The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God & Other Stories (5 page)

S
he says I don't really love her. I say I do, I think I do, but I don't. I've heard of people who say they don't love somebody—but to decide for somebody else if they love them? That's a new one on me. True, I had it coming. If you go to bed with a skunk you shouldn't cry when your kids stink. For six months already she's been driving me nuts, sticking her fingers into her cunt after fucking to see if I really came, and instead of telling her off, all I say is, “It's OK, honey, we're all a little insecure.” So now she wants to split up, because she's decided I don't love her. What can I tell her? If I yell at her not to be so stupid and to stop fucking with my head, she'll only take it as proof. “Do something to prove to me that you love me,” she says. What does she want me to do? What? All she has to do is tell me.
But she won't. Because if I really loved her I would know by myself. What she is prepared to do, is to give me a clue, or to say what not. Either or, I can choose. So I told her to say what not, then I'd know something, at least. I wouldn't understand a thing from her clues, that's for sure. “What it's not,” she says, “is it's not anything connected to mutilating yourself, like poking out your eye or cutting off your ear, because then you'd be harming someone I love, and indirectly me too. Harming someone close is definitely not a proof of love.” The truth is, I would never touch myself even if she didn't say so. What's poking your eye out got to do with love anyway? And what yes? That she's not prepared to say, only that doing it to my father or my brothers and sisters is no good either. I give up, and say to myself that it's no use, nothing will help me. Or her either. If you ask stoned blacks riddles you'll wake up with your bones broken. But later on, when we're fucking and she stares deep into my eyes with a concentrated look—(she never closes her eyes when we fuck, so I won't push somebody else's tongue into her mouth)—I suddenly understand, it comes to me in a flash. “Is it my mother?” I ask, and she refuses to answer me. “If you really love me then you know for yourself.” And after she tastes the fingers she retrieves from her cunt she blurts out: “And don't bring me an ear or a finger or anything like that. It's her heart I want, you hear? Her heart.”

I travel all the way to Petah-Tikva with the knife, two buses. A meter-and-a-half-long knife, it takes up two seats. I had to buy a ticket for it. What wouldn't I do for her, what
wouldn't I do for you, baby? I walked all the way down Stampfer with the knife on my back like some Arab suicide bomber. My mother knew I was coming, so she prepared food for me, with seasoning from hell, like only she knows how to season food. I eat in silence, I haven't got a bad word to say. If you eat sabras with the thorns on, you shouldn't complain when you get piles. “And how's Miri?” asks my mother. “Is she all right, the darling? Still sticking her chubby fingers into her cunt?” “She's all right,” I say, “she's fine. She asked for your heart. You know, so as to know if I love her.” “Take her Baruch's,” my mother laughs, “she'll never notice.” “Oh, Mother!” I say, annoyed. “We're not into all those lies. Miri and I are into honesty.” “Good,” my mother sighs, “so take her mine. I don't want you to fight on my account, which reminds me, what about your proof to your mother who loves you and who you love back a little bit too?” I slap Miri's heart down on the table in a rage. Why don't they believe me? Why are they always testing me? And now I'll have to take two buses back with this knife, and my mother's heart. And she probably won't be at home, she'll go back to her ex again. Not that I'm blaming anyone, only myself.

There are two kinds of people, the ones who like sleeping next to the wall, and the ones who like sleeping next to the people who push them off the
bed.

R
abin's dead. It happened last night. He got run over by a scooter with a sidecar. Rabin died on the spot. The guy on the scooter got hurt real bad and passed out, and they took him away in an ambulance. They didn't even touch Rabin. He was so dead, there was nothing they could do. So me and Tiran picked him up and buried him in my backyard. I cried after that, and Tiran lit up and told me to stop crying 'cause I was getting on his nerves. But I didn't stop, and pretty soon he started crying too. Because I really loved Rabin a lot, but Tiran loved him even more. Then we went to Tiran's house, and there was a cop on the front stairs waiting to bag him, because the guy on the scooter came to and squealed to the doctors at the hospital. He told them Tiran had bashed his helmet in with a
crowbar. The cop asked Tiran why he was crying and Tiran said, “Who's crying, you fascist motherfucking pig?” The cop smacked him once, and Tiran's father came out and wanted to take down the cop's name and stuff, but the cop wouldn't tell him, and in less than five minutes, there must've been like thirty neighbors standing there. The cop told them to take it easy, and they told him to take it easy himself. There was a lot of shoving, and it looked like someone was going to get clobbered again. Finally the cop left, and Tiran's dad sat us both down in their living room, and gave us some Sprite. He told Tiran to tell him what happened, and to make it quick, before the cop returned with backup. So Tiran told him he'd hit someone with a crowbar but that it was someone who had it coming, and that the guy'd squealed to the police. Tiran's dad asked what exactly he had it coming for, and I could see right away that he was pissed off. So I told him it was the guy on the scooter who started it, 'cause first he ran Rabin over with his sidecar, then he called us names and then he went and slapped me too. Tiran's dad asked him if it was true, and Tiran didn't answer, but he nodded. I could tell that he was dying for a cigarette but he was afraid to smoke next to his dad.

