by Hesh Kestin
“Bad hair day.”
“It’s a picture of a man.”
“Also the lighting...”
In a moment, two Border Police lead Alex to an interview room. “There’s a note in my file,” she tells them.
Nothing doing. In a minute, a senior immigration official comes in. “Alex, what’s the word?”
“Inflexibility.”
“Yes, well, that’s the way we are.” He stamps her passport. “I told you the last time, just ask for me. Epstein, David. Remember? I gave you my card. How was Paris?”
“Gay,” Alex says. “Entirely too gay.”
“You’re not...?”
“Just a guy who likes to dress up, David. You?”
Now, standing by the side of this tertiary road that if one knows where to turn will eventually reach north Tel Aviv, Alex is confronted with another kind of immigration barrier as, decked out in his Egyptian officer’s uniform, he stands beside the olive-green Cadillac and hears the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked.
Without moving anything but his head, he glances behind him to see two Bedouin, both armed. One is about twenty, the other might be his father. Tethered to a stunted mulberry tree beyond them are two laden donkeys.
“Do you mind if I finish?” he says in Arabic.
“Go ahead, Egyptian. It may be your last. Enjoy.”
It is a long piss. Alex’s mind is racing. He has several hundred Egyptian pounds in the pocket of his military trousers, courtesy of the previous occupant—the fat colonel carried nothing: in Arab armies senior officers have no need for cash—plus the adjutant’s watch, a Seiko, and the colonel’s, a gold Omega. Alex’s own watch, along with other gear, is hidden under the driver’s seat. Ever the pilot, he considers evasive action, but the two Bedouin are at point-blank range, so by the time he gets out his own pistol, the colonel’s pistol, he will be many times dead. But he can’t piss forever.
“Less than friendly,” he says, giving his business a good-luck shake, then stops before zippering his fly. He doesn’t want to do anything with his hands but keep them at his side. One suspicious move is all it would take. “What is it you desire? Money?”
Abed offers a theatrical sigh. “Why must everything always be about money?”
“I have a watch. Gold. Not plated.”
“We’ll start with your uniform.” He turns to Cobi, and in Hebrew says, “When the moment comes, make sure not to get blood all over it.”
“What the fuck? Why are you speaking Hebrew?”
Cobi looks hard at the Egyptian colonel. “Why are we speaking Hebrew? Why are you speaking Hebrew? I have to say, it’s pretty good.” In one second, Alex has gone from preparing to die to a state of swollen indignation. “It should be, you twat. You’re hijacking an Egyptian staff car already hijacked by a downed Israeli pilot.”
This time it is the turn of Cobi and Abed to be confused.
“Will you please put those guns away before I get really bitchy?” Cobi is unsure. “How do we know you’re real?”
“Schmuck, your friend’s Arabic is better than mine. If you assholes will allow me to reach into this borrowed uniform, you can check my ID. There’s a photo.”
The two examine Alex’s Israeli military ID card, guns still pointed in his direction.
“Air Force major, it says.”
“You want my unit number?”
Cobi shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know if it’s real, or the ID. You could be some sort of spy.”
“Oh, yeah, a regular Mata Hari,” Alex says, realizing immediately that the two are unlikely to know the name, or its gender. Worse, if they did, it might confuse the issue further. “Look, will you point those guns away? I am an IAF pilot. F-16s. You know, big bird, go fast, save Jewish lives?”
“You really Israeli?” Cobi says.
“No, I’m a fucking space alien. Ask me a question—anything.” Cobi looks to Abed, who shrugs. “Name the starting lineup for Maccabi Tel-Aviv.”
Alex shakes his head wearily. “I’m not, you know, big on sports. That’s basketball, right?”
“You’re from Tel Aviv?”
“Stupid question, kid. Everyone is—now.”
“Starting from the south, name all the roads crossing Dizengoff Street.”
“Including Buki ben-Yogli? Because that’s really small.”
Abed shakes his head. “A spy would know that. He’d have the whole city memorized.”
“Sing Jerusalem of Gold”
“With my dick hanging out?” He sings the Naomi Shemer song, Jersualem of Gold, that is practically a second national anthem.
