by Eshkol Nevo
I zipped up and turned back to the taxi. Mainly because Mordecai’s eyes were too good and too amused to be the eyes of a killer. That’s crap, there’s no such thing as the eyes of a killer, I scoffed at myself as I pulled the seat belt around my waist. But let’s say there is, how many have you seen that would qualify you to recognize them?
So Mordecai, I tried again to get him talking after he drove back onto the road, passengers have strange requests sometimes, eh?
Yes, he said with a smile. And added nothing.
What’s the funniest request you’ve had from a passenger? I asked, sounding to myself like a talk-show host.
Ah, Mordecai laughed in embarrassment and touched his bald head like a religious guy straightening his yarmulke.
Come on, I urged him, tell me.
I don’t know about a request, he said. But something funny once happened on the way to Tiberias.
There was a long line of cars at the improvised border guard checkpoint, and Mordecai slowed down. The thought crossed my mind that if he were a well-known Hamas activist, the soldiers at the checkpoint would recognize him.
So what happened on the trip to Tiberias?
When I went to pick up the man I was driving there, he was with a young woman, who put him into the taxi, gave me a piece of paper with the address he had to go to in Tiberias, and said, My dad’s an old man, so be patient with him, okay? I didn’t understand what she meant, but I said, Sure, no problem. And we drove off. So we’re, you know, driving along, the old man and me. He was wearing glasses with thick black frames like people used to wear, and he had on a heavy brown jacket even though it was summer. At first we didn’t talk, the only sound was the radio. But a while later, when we start to drive down to the Dead Sea, he asks me: Are we in Tiberias yet? And I tell him, not yet. And a few minutes later, he asks again: Are we in Tiberias yet? And I tell him no, soon. That’s how it was, the whole way. Every five minutes he asks if we’re in Tiberias yet and I say, patiently, like I promised his daughter: No, not yet.
The border guard soldier bent down, looked into the taxi, and signaled Mordecai with his head to drive on.
Until finally, he continued, two and a half hours later, we really did arrive in Tiberias. And then? As soon as we drive into the city and see the Sea of Galilee, he starts to ask: When are we going back to Jerusalem? When are we going back to Jerusalem? Soon, I tell him, soon, and I keep driving until we’ve reached the address his daughter wrote on the piece of paper. Then I helped him get out of the car and walked him to the door of the family he was going to visit. The truth is that I was afraid he’d get confused and lose his way if he was on his own.
Nice of you, I said.
People should be nice, Mordecai said.
His radio buzzed. Finally.
They called from the school to ask when the writer will be there, said a hoarse female voice.
We’re already past the checkpoint, Mordecai said. In fifteen minutes, we’re at the gate.
* * *
—
I relaxed in my seat. The story about Tiberias and the radio call had done their job. I still didn’t understand why he called himself Mordecai, but I no longer feared for my life, which left room for the stage fright that always attacks me before these sessions but had been pushed aside this time by a much greater fear.
I rummaged around in my bag and took out the list of main points I’d written down. I read them again and again with blind eyes until we stopped in front of the school gate.
When should I expect you? Mordecai asked.
In about an hour and a half, I said. But keep your cell phone on so if it ends before that, I can let you know.
There was a good reason I left myself the option of cutting out early.
A week ago, a security guard had smuggled me out of a high school in Ramla in the middle of the question period. I had begun, as always, by telling them about my childhood, which included moving many times, and said the words that always create a link between me and them—you can really almost hear the click: “Once every year or two, I found myself being the new kid in class.” I explained how my book, which they were studying for their matriculation exams, actually came from a personal place, as personal as possible: the attempt of an adult, soon to be a father, to find out for himself if there is a place in the world he can call home—and I saw their eyes open wide, wondering, “So is it all bullshit, everything our literature teacher told us about your book being a microcosm of Israeli society after the Rabin assassination?”
Then I opened the floor for questions.
The first question was a general one. About the rhymes in the book. A question that’s pleasant to answer.
But the second question was, “Do you like Arabs?”
Just like that, right in your face.
The questioner was a teenager wearing glasses. People wearing glasses always look more vulnerable to me.
Silence in the room.
I told him that I gave a voice to an Arab character in the book because I felt that you can’t write a book that takes place in the Castel and talk about the idea of home without hearing the voice of the people who once called that place, Al-Qastal, their home.
So you like Arabs, he said.
That’s not what I said, I persisted. I said that it was important to me, is important to me, to listen to the story of the Palestinian worker in the book, who had been driven out of his village when he was a child.
They ran away, the teenager with the glasses corrected me. We didn’t drive them away.
That’s debatable, I said. In any case, I felt connected to that story because, as a child, I had to leave quite a few homes I wanted to stay in.
