The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God & Other Stories (3 page)

O
n my fifth birthday, they discovered that my mother had cancer, and the doctors said she had to have her uterus removed. It was a sad day. We all got into Dad's Subaru and went to the hospital and waited till the doctor came out of the operating room with tears in his eyes. “Never ever have I seen such a beautiful uterus,” he said, as he removed his surgical mask. “I feel like a murderer.” My mother really did have a beautiful uterus. So beautiful that the hospital donated it to the museum. And on Saturday we went there specially, and my uncle took a picture of us next to it. My dad was no longer in the country by then. He divorced Mom the day after the operation. “A woman without a uterus is no woman. And a man who stays with a woman who's no woman is no man himself,” he told my
older brother and me a second before he got onto the plane to Alaska. “When you grow up, you'll understand.”

The room where they had my mom's uterus on display was all dark. The only light came from the uterus itself, which shone with a kind of gentle glow, like the inside of a plane on a night flight. In pictures, it didn't look like anything much, because of the flash, but when I saw it up close, I could understand perfectly well why it had the doctor in tears. “You came out of there,” my uncle said and pointed. “You were like princes living in there, believe me. What a mother you had, what a mother.”

Eventually my mother died. Eventually all mothers die. And my dad became a famous arctic explorer and whaler. The girls I dated always used to take it the wrong way when I'd peek at their uterus. They thought it was some kind of gynecological hang-up, which is a definite turnoff. But one of them, with a really nice bod, agreed to marry me. I used to spank our kids a lot, right from infancy, because their crying got on my nerves. And the truth is they learned their lesson fast, and stopped crying for good by the time they were nine months, if not earlier. In the beginning I'd take them to the museum on their birthdays, to show them their grandmother's uterus, but they didn't really get into it, and my wife would be pissed off, so little by little I started taking them to Walt Disney movies instead.

One day my car was towed, and the police lot was in the same neighborhood, so I dropped in at the museum while I was there. The uterus wasn't in its usual place.
They'd moved it to a room on the side, full of old pictures, and when I took a closer look, I saw it was all covered with tiny green dots. I asked the guard why nobody was keeping it clean, but he just shrugged. I begged the guy in charge of the exhibition to let me clean it off myself if they were short-staffed, but the guy in charge was very nasty. He said I wasn't allowed to touch the exhibits because I wasn't a member of the staff. My wife said the museum was one hundred percent right, and that as far as she was concerned, displaying a uterus in a public institution is sick, especially when the place is full of children. But not me. I couldn't think of anything else. Deep in my heart I knew that if I didn't break into the museum and steal it out of there and take care of it, I'd stop being what I am. Just like my dad that night, on the steps of the plane, I knew exactly what I had to do. Two days later, I took a van from work, and arrived at the museum just before it closed. The rooms were empty, but even if I had met someone, it wouldn't have worried me. I was armed this time, and besides, I had a really good plan. My only problem was that the uterus itself had disappeared. The guy in charge of the exhibition was kind of surprised to see me, but when I shoved the butt of my new Jericho deep in his throat he was very quick to cough up the information. The uterus had been sold the day before to a Jewish philanthropist, who had stipulated that it should be sent to one of the community centers in Alaska. On the way there, it had been hijacked by a few people from the local chapter of the Ecological Front. The Front issued a press release announcing that a uterus
doesn't belong in captivity, which was why they'd decided to set it free in natural surroundings. According to Reuters, this Ecological Front was radical and dangerous. Its whole operation was run from a pirate ship commanded by a retired whaler. I thanked the guy in charge and put away my gun. The whole way home, all the lights were red. I just kept swerving from lane to lane without bothering to look in the mirror, struggling to get rid of the lump that stuck in my throat. I tried to imagine my mother's uterus in the middle of a green, dew-covered field, floating in an ocean full of dolphins and tuna.

D
ad wouldn't buy me a Bart Simpson doll. Mum actually said yes, but Dad said I was spoiled. “Why should we, eh?” he said to Mum. “Why should we buy him one? All it takes is one little squeak from him and you jump to attention.” Dad said I had no respect for money, that if I didn't learn it when I was young when would I? Kids who get Bart Simpson dolls too easily grow up to be louts who steal from kiosks, because they're used to getting whatever they want the easy way. So instead of a Bart Simpson doll he bought me an ugly china pig with a flat hole in its back, and now I'll grow up to be OK, now I won't be a lout.

Now every morning I have to drink a cup of cocoa, even though I hate it. Cocoa with skin is a shekel, without skin it's half a shekel and if I throw up right away I don't get
anything. I put the coins into the pig's back, and when you shake it it rattles. When the pig is full and it doesn't rattle when you shake it I'll get Bart Simpson on a skateboard. That's what Dad says, that way it's educational.

