After Aviv

For Raymond Carver.

 And (of course) for (the other) Aviv.

I was walking down this aisle of the labyrinth park, just walking, I swear, not even thinking.  I know it doesn’t sound too true, because people who walk are people who tend to think a lot, mostly.  But I was just walking, really, looking at the vines that went up the walls.  I’ve always thought those vines are the best metaphor of life, just creeping up the wall until they reach the top, and then they either stop growing and die, or they go down the other side of the wall, touch the floor, and die. 

 So yeah, I was walking down this aisle and suddenly I see him, sitting on the floor, his back against the vine-covered wall, his dark glasses on.  He’s always worn dark glasses.  And a short-sleeved, button up shirt.  I knew it was him.  I immediately knew.

 That’s when I started thinking.  First I thought I should just turn back and walk back and get out of there. Then I thought I should just pretend I hadn’t seen him, and walk on.  Then I thought: of course I have to say hello.  I walked a bit slower.  I thought should I wait for him to see me, to turn and look over?  I thought shit.  Shit, I thought.  I wasn’t expecting to see him.  I hadn’t seen him for months.  I’d thought I’d never see him again. 

 Suddenly, I don’t know why, I remembered it was the last day of spring.  I’d read it in the paper that morning together with coffee and some old men watching the TV at the bar.  Then I’d decided that I’d go to the labyrinth park to walk a little, maybe get a beer afterwards.  I didn’t have to work that day; Thursdays are my days off from the bar.  I’d worked all Wednesday night, slept on the counter for some hours, gotten up, drunk a coffee, read the spring thing, watched the old men watch TV, and gone to the park. 

 Aviv? I said.  I remembered that he’d once told me that his name meant spring in Hebrew while we smoked some pot, and we’d laughed our asses off.  He turned around.  It was him.  He took off his glasses, looked at me, put them back on.  He said something like I can’t believe it.  I said how’ve you been?  He stood up.  We stood like that, in front of each other, for a while.  He’s shorter than me, so I kind of had to incline my head down.  I didn’t know what to say.  I don’t think he did, either.  And then one of us, I don’t know who, started walking.  And so did the other.

 We’d been together in this park once before.  We’d actually met here.  He’d just gotten to the city to join some investigation in some university, and I’d just gotten married to Becca.  It was right after the honey moon that someone told me about this park, and I said Becca do you want to walk through a labyrinth?, and she said don’t be silly, so I went by myself, and when I got to the park a very white guy with glasses and a black button-up shirt approached me, map open, asking how to get to the beach, and I said it’s pretty far away, and he said do you know the name of this park, then?  I said yeah, the labyrinth park.  I didn’t really know the name, but he looked like a tourist, so I thought he probably doesn’t even care anyway.  He said oh, and we started talking, and then we walked through the thing together.

 Now, again, we were walking the labyrinth.  How come you’re here? I said.  I couldn’t think of anything else to say.  He didn’t answer.  He looked forward.  He looked at me.  He said remember the last time we were here?  We met here, remember? He said.  He laughed.  I said yeah. 

 Aviv and I became friends immediately.  He was so much more intelligent, of course, a sociologist, back then I didn’t even know how to make a martini, I was just a waiter.  After that first day in the park, when he’d been looking for the beach, we left the labyrinth and went to a bar and had a beer together, talked.  He said he wasn’t sure how long he’d be staying here, but at least a couple years.  He said he’d fallen in love with the city (that’s how he said it) even before landing, he said he was so happy to be here, except for all the tourists.  I said yeah, tourists are a drag, but the city’s great.  It got late, I remember, we talked until midnight or something, we went to different bars, got drunk.  He paid all the drinks.  Becca got so mad at me that night when I got home, she said I see you’re already starting the I’m-just-your-husband show, or something like that.

 Aviv and I started hanging out.  He spent his first weeks in a hotel.  He was Jewish, he had money, but he was not like all the rich people you meet here.  Not at all.  Then he moved into a flat close to the beach, with a huge kitchen.  He’s one of the best cooks I’ve ever met.  I swear he chopped onions so fast, even Becca said she’d never seen someone cook so professionally.  And he made great martinis.  He was the one who taught me how to make drinks, actually.