Didn’t I tell you he likes Arabs? the teenager with the glasses asked another teenager sitting at the far end of the room, and explained to me: We had a bet. Now he owes me a combo at the Burger King.
Go fuck yourself, you didn’t prove anything, the other teen said, stood up, and walked over to him. And pushed him.
Fists started flying. At first, it was just the two of them, then their friends joined in. The girls screamed. The teachers tried to separate them, and a security guard put a hand on my shoulder and said, Mr. Writer, I think I should escort you out.
* * *
—
This time, in the Jerusalem school, I decided not to get myself in trouble—and pass on the question period. But even so, a hand was raised when I finished telling them about my suitcase-childhood.
A delicate, female hand. Of a girl I would bet sang at school Memorial Day ceremonies.
I said, Yes, you want to ask something?
I wanted to say, she replied, that my favorite parts of your book are the white parts.
The white parts? I turned to look at the book in an effort to understand what she was talking about.
I think it’s really nice, she went on, that in a book that has so many voices, you left room for silence.
Really, I said, as slowly as I could, thinking that maybe stretching out the word would bring me enlightenment.
For homework, she said, our teacher asked us to find an alternative name for the book, so I called it “Five Voices and Silence.” Do you like it?
Very much. Tell me, can I take a peek at your book?
It’s your book! she said, and all the kids in the room laughed.
She handed me the book, which was covered in the plastic book jackets that libraries use. When I opened it, I saw them almost immediately: white spaces. Wherever the voice of the Palestinian worker was heard in the original book, there was white space now. In the beginning, there were only a few white spaces, later on there were many, and toward the end of the book, after the Palestinian goes to jail, there was no longer any need for them.
Since I was looking through the white spaces in the book, I didn’t notice that the litera
ture coordinator had come over to me, and now she whispered in my ear: We had no choice. In the current atmosphere of the city, with all the terrorist attacks, we couldn’t take the chance that our discussion of the book would deteriorate into politics, you understand? And it would have been a pity to forgo the other good qualities it has, you see?
I think I nodded, a small nod that I regret to this day.
Then the student with the delicate hand asked if she could ask another question.
I said yes. Even though I felt that the right thing to do was to get up and leave.
She asked about the rhymes.
I told her that the rhymes appeared in the places that hurt me the most while I was writing.
Then she asked another question, I don’t remember it anymore. And then applause. Yes, there was applause, and I bowed my head in false modesty.
Mordecai’s taxi was double parked next to the school gate. Its lights flashed. I said goodbye to Sylvia, the teacher, who thanked me for the inspiring meeting, and sat down in the passenger seat.
Mordecai started the car. How was it? he asked.
So-so, I replied.
No kidding, Mordecai said.
We emerged from a small traffic jam at the exit to the city and began to glide down to Shaar Hagai. This time Mordecai chose Highway 1, which was not lined on both sides with Arab villages. Only rusty armored cars.
You still owe me a story, I said, turning to face him.
What do you mean, I owe you a story?
Why are you called Mordecai? Is that your real name?
Ah, Mordecai stretched his entire body on his seat—even his bald spot stretched—it’s a long story.
We have time, I reminded him.
My real name is Mustafa. But everyone calls me Mordecai. I’ll explain why. In Jerusalem, on the license plates, there’s a special number for savages that come from the eastern part of the city. Like, if you’re from East Jerusalem and you have a taxi, you have to have that number. Six-six-six. So what’s the problem? A Jew who sees six-six-six doesn’t want to get into the taxi and the Jewish taxi stands don’t want to use a driver with an Arab’s number, so there won’t be problems with the passengers. Now—and this was something like twenty years ago—I bought a taxi license from a Jew who left the profession and became a journalist. Maybe you know him? Gadi Gidor? You don’t? He’s famous, they show him a lot on TV. I bought the license from him and went to the Armon Hanatziv taxi stand and said, I want to work and I have a Jew’s license plate. The boss of that stand then was Mr. Shlomo. He’s still a good friend of mine. And what did he tell me? You look like a good guy, I want you to work with us. But so there won’t be any problems, let’s decide that on the radio, they call you Mordecai. I said okay, what do I care? And that’s how it started. At first they only called me Mordecai on that stand’s two-way radio network. And later, at another taxi stand where I also started to work. Then my friends from the village started calling me Mordecai, for fun. And today everyone calls me that. Even my wife and kids call me Mordecai.
Your kids really call you Mordecai?
Yes, sure, Mordecai said firmly. That’s what they heard since they were little, so that’s what they know.
And your mother?
Mordecai laughed. My mother is my mother. She won’t accept anything but Mustafa. When we go to see her, I have to warn my wife not to call me Mordecai by mistake near her, or else she starts to yell so loudly that the whole village can hear her, What’s this Mordecai, I don’t have a son named Mordecai, and when she gets mad like that, my mother, she burps uncontrollably, it’s really something. Mordecai-Mustafa roared with laughter. He must have been picturing his mother belching, and it made him laugh so hard that his shoulders shook.