Actually the pig's cute, his nose is cold when you touch it and he smiles when you push the shekel inside his back and when you push in half a shekel too, but the nicest thing is that he smiles even when you don't. I gave him a name, I called him Pesachson, after a man who once lived in our mailbox and my Dad couldn't peel off his label. Pesachson isn't like my other toys, he's much calmer, without lights and springs and batteries that leak inside him. Only you have to watch that he doesn't jump off the table. “Pesachson, be careful! You're made of china,” I tell him when I catch him bending down a bit and looking at the floor, and he smiles at me and waits patiently for me to take him down by hand. I'm crazy about him when he smiles, it's only for him that I drink the cocoa with skin every morning, so that I can push the shekel into his back and see how his smile doesn't change a bit. “I love you, Pesachson,” I say to him afterward. “Honest, I love you more than Mum and Dad. And I'll always love you, no matter what, even if you break into kiosks. But don't even think of jumping off the table!”

Yesterday Dad came, picked up Pesachson from the table, and began to shake him savagely upside down. “Careful, Dad,” I said to him, “you're giving Pesachson a tummyache.” But Dad went on. “It's not making a noise, you know what that means, Yoavi? Tomorrow you'll get a
Bart Simpson on a skateboard.” “Great, Dad,” I said. “Bart Simpson on a skateboard, great. Just stop shaking Pesachson, it's making him feel bad.” Dad put Pesachson back on the table and went to call Mum. He came back after a minute, dragging Mum and holding a hammer. “See, I was right,” he said to Mum. “Now he knows how to value things. Right, Yoavi?” “Sure I know,” I said, “sure, but what's the hammer for?” “It's for you,” said Dad and put the hammer in my hand. “Just be careful.” “Sure I'll be careful,” I said, and I really was careful but after a few minutes Dad got fed up and he said, “Go on, then, break the pig.” “What?” I asked, “break Pesachson?” “Yes, yes, Pesachson,” said Dad. “Go on, break it. You deserve the Bart Simpson, you've worked hard enough for it.”

Pesachson smiled at me with the sad smile of a china pig who knows that his end has come. To hell with the Bart Simpson. Me, hit a friend on the head with a hammer? “I don't want the Bart.” I gave Dad the hammer back. “Pesachson's enough for me.” “You don't understand,” said Dad. “It's alright, it's educational, come on, I'll break it for you.” Dad was already lifting the hammer, and I looked at Mum's crushed eyes and Pesachson's tired smile and I knew that it was up to me, if I didn't do anything he was dead. “Dad.” I grabbed him by the leg. “What, Yoavi?” said Dad, the hand with the hammer still in the air. “I want another shekel please,” I begged. “Give me another shekel to stick into him, tomorrow, after the cocoa. And then we'll break him, tomorrow, I promise.” “Another shekel?” Dad smiled and put the hammer on the table. “Yes, see? I've
developed the boy's awareness,” I said. “Tomorrow.” There were already tears in my throat.

When they left the room I hugged Pesachson very hard and I let the tears out. Pesachson didn't say anything, only trembled quietly in my hands. “Don't worry,” I whispered in his ear, “I'll save you.”

At night I waited for Dad to finish watching TV in the living room and go to bed. Then I got up very quietly and sneaked out through the porch with Pesachson. We walked for a long time in the dark until we reached a thorn field. “Pigs are crazy about fields,” I said to Pesachson as I laid him on the floor of the field, “especially fields with thorns. You'll like it here.” I waited for an answer but Pesachson didn't say anything, and when I touched him on the nose to say good-bye he just gave me a sad look. He knew he'd never see me again.

H
e's standing there in the middle of the alleyway, about twenty meters away from me, his kaffiyeh over his face, trying to provoke me to come closer: “Zbecial Force cocksucker,” he shouts at me in a heavy Arabic accent.

“What's up, ya blatoon hero? Your cross-eyed sergeant bush it up your ass too hard yesterday? Not strong enough to run?” He unzips his pants and takes out his dick: “What's up, Zbecial Force? My dick not good enough for you? It was blenty good for your sister, no? Blenty good for your mother, no? Blenty good for your friend Abutbul. How's he doing, Abutbul? Feeling better, boor guy? I saw they bring in a zbecial heligobter to take him away. Like a crazy-man he ran after me. Half a block he ran like a
majnun
. Blatsh! His face squashed up like a watermelon.”

I pull up my rifle till I have him dead center in my sights.

“Go ahead and shoot, ya homo,” he screams, unbuttoning his shirt and jeering. “Shoot right here.” He points at his heart. I release the safety catch and hold my breath. He waits another minute or so with his arms akimbo, looking like he doesn't give a shit. His heart is deep under the skin and flesh, perfectly aligned between my sights.

“You're never going to shoot, you fucking coward. Maybe if you shoot the cross-eyed sergeant, he won't go shoving it up your ass anymore, eh?”

I lower the gun, and he makes another one of his contemptuous gestures. “
Yallah
, I'm going, cocksucker. I'll bass by here tomorrow. When do they let you guard these barrels again? Ten till two? See you then.” He starts walking off toward one of the back alleys, but suddenly he stops and smirks: “Give Abutbul regards from the Hamas, eh? Tell him we really apologize for that brick.”

