'Yes, Cohen. You'd better have a good reason for missing the meeting.'
'Real good, Dani.' The kid was gushing. 'The best.'
It was kind of funny the way it happened, thought Avi. Ironic, even. But he'd pulled it off.
He left the Russian Compound and walked to the cobbled parking lot, exhilarated, holding on to his good mood even after four hours of paperwork. He'd sweated through every word of it. had called no one for assistance. Wanting to prove to Sharavi that he could handle anything when he put his mind to it.
The BMW was parked between two unmarkeds. He unlocked it, got in, popped the clutch, and spun out of the compound on squealing tires, past the disapproving eyes of two uniforms. Turning onto Rehov Yafo, he sped west for twenty meters before screeching to a halt behind a cement truck with an engine as loud as a fighter jet.
A traffic jam. The glut of cars on Yafo was thick as pitch, motorists leaning on their horns, pedestrians taking advantage of the situation and jaywalking between the inert automobiles. He watched as a uniform on horseback blew his whistle and tried, without success, to get things moving.
Classy, he thought, watching the mounted officer prance in and out of the jam. The horse was a fine-looking Arabian, its rider an older guy, looked Moroccan. Still a samal, Avi noticed. No career advancement, but the guy sat tall in the saddle. Keeping his dignity amidst all the fumes and clamor.
The first time he'd seen a mounted policeman had been right after the '67 liberation, on a trip to Jerusalem with his father, some sort of official business. They'd been stuck in a traffic jam just like this one, Avi a timid kid of five, eating sunflower seeds and spitting them out the car window, his father punching the horn and cursing, griping that an administrative assistant to an MK deserved better.
That's what I want to be, Abba.
What, an administrative assistant?
A horse policeman.
Don't be silly, boy. They're showpieces, useless. A bit of candy for the Eastern types.
They eat candy, Abba!
His father rolled his eyes, lit one of those smelly Pana-manian cigars, gave Avi an absent pat on the knee, and said:
Back in Iraq and Morocco the Jews weren't allowed to ride horses-the Arabs wouldn't let them. So when they came to Israel, the first thing they wanted to do was jump on a horse. We bought a few for them, told them they could ride if they became policemen. It made them happy, Avi.
That one doesn't look happy, Abba. He looks tough
He's happy, believe me. We made all of them happy, that's what politics is all about.
Avi looked in the rearview mirror, saw a light turn green, and watched a herd of westbound cars rushing to join the tail end of the jam. He put on the emergency brake, got out of the BMW, and walked to the center of the road in order to see what the problem was.
'Get back in, you idiot!' someone shouted. 'Don't be standing there when it's time to move!' Avi ignored the chorus of horns that rose behind him. Little chance of anything moving, he thought. Traffic was at a stand still clear up to the King George intersection. 'Idiot! Subversive!'
He could see what was causing it now: An eastbound cab had stalled. For some reason the driver had attempted to push his vehicle across the road into westbound traffic and had ended up straddling both sides, trapped by gridlock.
Now all lanes in both directions were blocked and tempers were heating.
Avi looked for escape-he'd jump the sidewalk if he had to. But both sides of Yafo were bordered by shops, not even a break for a wrong-way alley.
Wonderful-he'd be late for his appointment with Sharavi. The Yemenite had sounded none too pleased about his miss-ing the staff meeting.
No problem there. He'd be pleased when he found out how well things had gone. All the paperwork wrapped up.
He heard a whistle, looked up, and saw the mounted policeman shouting at him and waving him back inside. He pulled out his police ID but the uniform had already turned his back and didn't see it.
'Showpiece,' said Avi, and got back in the car. Rolling up the windows and turning on the air conditioner, he lit up a cigarette, turned off the engine, put the key in and slipped a Culture Club cassette into the tape 'Karma Chameleon' came on. That crazy George Guy was as queer as a five-legged sheep but he could really sing.
Avi turned up the volume, hummed along to lyrics he didn't fully understand, and blessed his good fortune.
To hell with horses and meetings and superior officers. Nothing was going to spoil his good mood.
He reclined the seat, sat low, and reminisced about last night.
Ironic, really funny, how he'd almost missed it. Because the balcony had become almost a hobby, he'd been spending so much time out there the South African girl was starting to nag. ('Are you some kind of voyeur, Avraham? Shall I buy you a telescope?')
Generally he could keep her annoyance at bay with affection and time-outs for first-rate sex-the little extra moves that let a girl know you had her pleasure in mind. He made sure always to give her a good workout, varying the positions, stretching it out until she was right on the brink, then backing off, then moving in again, so when she came she was really tired and fell right asleep. Unaware, moments later, when he left the bed.
Then back to the balcony.
Last night, though, he'd been exhausted himself. The girl had prepared two giant steaks for dinner-her monthly allowance was unbelievable; the only time he'd seen file mignon like that was when his family traveled to
