LITMIR.BIZ

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a way that would elicit a story. The trick was to ask enough questions to get a subject to talk and then get out of the way and listen. Wendy wasn’t sure she was enough of a listener to do this well. Or that she could ask the question well enough. If she couldn’t get the subject to produce relevant information . . . Then what? She couldn’t write a dissertation if she had crappy data . . . Then? Back to law school or her parents’ house. She needed to do this right.

      Hitting the benches by the windmill in Yemin Moshe, Wendy decided to sit for a minute and look over her list. She opened her bag and took out her list of questions, and felt her anxiety dissipate. Now, she felt the same sense of excitement, anticipation, even exultation, as she had when she first opened the envelope from the Fulbright committee.

      “It’s really happening,” she said to herself. The excitement at having an idea and now really beginning to carry it through, to prove to others that something of the way she, Wendy Dora Goldberg, saw the world really was true. She wanted to run all the way to Beit Ticho, with this burst of energy: she was really on the way to a scholarly career, going where she wanted to go. Nothing else in her life was so exhilarating as this possibility—she was creating something that was her own idea and would go out into the world. It was beginning. She wasn’t going to be like her subjects, humble and self-effacing: Oh it was nothing; the dissertation really wrote itself, you know. I didn’t really intend to do it; it just happened because I still wasn’t married.

      She placed the folder gently back into her purple canvas messenger bag, put it back over her shoulder, and broke into a run towards Beit Ticho. After a few blocks, she stopped and continued at a walk, hit Jaffa Road and turned left, then made a right onto Rav Kook Street and went past the cabstand and up the street. She breathed more slowly, winded from fast walking. The nineteenth-century stone Arab-built house was at the end of a narrow path, right next to the house where the first chief rabbi of Israel, Rav Kook, lived. The Ticho House was a museum and café, willed to the city by artist Anna Ticho and her eye doctor husband. It housed many aspects of the history of the city: the historic house, the paintings of Jerusalem and its wildflowers by Anna, which were displayed, and the eye doctor’s diverse collection of Hanukkah menorahs from many countries and epochs. The food in the café was quite good too, even though it was too hot this summer day to sit outside on the terrace.

      As Wendy entered, she spotted a woman with a big purple scarf wound around her head. Couldn’t be—Miriam wasn’t married yet. The woman did look artistic, with large turquoise earrings and a necklace to match, and a serene gaze. There were some older people sitting in a group at a table, taking advantage of their status as pensionaires, retirees, to get a discount; a young couple, both in jeans and sweaters; and a third table with three women. Wendy sat down to order some tea while she waited.

      As she was looking at the menu, she heard, “Hey, you’re Wendy Goldberg,” and looked up. The woman who said this was wearing a black close-fitting ski cap with blue, green, and orange stripes, a bright orange puffy ski jacket with tags from various lifts, and an ankle length denim skirt paired with Doc Martens black boots. Wendy looked up and said, “Meryl. Thanks for meeting me. I really appreciate it.”

      “Oh, no problem,” she said, sitting down and taking off her coat and hat. When Miriam removed the hat, the dreadlocks originating from her scalp flowed out, asserting themselves. Wendy thought, I do believe you are from Syosset, not Jamaica. What’s the deal? Dreadlocks on Caucasians are just too pretentious.

      Miriam sat down and said, “I remember you. You visited Nina Distler at Brown. Your boyfriend was at Brown and you were studying . . . Eastern religions?”

      Wendy blushed. It had been a short-lived relationship, that one. She met him at a party there, visited a few times, he visited her, and it never went anywhere.

      “I’ve totally forgotten his name. Rob? Rich? Ray? I did visit Nina like once a semester. You were on her floor?”

      “Sophomore and junior year. I was into the art scene and she was premed but we had friends in common; we all knew each other. Same here in Jerusalem. It’s nice to see a familiar face. No one will visit these days.”

      “Even my most adventurous friends have bailed on their promised visits.” Wendy thought of Matt Lewis from grad school.

      “You need bitachon and emunah to come now. My parents were really pressuring me to come home after that American got killed on a bus last month. So sad,” she said, clucking her tongue to emphasize her melancholy. She gave Wendy a serious look. “Do you ever think, even if everyone has a basherte, that you might somehow miss yours? Like if he is killed by terrorists, or in an accident? Or if you meet, but don’t realize it’s him?”

      Wendy decided to use this opportunity to move into professional interviewer mode. “Good question. I don’t know. Hey, order something, my treat, and I’ll explain what I want to ask you.”

      “Sure,” Miriam said, and perused the menu. She gazed over its top to ask, “I’ve never eaten here. Is the soup good?”

      “Order anything,” Wendy said liberally.

      Miriam continued, “It’s strange for me to be in a museum now. I got here early and was looking around since I really haven’t been in a gallery or museum since I came to Israel in August.”

      “What’d you think? I know you’ve done more avant-garde stuff, so this must seem . . . old-fashioned.”

      “I like the site specificity, that this family lived here from 1924 to 1980 when it became a museum. It really gives me a sense of how people in Jerusalem lived years ago. The menorahs are amazing, the creativity and variety of ways Jews find to fulfill the same mitzvah. You know the idea of hiddur mitzvah, that every mitzvah you do should be as beautiful as possible?”

      “Sure,” Wendy lied.

      “I loved the menorahs. The paintings . . . I don’t know. They didn’t move me.”

      “Maybe Anna Ticho wasn’t such a talented painter?”

      “No, it’s me, my opinion. My priorities have shifted. I want to use my talents for a purpose, to channel them, not just to shock people or display an emotion. Art should be in service to Hashem.”

      “I see,” Wendy said, adding, “How does your yeshiva encourage you to channel your talents? Do they have a studio there for you to paint?”

      “No, I need to be learning now. It isn’t time for me to go back to the studio yet. I was reading in the explanations about Anna Ticho that when she first moved to Israel she didn’t paint. She lived here from 1912 until World War I and left with her husband to serve in the war in Damascus. Away from Jerusalem, she started painting again, and continued when she came back. I don’t have to do it all now; I want to catch up on my learning first.”

      “Your career?”

      “Not now. It’s not the most important thing. I just want to lead a good Jewish life.”

      “Isn’t using your talent and developing your potential part of leading a good Jewish life?”

      Meryl paused and looked at Wendy. “Depends. I don’t want to spend my whole life in the studio. I want to have kids and spend time with them, even have outside interests. Being religious will give me a better shot at a balanced lifestyle, I hope. I don’t know of any super-successful women artists who have more than one kid.”

      Wendy thought and said, “That photographer who uses her kids . . . Sally Mann? She had three.”

      “Exception proves rule,” Miriam assented, slapping her hand down on the table.

      “Are you giving up on having a career?” Wendy continued, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest.

      “Why are you hostile? I thought this was an interview?”

      Wendy sighed. “Okay, sorry. I am totally screwing up here.” She waved her hands to demonstrate that she was letting everything go, and added, “I wanted to start by talking to a

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