We found Rabin in the Square. Soon as we got off the bus we spotted him. He was just a kitten then, and he was so cold he was trembling. Me and Tiran and this uptown girl with a navel stud who we met there, we went to get him some milk. But at Espresso Bar they wouldn't give us any. And at Burger Ranch, they didn't have milk, cause they're
a meat place and they're kosher, so they don't sell dairy stuff. Finally at the grocery store on Frishman Street they gave us a half pint and an empty yogurt cup, and we poured him some milk, and he lapped it up in one go. And Avishag—that was the name of the girl with the stud—said we ought to call him Shalom, because shalom means peace, and we'd found him right in the Square where Rabin died for peace. Tiran nodded, and asked her for her phone number, and she told him he was really cute, but that she had a boyfriend in the army. After she left, Tiran patted the kitten and said that we'd never in a million years call him Shalom, because Shalom is a sissy name. He said we'd call him Rabin, and that the broad and her boyfriend in the army could go fuck themselves for all he cared, 'cause maybe she had a pretty face but her body was really weird.

Tiran's dad told Tiran it was lucky he was still a minor, but even that might not do him much good this time, because bashing people with a crowbar isn't like stealing chewing gum from a candy store. Tiran still didn't say anything, and I could tell he was about to start crying again. So I told Tiran's dad that it was all my fault, because when Rabin was run over I was the one who yelled it to Tiran. And the guy on the scooter, who was kind of nice at first, and even seemed sorry about what he'd done, asked me what I was screaming for. And it was only when I told him that the cat's name was Rabin that he lost his cool, and slapped me. And Tiran told his dad: “First, the shit doesn't stop at the stop sign, then he runs over our cat, and after all that he goes and slaps Sinai. What did you expect me to
do? Let him get away with it?” And Tiran's dad didn't answer. He lit a cigarette, and without making a big deal about it, lit one for Tiran too. And Tiran said the best thing I could do would be to beat it, before the cops came back, so that at least one of us would stay out of it. I told him to lay off, but his dad insisted.

Before I went upstairs, I stopped for a minute at Rabin's grave, and thought about what would have happened if we hadn't found him. About what his life would have been like then. Maybe he'd have frozen to death, but probably someone else would have found him and taken him home, and then he wouldn't have been run over. Everything in life is just luck. Even the original Rabin—after everyone sang the Hymn to Peace at the big rally in the Square, if instead of going down those stairs he'd hung around a little longer, he'd still be alive. And they would have shot Peres instead. At least that's what they said on TV. Or else, if the broad in the Square wouldn't have had that boyfriend in the army and she'd given Tiran her phone number and we'd called Rabin Shalom, then he would have been run over anyway, but at least nobody would have got clobbered.

I
n late June, after the Plague of Frogs, people began leaving the Valley in droves. Those who could afford it left a caretaker in charge of their property, packed up their families, and set out on the long journey to Nubia, where they intended to wait until the wrath of the God of the Hebrews had been spent, and the plagues had run their course. One morning, Father took Abdu and me to the King's Highway, and together we watched in silence as the convoy wended its way in the distance. Father was about to head home when Abdu mustered the courage to ask the question that I had not dared utter: “Why are we not leaving with them, Father? We are among the richest families in the Valley. Why could you not hire someone to watch over our fields so that we might also go away?” Smiling
softly, Father looked at Abdu, and said: “Why must we flee, Abdu? Have you too come to fear the God of the Hebrews?” “I fear no man and no god,” Abdu retorted. “Whosoever challenges me I will smite with my sword! But these plagues which have been inflicted upon us come from the heavens. There are no enemies in sight for me to defy. Why then do we not join all those who are leaving for Nubia? If there are no enemies pitting their strength against ours, then our presence here avails our Pharaoh nothing.” “There is truth in what you say, my son,” Father replied, his smile waning. “Indeed, the God of the Hebrews is both clever and cruel. Though He cannot be seen, He has dealt us a mighty blow. Yet you must understand, I am bound to this land by a vow which forbids me to send our family to Nubia.” “A vow?” Abdu was taken aback. “What vow?” “A vow I made many years ago, even before you were born,” Father said, his gentle smile reappearing. He gathered up his tunic and sat down on the ground, crossing his legs. “Come sit beside me,” he said, patting the earth, “and I will tell you about it.”