The mountain air, clear as wine,
And the perfume of the pines
Carried on the breeze at twilight
Along with the sound of bells.
And in the sleep of tree and stone,
Captured as in a dream,
The city stands alone,
And at its heart—a wall.
Jerusalem of gold
And of bronze, and of light
Am I not a lyre for all your songs?
How the cisterns have dried.
The marketplace stands empty
There are no visitors to the
Temple Mount in the Old City.
And in the mountain caves
The winds wail, and no one
Descends to the Dead Sea
By way of Jericho.
Jerusalem of gold
And of bronze, and of—
“Enough,” Cobi says. “What’s with the falsetto?”
“A long story.”
Abed keeps his gun leveled. “He could have learned that. I mean, this is what spies do, no?” He takes a step closer to the Egyptian officer.
“Schindler’s List,” Cobi says.
It’s a movie.
“What was the scandal about Schindler’s List and Jerusalem of Gold?”
Alex laughs. “That you call a scandal? It wasn’t a scandal, just a fuck-up. A joke.”
“I saw it,” Abed says. “Good movie. But from my perspective, too Jewish.”
“So tell me,” Cobi says. “What was the...fuck-up?”
“At the end of the movie, when these people, Jews—you know, from the camps—are leaving, for Israel eventually, the song is played. Israeli audiences howled.”
“Why?”
“Because, my young friend, the scene takes place in 1944 or 1945, and Naomi Shemer didn’t write it until 1967.”
Cobi decocks his pistol. “No spy could know that. Where you headed?”
“Not Cairo.”
Cobi and Abed break into broad smiles.
“Kindly put your dick back in your pants,” Abed says. “You’ve got passengers.”
91
ON THE LARGE TELEVISION screen in the conference room of what was once the main Jerusalem branch of Israel Discount Bank, a soaking wet Connie Blunt can be seen doing a stand-up from the beach at Tel Aviv.
“As you can see, Damian, aid in the form of food, clean water, and medical supplies is now being distributed to the hungry population of what people here call Ghetto Tel Aviv, a reference to the Warsaw Ghetto where the Nazis concentrated a huge population so that they could be killed off. But today, through the generosity of American private citizens and church groups, the men, women, and children of this ghetto have the chance to live another day.”
She presses her earpiece, leaning forward. “I’m sorry, Damian—can you repeat?”
The screen splits. “What can you tell us, Connie, about the footage we’ve just shown of that aerial attack on the beach?”
“Well, Damian, it wasn’t precisely an attack on the beach. It was an attack on innocent civilians. Five or six aircraft, which I’m told are Syrian, attempted to—”
Tupikov cuts off the television. “Regrettable.”
General Niroomad is seething. “Syrians are not particularly good at warfare, that is the problem.”
Syrian Field Marshall Al-Asadi stands. “When
the chariots of Damascus ruled the Eastern Mediterranean, the Persians huddled in caves.”
“Always a history lesson. As from my distinguished Egyptian colleague, allow me to quote: ‘All Israeli planes were destroyed.’ Yet there they were, on television no less, sinking three warships. Not one—three.”
“It is unaccountable,” Field Marshall Haloumi says, almost sputtering. “Three pink Super Hornets that come from nowhere and return to nowhere. Our intelligence has no sign of them.”
“Perhaps you would like also to tell me of the accomplishments of the Egyptians in history. All fiction.”
“The pyramids are fiction? You have only to look at them.”
“My dear field marshal, the Hebrews built your pyramids. Now they have destroyed your fleet.”
“I tell you all Jewish warplanes were destroyed.”
“Like the Jewish tanks that wiped out my son’s armored division, destroyed, I was assured, by—”
“No Israeli tanks survived!” Marshal al-Asadi shouts. He bangs on the table. “No doubt they were American!”
“Oh, yes, field marshal,” the Iranian says. “And then they went back into a hole in the ground!”
Tupikov raises his hand. “Gentlemen...”
