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?”