I sat down to the left of Father, and Abdu to his right. He lifted a clump of earth, crumbled it in his hands, and let the story unfold. “You know that my roots are not in this fertile soil,” he began. “After your mother and I were wed, I was forced, alas, to leave her in her uncle's care, and to set out with my elder brother to faraway lands, where the black oil flows from the earth. For four years we lived as nomads and endured the heartache of separation, and in those years I amassed considerable wealth. Then I returned to
Egypt, to my home. I gathered up your beloved mother, who had waited for so long, and bought a plot of land here in the Valley. On the very day when I completed the building of our home, I made two vows. First, never would I leave the Valley. Second, I would do everything in my power so that my family does not become separated again, even for a short while.” Father tasted the sand that was clinging to his palm, sat up straight, and looked into Abdu's eyes. “Even as a very young man, I knew that my family is like a plant. Uproot it, and it will wilt. Pluck away at it, and it will die. But leave it to thrive in the soil, untouched, and it will weather both gods and winds. It is born with the soil, and it will live so long as the soil shall live.”

That talk with Father, far from discouraging us, made us realize how strong we were. Now we also knew the secret of that strength, and guarded it zealously. With each new plague, we grew stronger still, drawing closer and closer together. When the Plague of Lice descended, we learned to delouse one another and nursed the wounds of our kinfolk. On the morning after the Plague of Hail, we actually managed a smile, as we watched Abdu's stupefied expression: He had just awoken out of his very deep slumber—so deep that even the hailstones rained upon us by the God of the Hebrews had not caused him to stir. Thus did the nine plagues descend on us, one by one, yet leave us unscathed. And then, toward the end of August, came the Plague of the Firstborn.

It was the shrieking of our neighbors that jolted me in the middle of the night. I ran outside and found everyone
there already, except Abdu. Samira, our neighbor from just across the way, managed to blurt it out between sobs. We rushed toward Abdu's room. Father got there first, then Mother and me. Abdu was sprawled out on his cot, his eyes shut tight. “My son,” Father whispered in a stifled voice, his face ashen. “My firstborn.” And for the first time in my life, I saw tears in his eyes. Mine began to well with tears too, more in agony over Father's grief than even over my brother. Seeing my sorrow through his own tears, Father wiped his eyes with the border of his tunic, and drew closer to Mother and me. His powerful arms embraced us, and our faces came together. Our tears mingled, and we wept as one. “The God of the Hebrews is cruel,” Father resumed his whispering, as if afraid to intrude on Abdu's repose, “but He shall not defeat us.”

“Could it be that he is not dead?” Mother mumbled. “That he is only sleeping?” “Please, Fatma,” Father whispered, and planted a gossamer kiss on her brow. “Do not leave us now for a world of delusions. Much has been said about the God of the Hebrews, but never has he been known to favor one over another . . .” “He is not dead,” Mother cried, “he cannot be dead! He is sleeping, just sleeping.” She broke the stronghold of our embrace and lunged toward Abdu's cot. “Wake up, my son!” she cried, tugging at his gown. “Wake up!” Abdu opened his eyes, alarmed, and leapt out of bed. “What happened?” he asked, in a daze. “It's a miracle, my son,” Mother said, hugging him and gazing at Father. “A great miracle has happened.”

Abdu was still dazzled when Mother let go of him and approached Father, who was standing in a corner, his eyes to the ground. “Did you see what just happened?” she whispered. “A great miracle! The God of the Hebrews has taken pity on us, and on our son.” Father peered straight ahead. His pain gave way to ill-concealed rage. “The God of the Hebrews harbors neither pity nor compassion toward us,” he fumed. “Only truth. Only truth.” His bloodshot eyes were like two hailstones, and his gaze filled me with greater fear than all ten plagues. “Why are you angry?” Mother asked. “Why do you not rejoice? Our Abdu is alive . . .” “Because he is not your firstborn,” Father cut her short. He raised his hand, as if about to strike her, but it froze in midair. Mother fell at his feet and let loose a sob as of one who has suffered an invisible blow. Thus did the four of us stand—motionless, steady and transfixed, like a cedar about to be felled. “Cruel indeed is the God of the Hebrews,” Father said. Then he turned on his heel and left the
room.