Mordecai turned onto Route 443. He had no reason to turn onto Route 443. If the school we were driving to was in Ramot or French Hill, it would make sense. A shortcut. But the school was in central Jerusalem, so the only reason he had for turning onto Route 443 was that it would be easier to get to Ramallah from there.
You’d rather drive this way? I asked suspiciously.
Yes, Mordecai replied. At this hour, there are traffic jams at the Sakharov Gardens. And this way, we bypass them in no time at all.
As far as I knew from my Jerusalem days, there were no traffic jams at the Sakharov Gardens after ten in the morning.
His two-way radio was still silent.
Minarets loomed on the hills that lined both sides of the road. Small villages. Area B? Area C? Not clear. After all, part of the road itself is located on the other side of the Green Line.
Tell me, I tried from a different direction, you’re from Jerusalem?
Yes, Mordecai replied tersely.
Where exactly in Jerusalem?
There, next to French Hill, Mordecai replied, driving slightly faster now.
What’s next to French Hill, Ramot Eshkol? Pisgat Ze’ev?
No, Mordecai said, pressing harder on the gas pedal. It’s right next to French Hill. It’s a village. Small.
Village? The only village next to French Hill is Isawiya. I once dated a girl who lived in the French Hill dorms, and when I slept at her place, the village muezzin used to accompany our lovemaking with his ululating call to prayer. Why didn’t Mordecai say he was from Isawiya? If he didn’t have something to hide, that’s what he would have said. So apparently he does. In another minute, he’ll probably turn onto a dirt road where the other members of the squad are waiting for him. If I’m going to die now, I suddenly thought, it definitely means that I won’t sleep with that girl from the dorms again. Ever. Not that there was a chance it would happen anyway. Years had passed and she’s already taken, and so am I. But damn it, that finality of death.
Suddenly, I was filled with the desire to live.
Stop here, I said.
What? Mordecai pretended not to hear.
Stop here, please, I said. I need to pee.
He gave me a small smile, and his soft eyes filled with scorn.
No problem, he said, pulled over to the side of the road, and stopped.
I got out of the taxi and walked over to a small bush past the shoulder. I looked right and left. If I’m going to take off, now’s the time, I thought. I can make a run for the nearby intersection where soldiers are posted. I’d have to leave my wallet, my datebook, and a few Pilot pens in the car, but what are they compared to my life? On the other hand, I thought as I tried to look as if I were peeing, if Mordecai was planning to kidnap me, he wouldn’t have stopped and given me the chance to run away. On yet another hand, maybe this is exactly how he builds trust so that later, when he veers onto a dirt road, I won’t doubt him when he claims it’s a shortcut?
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
