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
