kitchenette and bathroom.

  “I’ve been thinking about renting this out, what do you think?” Meshulam asked. He meant, what did Gabi think of the idea of renting it out, and of the unit in general.

  But Gabi said, “I’m in.”

  Meshulam looked at him in surprise. “You’re in what?”

  “I want to live here,” Gabi said.

  Meshulam laughed. “Are you serious?”

  “Totally.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “Don’t you need an assistant?”

  The Bar

  While his brother left for the United States, and many of his friends for the Far East and South America, Roni remained in Tel Aviv. It was far enough for him. He had ended up there almost by chance. Started dating a girl from Ra’anana, an economics and philosophy student at Tel Aviv University, whose father had an office in an apartment on Shlomo Hamelech Street with a vacant room, and the girlfriend suggested to Roni that they take over the room. During work hours they shared the apartment with the office, and because Roni didn’t feel comfortable, he preferred to go out and frequently just went with the girlfriend to the university, started sitting in on classes, and discovered that the courses interested him.

  In the evening and on weekends they had the apartment to themselves. They bought a fishbowl and two fish for a few shekels from a pet store around the corner. Their “rent” was to clean the apartment and wash the dishes of the office employees, usually three mugs with the remains of coffee or water. He decided to register for studies—if he was already investing the time in lectures, why shouldn’t he glorify himself with a degree? But just a few months later the girlfriend told him she was pregnant, which ended in an abortion and despair and a teary breakup.

  The girlfriend left the apartment while Roni ended up staying, and continued to share it with the father’s office. But now he had to pay rent, and tuition fees at the university, too. Roni spent a few days wondering how he’d manage, until the day the fish died—from overfeeding, they explained to him at the pet store. He went to a pub on one of the corners of Malchei Yisrael Square—it was a few years before they stopped calling them pubs, or the square by that name—and drank so much that by the end of the evening he barely managed to notice the small “Kitchen Help Wanted” ad posted near the toilets.

  He washed dishes, and then helped the chef, and then became a barman, and eventually a shift manager. He discovered at university tha
t he was able to breeze through the basic statistics and math courses. A year later Roni was for all intents and purposes already managing the pub when the owner, Oren Azulai, made him an offer. He was about to open a new place and wanted Roni to run it for him: the setting up, décor, renovations, team, inventory, menu, wages. Oren didn’t want to spend a single minute there. Roni would earn twice his current salary.

  “And here’s your real incentive,” Oren threw his way at the end of the conversation. “To give you another shot in the arm, I’ll give you a bonus of two percent of the after-tax profit at the end of every month.”

  The offer left Roni stunned for several moments, but he maintained a cool façade and said, almost matter-of-factly, “Let me come in as a partner, it’ll be more worthwhile for you.”

  “Partner?” Oren asked, and tried to suppress the patronizing smile. “Do you have money to invest?”

  Roni didn’t, but he said he’d check. He checked. The banks he went into showed him the door within minutes. But Uncle Yaron, whom he called without a glimmer of hope, surprised him with the savings account he had opened with the inheritances of his parents and grandfather. Roni went in with a 20 percent share.

  He set up the new place from scratch: from the exhausting red tape of the Tel Aviv Municipality, through to the last tile in the bathrooms. All he knew, he knew from running one conventional pub in a square in Tel Aviv, from years of drinking at the kibbutz pub, and from a handful of courses at the university; but he also knew, from intuition, from common sense, that he wanted something different. More appealing, more fun. He started with the name. He wasn’t the first proprietor in the ’90s to drop the prefix “Pub” and swap “Bar” in its place, but he was certainly a pioneer of sorts when he named the place Bar-BaraBush, after the wife of the not-so-long-ago president of the United States. He then moved on to the design of the sign and façade, the inviting and comfortable interior, paying strict attention to cleanliness, selecting the staff and training them. His most impressive innovation was his approach to the food. Unlike most drinking establishments, which served fries and chicken wings with their beer, Bar-BaraBush offered good food: filling and also diverse, simple and also fresh, inexpensive, and available at all hours. Roni hired a sous-chef who designed a menu, which was gradually perfected and adapted to suit the place and the mood. In time more and more people were converted: a bar that offered not only good drinking but good eating, too.