Aviad wasn’t necessarily looking for a Russian woman. He always liked beautiful women, but women of Mizrahi background attracted him too, and on trips abroad the Latin look always stirred something inside him. He’d already dated plenty—across the spectrum. There were young Tel Aviv kindergarten teachers with dyed red hair and tattoo-sleeved arms; junior attorneys in sharp business suits; girls from the periphery feeling their way between studies and waitressing; even a painter who dreamed of a studio of her own in the heart of Giv’atayim. Aviad didn’t choose with painstaking care—if she signaled, he took the signal. A date, two—and sometimes even a brief relationship. Sometimes very brief: a single night in which everything began, and that was that.
Aviad was what people call a “good guy”: smart, orderly, with professional prospects and an easy temperament. He even looked pretty good—not necessarily the office heartthrob all the interns daydreamed about, but not the last on the list either. It was obvious that someone, sooner or later, would try to sink her teeth into him. And as the clock edged toward thirty, Aviad felt the feminine pressure rise: the questions, the hints—and the accelerating pace of relationships. Dates became practical; his candidacy as a potential husband was examined from every angle. Flirtation gave way to conversations about the future; the making out was canceled—leaving only intentions: either yes—or no. And Aviad decided yes.
Why did he choose Natalia? Why not, really. Beautiful, from a good family, with a solid job and a hunger to succeed. What more does a more passive person need than an active one who will carry him on her back and steer the course of life? Natalia took command: she organized the wedding, smoothed over the small family crises, neutralized pressures, took out their mortgage, set up the apartment—and, a year and a half later, gave him little Naama.
And now, with Naama already three, Aviad—on the whole—feels pretty good. Things are under control, the apartment is pleasant, and Natalia looks happy. So why does his heart pinch when Naama speaks to him in Russian—and he doesn’t understand a single word?
