Read Online The Girl on the Fridge: Stories by Etgar Keret - Free Book Online
Authors: Etgar Keret
Ads: Link
“The first Arab I catch today is going to be one sorry son of a bitch!” The second jeep passed them. The driver was a skinny, scar-faced soldier, and the officer was in the passenger seat. A hundred meters in front of them, an old Arab man was trudging down the road. Stein saw Scar Face spin the wheel sharply to the left, lunge onto the sidewalk, and hit the old Arab, who landed on his face a few meters away and lay there motionless. “The mute’s all hopped up today,” Zanzuri said with a snicker. “Did you see how he sent the towel-head flying?” Stein, not understanding what exactly had happened, turned and saw the body on the sidewalk, saw Zanzuri laughing and the Russian chewing gum. He tried to put all the images together into a single, coherent reality, but he couldn’t. The other jeep stopped at the corner of an alley, and Zanzuri pulled up right behind it.
Stein jumped out, ran over to the mute, and grabbed him by the shirt. “You ran him over on purpose, you psycho, you ran over a human being on purpose. He didn’t do anything to you.” The Russian grabbed Stein from behind with an iron grip and pulled him away from the mute.
“He didn’t run over a human being,” Zanzuri corrected. “He ran over an Arab, so what the fuck is your problem?” Stein felt the Russian’s repulsive, hot breath on his neck and knew that if he opened his mouth to say something, he’d burst out crying.
“That roof there,” the officer said, pointing, ignoring everything that had happened, “there’s someone on it. I want Zanzuri and the Russki to bring him down here.”
The Russian let go of Stein. He and Zanzuri disappeared into the alley the officer had pointed to. They were back two minutes later, dragging someone with his hands tied behind him and a wide strip of duct tape over his mouth.
“I shut him up,” Zanzuri said. “I hate it when they start begging.”
The mute sighed in agreement and nodded. He went over to the trussed-up Arab and pretended to bend down but straightened abruptly and butted him in the face.
“Did you find anything on him?” the officer asked in a bored tone.
“This!” Zanzuri said, proudly holding up a bottle of root beer with a soaked rag tied around its neck. “And he had a brick, too.” The mute kept punching the Arab, who was now lying on the ground, moaning faintly.
“Enough!” Stein shouted, stepping toward them. The mute stood up, pulled his truncheon out of his vest, and glared at him.
“You’re starting to get on my nerves, Stein,” the officer muttered, an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He put the crushed pack of unfiltered Ascots into his pouch and rummaged around for something in his pocket. When he didn’t find it, he went on: “What are you, Stein, the Red Cross? Those scum have only one thing on their minds—killing you. It’s their only reason for living. Get that into your head. They might look like us on the outside, but they’re not.”
The Arab’s bound body writhed on the ground, and Stein tried to go over and help him. The mute blocked his way.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” the officer said. “Okay, like they say: a picture is worth a thousand words. Russki, pick him up,” he ordered. The Russian stood the Arab up from the back and held on to him so he wouldn’t fall. The Arab’s face was caked with blood and dirt. “Zanzuri, the knife,” the officer said, holding out his hand, the unlit cigarette still between his lips. Zanzuri took the knife out of his vest and slapped it into the officer’s outstretched palm. The officer looked at the knife for a minute and tapped the handle with his finger. “The compass on the handle isn’t working,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” Zanzuri said with a nod. “That asshole Bedouin broke it.” He pointed at the black soldier, whose sweat-soaked uniform looked darker than the others.
“Fuck it,” the officer said and ripped open the Arab’s shirt. The buttons
Stein jumped out, ran over to the mute, and grabbed him by the shirt. “You ran him over on purpose, you psycho, you ran over a human being on purpose. He didn’t do anything to you.” The Russian grabbed Stein from behind with an iron grip and pulled him away from the mute.
“He didn’t run over a human being,” Zanzuri corrected. “He ran over an Arab, so what the fuck is your problem?” Stein felt the Russian’s repulsive, hot breath on his neck and knew that if he opened his mouth to say something, he’d burst out crying.
“That roof there,” the officer said, pointing, ignoring everything that had happened, “there’s someone on it. I want Zanzuri and the Russki to bring him down here.”
The Russian let go of Stein. He and Zanzuri disappeared into the alley the officer had pointed to. They were back two minutes later, dragging someone with his hands tied behind him and a wide strip of duct tape over his mouth.
“I shut him up,” Zanzuri said. “I hate it when they start begging.”
The mute sighed in agreement and nodded. He went over to the trussed-up Arab and pretended to bend down but straightened abruptly and butted him in the face.
“Did you find anything on him?” the officer asked in a bored tone.
“This!” Zanzuri said, proudly holding up a bottle of root beer with a soaked rag tied around its neck. “And he had a brick, too.” The mute kept punching the Arab, who was now lying on the ground, moaning faintly.
“Enough!” Stein shouted, stepping toward them. The mute stood up, pulled his truncheon out of his vest, and glared at him.
“You’re starting to get on my nerves, Stein,” the officer muttered, an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He put the crushed pack of unfiltered Ascots into his pouch and rummaged around for something in his pocket. When he didn’t find it, he went on: “What are you, Stein, the Red Cross? Those scum have only one thing on their minds—killing you. It’s their only reason for living. Get that into your head. They might look like us on the outside, but they’re not.”
The Arab’s bound body writhed on the ground, and Stein tried to go over and help him. The mute blocked his way.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” the officer said. “Okay, like they say: a picture is worth a thousand words. Russki, pick him up,” he ordered. The Russian stood the Arab up from the back and held on to him so he wouldn’t fall. The Arab’s face was caked with blood and dirt. “Zanzuri, the knife,” the officer said, holding out his hand, the unlit cigarette still between his lips. Zanzuri took the knife out of his vest and slapped it into the officer’s outstretched palm. The officer looked at the knife for a minute and tapped the handle with his finger. “The compass on the handle isn’t working,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” Zanzuri said with a nod. “That asshole Bedouin broke it.” He pointed at the black soldier, whose sweat-soaked uniform looked darker than the others.
“Fuck it,” the officer said and ripped open the Arab’s shirt. The buttons
Similar Books