It was weird—even though he was laughing, I wanted to put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. But I kept my hand under my thigh.
* * *
—
All the way to the Tel Aviv area, we talked “soft politics” (terrorist attacks are not good, the occupation is not good, if only peace would come—we both chose our words carefully).
Every once in a while, we were silent and let the music fill the space.
When we reached my house, I asked Mordecai-Mustafa how I could contact him if I needed a taxi to Jerusalem again. He gave me his business card, which said MORDECAI QAUASMEH, and said, Call me, really. Even if you only need a ride to this area.
I shook his hand very hard. Then, as I walked to the front door, I took my keys out of the side pocket of my bag. I inserted the house key into the lock and turned it. The door didn’t open. I checked to see if it was the right key and tried again.
Unfamiliar voices came from inside. The voices of strangers.
One of your books was translated into Arabic. What responses, if any, did you get from the Arab world?
I meet Jamal, my Palestinian friend, in Manchester. He’s more or less my age. A businessman, always wearing a suit, likes to drink, likes soccer. And although we never talked about it explicitly, I suspect that he too has the tendency to harbor hopeless longings. Our friendship began when he came up to me after a sparsely attended event in the city, and it has developed cautiously over the last several years. Once he visits me and once I visit him. Once, we go to see a Manchester City match there, and once to see a Bnei Sakhnin match here. And today, he apparently feels secure enough to tell me about his parents, who had been driven out of Jaffa, then out of Lebanon, then out of Tunis, and then out of Jordan. At the mention of each country they were driven out of, I sink lower in my chair.
I don’t say a word and feel, to be precise, a combination of guilt along with a refusal to feel guilt. We are sitting in the best Italian restaurant in Manchester, where the waiters are solicitous, bring plates and remove plates, and he continues to describe to me the suffering of his family. There’s also a cousin from Gaza who was killed in the last war, it turns out. A plane dropped a one-ton bomb on his home, killing not only him but also three women and seven children. One of them was a baby, he says, and I nod, thinking that it’s not clear how we managed to postpone this conversation until now.
I try to make my nods empathetic, but I’m not willing to lower my head completely.
There are no good guys and bad guys in this story, I think, only strong ones and weak ones.
When dessert arrives, he tells me that—how had he not mentioned it before?—his father is a sculptor, one of a few Palestinian sculptors, and in the great escape from Lebanon to Tunis in ’82, he had to leave all of his sculptures behind. He wasn’t permitted to take even one of them. As an artist, he says, you can imagine the pain. The humiliation.
Yes, I say. That’s the first word to come out of my mouth in the last half hour.
We speak English, although I suspect that Jamal knows Hebrew as well, and in his excellent English, he also asks for the check.
Let me pay, I offer, and he says, Of course not, habibi, you’re my guest.
Yes, I object, but you paid last time, in Jaffa.
He smiles. But you were my guest then too.
I smile back, an automatic smile—
Until I understand what he means.
* * *
—
Later, when he drives me to my hotel, we are silent, which is unusual for us.
There’s a security fence between the driver’s and the passenger’s seats.
The streets of Manchester are as empty as suburban streets, and we are the only car to stop at the red lights.
It’s the responsibility of the winner to listen to the loser’s story, I think to myself.
But something inside me rebels at the story he told me. More precisely, at the parts missing from it.
* * *
—
He stops in front of the hotel.
I thank him for dinner and ask when he plans to be in my
area again.
I say “my area” so that I won’t be forced to choose between “Israel” and “Palestine.” He says he doesn’t know, there’s nothing concrete on the horizon at the moment. But inshallah.
So we’ll talk, I say.
We’ll talk, he repeats.
And, unusual for us, we part with a strong hug.
* * *
—
Several weeks later, in the middle of the night, the phone rings.
I fumble around for it in the dark. I’m afraid, almost know, that something has happened to Shira at Sde Boker.
Meanwhile, Dikla wakes up and rubs her eyes.
It’s Amichai on the line. He introduces himself as the head of security at Ben Gurion Airport. Even his voice sounds like a head-of-security voice.
He says that, a few hours ago, at a routine security check, they stopped a Palestinian businessman who had flown in from London, and that “things got a bit out of hand.” He doesn’t say what “things” or how out of hand they got, but I can imagine.
He says that, when he was questioned, the man kept repeating my name. Claimed I was his friend and the purpose of his trip was to meet with me.
I remember that, in one of our conversations, Jamal told me about the seven circles of security he has to go through every time he comes to Israel. And I remember that I really did tell him, explicitly, that if they caused him problems again, he could mention my name.