“Gentlemen?” General Niroomad says. “Gentlemen do not prevaricate. We are blessed with mysterious planes, mysterious tanks. Now the door is open to a resupply of the Jews we so carefully herded into Tel Aviv to starve. Now, through unspeakable incompetence, our enemy will fatten to create some further Jewish cleverness. We are the victors and they make fools of us. On CNN no less. On world television.”
This is Tupikov’s opportunity. The only way to unite these disparate forces is through their common enmity. “Then what must be done?”
“There is no question what, my friend,” General Niroomad says. “The question is when.”
“Exactly,” Marshall al-Asadi says. “We have a proverb: a Jew lives, the problem grows.”
“So it is agreed?” General Niroomad asks. It is rhetorical, a gesture.
“Syria votes yes.”
“The Kingdom of Jordan agrees. As per plan, the Hashemite tanks will have the honor to be the first to enter Tel Aviv.”
“Allah go with them,” Field Marshal Haloumi says. “Egyptian infantry will follow. The streets will run with blood.”
“Our Syrian heroes will seal the city,” General al-Asadi confirms. “None will flee. Not an infant. Neither a Jewish cat nor a Jewish dog.”
Field Marshal Haloumi turns to the Russian. “The Americans, will they not come to the aid of the Jews? Will they not send the Sixth Fleet?”
“The wings of the American eagle are soaked in oil,” Tupikov says. “It is a dodo, a flightless bird. Our satellites display no action, no movement, not even a breeze. The Americans don’t care for the Jews, neither for the Palestinians. They care only for oil.”
“Again the Palestinians,” General Said says. “Squash one bug, up comes another.”
Tupikov shakes his head. “The Palestinians are history. Brief history, convenient history, but history nonetheless.”
“The Palestinians deserve their fate,” General Said says with finality. “They were never a people and never will be.” He rises. “The army of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan must prepare for the siege of Tel Aviv.” His hand on the hilt of his sword, he marches out.
The Syrian commander slowly rises. “Let the Jordanians drown in Jewish blood,” Field Marshall Al-Asadi whispers. “Later, at our leisure, we shall deal with them as well.” He nods, then he too leaves the conference room.
After his footsteps can no longer be heard resounding in the hall, General Niroomad turns to Tupikov. “Arab heroism. Tanks against pistols. If that. And then treachery.”
“The cats eats the mouse,” Tupikov says. “The dog eats the cat. Will the lion devour the dog?”
“Iran does not nourish on dog.”
“I am sorry to hear that, general.”
Niroomad smiles. “But dogs have their uses.”
“General, it is an interesting business doing pleasure with you.”
“Russia will control the Suez Canal,” Niroomad says. “Iran will control the Arabs. And their oil.”
“Together,” Tupikov says. “We will remake the world.”
92
AN ISRAELI BEDOUIN TURNED enemy colonel, in an Egyptian uniform Abed is at least as convincing as Alex, seated beside him, is the picture of feminine beauty. Her transformation astounds the others: by simply changing clothes and applying makeup, Alex has become someone else, not only in looks, which are external, but in nuance. As the woman’s clothes and makeup went on, a woman blossomed from within.
When they stop at a roadblock, which they hope will be the last before moving across the no man’s land that marks the border between Egyptian-held territory and Tel Aviv looming to the west, an Egyptian lieutenant salutes. “Good evening, colonel. No traffic beyond this point.”
“Were you not informed?” Abed says from the driver’s seat.
“Informed, excellency?”
“Secret mission. We are exchanging this Jew bitch for an Egyptian officer.” He whispers. “A general.”
“I know nothing of it, excellency.”
“Remove the roadblock, lieutenant.”
Two more Egyptian soldiers approach, looking in at Alex. They appear not to have seen a woman in some time.
“We are required to search the car, colonel.”
Abed is no stranger to the Arab psyche, formed from birth in a top-down society that has not changed in a thousand years. “How dare you doubt the word of an Egyptian staff officer? Name, unit, and serial number! Immediately!”
“Your excellency...”
“Move the barrier!”
The Egyptian lieutenant peers into the backseat in a modest attempt at doing his job before yielding to the presence of higher authority. The backseat is empty. He signals the others to do as the colonel commands.