“What's up, ya homo?” he shouts. “Your brain all screwed up from so much fucking with Cross-Eyed?” I tear the wrapping off my field dressing and tie it across my face. The only thing still showing is my eyes. I take the rifle, cock it, and make sure the safety's on. I grab the butt with both hands, swing the rifle over my head a few times, and suddenly let go. It flies through the air, barely scraping the ground, then lands about midway between us. Now I'm just like him. Now I've got a chance of winning too.

“That's for you, ya
majnun
,” I scream at him. For a second he just stares at me, puzzled. Then he makes a dash
for the weapon. He lurches right at it, and I race toward him. He's faster than me. He'll get to it before me. But I'll win, because now I'm just like him, and with the rifle in his hand, he'll be just like me. His mother and his sisters will make it with Jews, his friends will vegetate in hospital beds, and he'll stand there facing me like a fucking asshole with a rifle in his hand, and won't be able to do a thing. How can I possibly lose?

He picks up the rifle, with me less than five meters away, and releases the safety lock. One knee on the ground, he aims and pulls the trigger. And then he discovers what I've discovered in this hellhole over the past month: The rifle is worth shit. Three and half kilos of scrap metal. Totally useless. No point in even trying. I reach him before he so much as makes it up off the ground, and kick him hard, right in the muzzle. As he buckles over, I drag him up by the hair and pull of his kaffiyeh. I look him in the eye. Then I grab that face and bang it against a telephone pole like a raving maniac. Again and again and again. Let's see some cross-eyed sergeant push it up his ass
now.

I
talo waved his left hand and the irritating drumming stopped. He took a long breath and closed his eyes. When I saw him standing tensely on the little wooden platform, wearing his glittering costume, almost touching the canvas ceiling of the tent, everything suddenly seemed clear to me. I would leave home and join the circus! I too would become one of the flying Santinis, I would leap though the air like a demon, I would hang onto the trapeze ropes with my teeth!

Italo turned over two and a half times in the air and in the middle of the third somersault he seized the outstretched hand of Enrico, the youngest Santini. The audience rose to its feet and applauded enthusiastically, Dad took my box of popcorn and threw it in the air, salty snowflakes landed on my head.

Some children have to run away from home in the middle of the night to join the circus, but Dad took me in his car. He and Mom helped me to pack my things in a suitcase. “I'm so proud of you, son,” said Dad and hugged me for a minute before I knocked on the door of Papa Luigi Santini's caravan. “Farewell, Ariel-Marcello Santini. And spare a thought for me and Mom whenever you're flying high over the circus floor.”

Papa Luigi opened the door wearing the glittering pants of his circus costume and a striped pajama top. “I want to join you, Papa Luigi,” I whispered. “I want to be a flying Santini too.” Papa Luigi looked at my body with a discerning eye, felt the muscles on my thin arms with interest, and finally let me in. “A lot of children want to be flying Santinis,” he said after a few seconds of silence. “Why do you think that you of all people are suitable?” I didn't know what to reply, I bit my lower lip and I didn't say anything. “Are you brave?” Papa Luigi asked me. I nodded my head. With a quick movement Papa Luigi thrust his fist in front of my face. I didn't move a millimeter, I didn't even blink. “Hmmm. . . .” said Papa Luigi and stroked his chin. “And nimble?” he asked. “You know that the flying Santinis are known for their nimbleness.” Again I nodded my head, biting hard on my lower lip. Papa Luigi spread out his right hand, put a hundred lira coin on it, and motioned to me with his silver eyebrows. I succeeded in snatching the coin before he managed to close his hand. Papa Luigi nodded his head appreciatively. “Now there's only one test left,” he thundered, “the test of suppleness. You must touch your
toes with your legs straight.” I relaxed my body, took a long breath, and closed my eyes, exactly as Italo, my brother, had done in the performance that evening. I bent down and reached with my hands. I could see the tips of my fingers at a distance of a few millimeters from my shoelaces, almost touching. My body was as taut as a rope about to tear at any minute, but I didn't give up. Four millimeters separated me from the Santini family. I knew that I had to cross them. And then, suddenly, I heard the sound. Like the sound of wood and glass breaking together, so loud it was deafening. Dad, who was apparently waiting in the car outside, was alarmed by the noise and came rushing into the caravan. “Are you all right?” he asked, and tried to help me up. I couldn't straighten my back. Papa Luigi lifted me in his sturdy arms and we all drove together to the hospital.

In the X-rays they found a slipped disk between the L2–L3 vertebrae. When I held the photograph opposite the light I could see a kind of black spot, like a drop of coffee, on the transparent spine. On the brown envelope the name “Ariel Fledermaus” was written with a ballpoint pen. No Marcello, no Santini—just crooked, ugly writing. “You could have bent your knees,” whispered Papa Luigi and wiped one of the tears from my eyes. “You could have bent them a little. I wouldn't have said
anything.”