 I slept over on his flat many times, either after one too many martinis or after I’d fought with Becca and she’d thrown me out.  He’d tell me (or try to tell me) about his investigations.  We smoked pot now and then, either in the kitchen or on his balcony.  I never really got a hang of his investigations, but he did get a hang of a bartender course, and he gave that as a gift to me for my birthday, he paid for the course, he said bartenders are much cooler than waiters, and you’ll need the money.  He was smart, I tell you.  So I got this bartender title, then I started working in bars, got a bit more money, I even bought Becca an expensive bracelet once.  Then she got pregnant.  Life, you know?  Like those vines.  We were excited.  Becca and I invited Aviv over, and the three of us had some drinks, this time made by me.  We toasted.  We were smiling a lot that night, the three of us, the night Becca found out she was pregnant.  Becca lost the baby a couple months later.  Life.

 I’m not sure exactly when it happened.  The whole becoming a man thing.  I think during those months which followed the loss.  Not only did Becca lose the baby, I lost my jobs.  I don’t know.  I was getting tired of work, you know?  I was thinking of studying something, maybe.  Becca had a job that kind of got us through the weeks.  My dad died, and I couldn’t even go back home to bury him.  Too much money.  And then Becca got sick; she couldn’t work.  And then she decided to leave me for a plumber, came back, left again. 

But Aviv was there, always.  Always by himself.  I didn’t even think of it.  We talked a lot about loneliness, I sometimes talked about Becca, Aviv never talked about women.  Never.  Yet I never noticed.  I swear, I never noticed.  I mean, I noticed he wasn’t married, of course, and had no girlfriends that I knew of, but I thought it was just him, full of his investigation business, too smart for a girl, you know?  I thought he’d find one sooner or later, though. But we hung out so much, maybe he didn’t even really have time to meet any.  I told him that once, I remember, and he said oh, don’t worry, and afterwards he cooked a great dinner.  He cooked so much for me.  I, in turn, made him drinks and told him jokes.  We had so much fun together, I swear.  Such good friends.  I thought of him as a brother, even.  I think he helped me get through those years like nobody else would have. 

 But one day, about two or three months ago, he said it.  He said: I think I’m in love with you.  Just like that.  We were in his balcony, drinking beers after dinner.  Becca had called that morning to say she wanted an official divorce, and I called Aviv that afternoon and he said come over tonight and we’ll have some food.  We had food, I talked about Becca, he didn’t talk much, I made martinis.  Then he took some beers out.  Then, he said it.  I wasn’t expecting it.  I really wasn’t.  I didn’t know what to do, so I just laughed.  But I didn’t feel like sleeping over after that.  I left a beer later.  And I hadn’t seen him since. 

 So back to the labyrinth, when I saw him again, I mean, when I started this story: How’s life been? I asked.  It’s been good, he said.  It’s been good.

Then, he started to cry.  Are you crying? I asked.  What’s wrong with you?  Nothing, he said.  Nothing, he said, I’m just emotional, I’m sorry.  Are you high? I asked. He used to cry when we got high.  No, he said, I haven’t smoked for weeks.

The vines of the labyrinth looked so green that day. 

He said I’m leaving tonight, I’m leaving for good.  He wiped his eyes under his glasses, and I didn’t see any more tears.  I asked where?  He said China.  I said China?  He said yes, I’m going to study the difference of the changing behavior between the Chinese in Beijing and the Chinese in Hong Kong, it’s for my PhD, he said, and I didn’t really want to understand so I said oh.  I said I’m glad we could see each other again, I said.  He said yeah.  Me too, he said.  We were reaching the other end of the labyrinth.  He started to say something, I think, but then didn’t.  He took his glasses off, looked at me.  I looked away.  He put the glasses back on.  I said today’s the last day of spring, you know?  He smiled.  My name, he said.  I said yeah.  I didn’t do anything.  What was I supposed to do?  I don’t know.  He didn’t do anything, either.  Then he said you know what?  I said, what?  He said: I think it will only get better now.  Those exact words.  He smiled again.  He started walking away, out of the labyrinth.  But right before that, I said hey!  He turned around.  I’ll miss you, I said.  He said yeah, me too.  Me too, he repeated.

 I don’t know.  I don’t want to get poetic or anything, I’m not good at that.  But I kind of felt like something was closing.  All the things that’d happened.  Dad, Becca, everything, you know?  All those things I’d lived with Aviv.  They seemed to finally walk away.  Or close.  Finish.  Die.  Like the vines.

I waited for him to leave.  And then I walked out of the labyrinth, too.  I saw a young girl with a yellow flower on her hair.  She was holding a woman’s hand.  I looked at them walk into the labyrinth.  Then, I looked at the sun filled street.  I decided to have a swim instead of a beer, and began to walk towards the ocean.  And then, I thought.  I thought that there was still a small, good thing left. 

 I thought: you know what?  After Aviv, comes summer.  And I laughed.