Abed nods. “Upon my return in two hours, this unpleasantness will not recur.”
The Egyptian lieutenant salutes. “Yes, excellency!”
Abed returns the salute so casually he could just as well be scratching his forehead, and drives on.
The waning light now has reached that moment of Middle Eastern dusk when abruptly it disappears entirely, but Abed continues to drive without lights until the car has turned out of sight. The land here is flat, signaling their arrival on the coastal plain that stretches from central Israel down to Egypt itself. Here there can be no snipers hidden above. There is no above. In the moonlight, a sign appears, bullet-pocked as though used for target practice, a common incidence everywhere armies pass. TEL AVIV, the sign reads, 2KM.
Abed stops the car and with Alex approaches the trunk.
“Cobi,” the Bedouin shouts. “It’s just us. Kindly do not shoot. I am opening the trunk.”
The two help Cobi, still in Bedouin robes, out onto the roadway. His body has been compressed for an hour. The pistol in his hand seems frozen in position along with the rest of him.
“Another hour and I’d be permanently bent.”
Abed begins changing out of the Egyptian uniform into his Bedouin robes, while Alex retransforms herself, both men watching as if they expect a nude woman to appear. She doesn’t. There is only the disappointment of another male body as uninteresting as their own.
“Abed would make a fine Egyptian officer,” Alex says. “Total disdain. Feudal in the extreme. Kid, you should have seen it.”
“I heard it all,” Cobi says. “It was like being inside a loudspeaker. Every minute I was prepared to pull the interior latch and jump out shooting, but the truth is I wouldn’t have been able to. My circulation is just coming back. If this is what getting old is like, I don’t want it.”
“You’ll want it,” Abed says. “One’s perspective changes depending upon where one sits.”
“Yeah, well, from where I was sitting, all I heard was an Israeli Bed
ouin saving the lives of three Egyptians. Three, right? From the footsteps. Were there more than three?”
“Three only. So you are learning to track then? I am impressed.”
“If your tribe finds out about this, they’ll toss you out on your ass,” Cobi says. “You could just as easily have killed them.”
“Again killing. My boy, these were merely Egyptian peasants, conscripts doing their job. If ever you have a choice, killing is the last option.”
Alex is back in pilot’s uniform, strapping on his sidearm. “How about we concentrate on saving the lives of three Israeli peasants?” He goes to the flag standard on the right front fender, removes the Egyptian banner, and begins attaching a large white cloth of irregular shape. “Guessing from our location, the next barrier we come to is not going to be Egyptian.”
Cobi looks at the white cloth with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. “That’ll get their attention.”
The staff car is now adorned with a huge pair of boxer shorts formerly worn by a very fat Egyptian colonel. The white expanse is marked like an Israeli flag, but its two horizontal stripes and Star of David are in red, not blue.
“Hate the red, but who wears blue lipstick?” Alex says, getting into the Cadillac. “So trashy.”
93
ON A SECOND-FLOOR BALCONY across Ibn Gvirol Street in Tel Aviv, IDF combat engineers secure a quarter-inch steel cable to the concrete building wall, then drop the other end to the roadway, where other soldiers raise it to a parallel balcony on the other side, there to be similarly secured and winched tight. Repeated all down Ibn Gvirol and other broad thoroughfares, the cables are thin enough not to be visible to enemy observers flying high over the city; from street level, they suggest some sort of web, tying the city together two apartments at a time. Few know their purpose, but the civilian population, looking up at the taut cables, surmise the obvious: something is going on, and it cannot be bad. For the disillusioned and disheartened population of Ghetto Tel Aviv, that something is being done cannot be anything but good.
94
WITH THE BEGINNING OF active campaigning only months away, the president is not about to spend his precious time where there are no speeches to make, hands to shake, or babies to kiss—yes, the president has revived that most dust-covered of American political clichés, though his tagline manages to bring it up to date for an economically battered electorate as short on optimism as it is on affordable gas: “Madam, the beautiful child in your arms is the future of America.”
