said. “It will never again bend.”
Once the tracker is secured, a Hezbollah fighter turned stagehand runs lines from an automobile battery to the tracker’s bare feet.
Salim is sweating but defiant. “Fuck you all!”
“Traitor,” Tawfeek Nur-al-Din tells him calmly. “The world will see what happens to a false Muslim.”
“Fuck you all and all your families!”
“Camera.”
At the first jolt, the tracker throws all his weight backward as he screams in pain. The chair falls.
“Did no one secure the chair?”
There is the usual discussion among Arabs about who is to blame, then about what must be done, then about why that will not work, then about who should lie on the floor behind the chair and hold it steady. All are reluctant to hold the chair because of the current. The director, once an engineering student before—as he likes to say—God found him, calms thesefears with an explanation of the principles of electrodynamics. Also, the chair holder will not be in the picture because the viewfinder is focused only above the traitor’s waist. Through all of this, the tracker has moved into a semiconscious state, foam seeping through his clenched teeth. Only when they attempt another take does his jaw abruptly relax, the foam, now pink, flowing freely down his jaw.
42
In the Subaru sedan the family sits in silence, Dudik and Uri in the rear, as the white car stops and goes in the evening traffic that chokes the Geha Road running north along the eastern border of Tel Aviv. They are stuck behind a green Egged bus and ahead of a Goldstar beer truck. As far as can be seen, the road is one long parking lot.
Dahlia checks her watch. “Have we ever used the siren, Elias?”
“No, chief super.”
“Let’s see if it works.”
The wa-wa-wa of the siren and the flashing lights cause the Egged bus to edge off the road onto the shoulder, but even as it clears the way, it is evident they will have to wait until a thousand more vehicles do the same.
“Chief super, there is another way.”
“Have you ever done it?”
“Only in training.”
“Then you need the practice.”
“I beg your pardon, chief super?”
“You need the practice. Do it.”
Elias turns the wheel hard right around the bus, then spins it back left as the car flies down the shoulder. Between the siren and the sound of the tires on gravel, the noise in the car is deafening.This merely inspires the Ethiopian to shout. “A question, chief super!”
“Go ahead, Elias.”
“My family dreamed of coming to Israel! When we learned this was possible, not just a dream, we walked seven hundred miles across all of Ethiopia to Kenya, where the airplanes took us! Of ten of us, six survived! A lion killed my sister! The others, human lions! Now every day we see the television news! War without end! We go to funerals! Our paradise is spoiled! It is very sad for us!”
“For all of us!”
Suddenly the gravel shoulder turns to pavement. They no longer need to shout.
But Elias has gotten used to it. “Why must it be so?!”
“I don’t know,” Dahlia says softly. “It’s a tough neighborhood.”
Uri leans forward from the rear. “We have to do something, mom.”
“We will, Uri.” Her phone buzzes in her bag. She looks at the number, shuts it off. “We will, my darling. We will.”
43
In the makeshift television studio the doctor examines Salim once again. The doctor is not Hezbollah but a volunteer. Earlier that day, three Hezbollah entered his office, put a gun to his head, and volunteered his services. He tried to explain that he is a dermatologist. The militiamen had been ordered to bring a doctor. They asked, “Is a dermatologist not a doctor?” Now, with his patient out of his head mouthing a senseless monologue, something about a mare, he does his best. The thing that he most wishes to avoid is to lose this patient. “Keep his head elevated,” he tells the Hezbollah commander. “Otherwise he will choke on his own vomit.
Once the tracker is secured, a Hezbollah fighter turned stagehand runs lines from an automobile battery to the tracker’s bare feet.
Salim is sweating but defiant. “Fuck you all!”
“Traitor,” Tawfeek Nur-al-Din tells him calmly. “The world will see what happens to a false Muslim.”
“Fuck you all and all your families!”
“Camera.”
At the first jolt, the tracker throws all his weight backward as he screams in pain. The chair falls.
“Did no one secure the chair?”
There is the usual discussion among Arabs about who is to blame, then about what must be done, then about why that will not work, then about who should lie on the floor behind the chair and hold it steady. All are reluctant to hold the chair because of the current. The director, once an engineering student before—as he likes to say—God found him, calms thesefears with an explanation of the principles of electrodynamics. Also, the chair holder will not be in the picture because the viewfinder is focused only above the traitor’s waist. Through all of this, the tracker has moved into a semiconscious state, foam seeping through his clenched teeth. Only when they attempt another take does his jaw abruptly relax, the foam, now pink, flowing freely down his jaw.
42
In the Subaru sedan the family sits in silence, Dudik and Uri in the rear, as the white car stops and goes in the evening traffic that chokes the Geha Road running north along the eastern border of Tel Aviv. They are stuck behind a green Egged bus and ahead of a Goldstar beer truck. As far as can be seen, the road is one long parking lot.
Dahlia checks her watch. “Have we ever used the siren, Elias?”
“No, chief super.”
“Let’s see if it works.”
The wa-wa-wa of the siren and the flashing lights cause the Egged bus to edge off the road onto the shoulder, but even as it clears the way, it is evident they will have to wait until a thousand more vehicles do the same.
“Chief super, there is another way.”
“Have you ever done it?”
“Only in training.”
“Then you need the practice.”
“I beg your pardon, chief super?”
“You need the practice. Do it.”
Elias turns the wheel hard right around the bus, then spins it back left as the car flies down the shoulder. Between the siren and the sound of the tires on gravel, the noise in the car is deafening.This merely inspires the Ethiopian to shout. “A question, chief super!”
“Go ahead, Elias.”
“My family dreamed of coming to Israel! When we learned this was possible, not just a dream, we walked seven hundred miles across all of Ethiopia to Kenya, where the airplanes took us! Of ten of us, six survived! A lion killed my sister! The others, human lions! Now every day we see the television news! War without end! We go to funerals! Our paradise is spoiled! It is very sad for us!”
“For all of us!”
Suddenly the gravel shoulder turns to pavement. They no longer need to shout.
But Elias has gotten used to it. “Why must it be so?!”
“I don’t know,” Dahlia says softly. “It’s a tough neighborhood.”
Uri leans forward from the rear. “We have to do something, mom.”
“We will, Uri.” Her phone buzzes in her bag. She looks at the number, shuts it off. “We will, my darling. We will.”
43
In the makeshift television studio the doctor examines Salim once again. The doctor is not Hezbollah but a volunteer. Earlier that day, three Hezbollah entered his office, put a gun to his head, and volunteered his services. He tried to explain that he is a dermatologist. The militiamen had been ordered to bring a doctor. They asked, “Is a dermatologist not a doctor?” Now, with his patient out of his head mouthing a senseless monologue, something about a mare, he does his best. The thing that he most wishes to avoid is to lose this patient. “Keep his head elevated,” he tells the Hezbollah commander. “Otherwise he will choke on his own vomit.
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