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Authors: Etgar Keret
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scattered on the ground, and Stein saw a hairy chest rising and falling rapidly.
“No!” Stein yelled, managing to take a step toward the officer. The mute smashed the back of his neck with the heavy wooden truncheon, and Stein fell to the ground.
“Hold him with his head up,” Stein heard the officer command.
“Not the Arab, you moron,” said the Russian, “the bleeding heart.” He snickered.
Stein was on his knees now, the mute supporting him under an armpit with one hand, pulling his hair back with the other. Three meters away from him, the officer was moving the knife to the Arab’s trembling stomach, and there was nothing he could do. With a quick slice, the officer cut the stomach in two, and rolled-up flags, flyers, candy, and phone tokens came spilling out of it.
“Don’t touch the candy,” the officer warned them. “It’s poisoned.” He handed the knife back to Zanzuri. The Russian unrolled one of the flags. It was a PLO flag. Zanzuri and the black soldier filled their pockets with phone tokens. The Russian stripped the Arab, who was lying on the ground flat as a sheet after being emptied out. He folded him in eight and laid him on the jeep’s spare tire.
“Hey, Russki, what are you going to do with him?” Zanzuri asked.
“A cover for my motor scooter, a cape, who knows,” said the Russian, and he shrugged. “It must be good for something.”
“Man, those Russians are stingy,” Zanzuri whispered to the black soldier, the tokens jingling in his pockets. Even though more than five minutes had gone by since the mute had hit him with his truncheon, Stein decided that the time had come to faint.
Stein woke up on his bed in the tent, wearing his clothes and shoes, the pain so agonizing that he could barely move his neck. Everyone was sleeping now. The needle of the broken compass on Zanzuri’s knife handle glowed brightly in the dark. Stein got up quietly, pulled the knife out of its sheath, and started walking where the phosphorescent needle led him.
Freeze!
Suddenly I could do it. I’d say “Freeze!” and everyone would freeze, just like that, in the middle of the street. Cars, bicycles, even those little motor scooters delivery guys use would stop in their tracks. And I’d walk past them looking for the hottest girls. I’d tell them to drop their shopping bags, I’d walk them off a bus, then I’d bring them home and fuck their brains out. It was great. Beyond great. “Freeze!” “Come here!” “Lie down on the bed!” And kablooey. These girls I had were knockouts, centerfolds. I was on top of the world. I felt like a king.
And then my mother started getting involved.
My mother told me she wasn’t completely happy with the whole business. I told her there was no reason not to be happy. “I tell the girls to come and they come. It’s not as if I rape them or anything.”
And my mother said, “No, no. God forbid. It’s just that there’s something very impersonal about it. Unemotional. I don’t know how to explain it, but I have this gut feeling that you don’t really connect with them.” So I told my mother that she could keep her gut feelings to herself. I told her that she could live her life and I’d live mine. I told her “Freeze!” and left her like that in the middle of Reiness Street in the pouring rain.
It pissed me off, her sticking her nose in my business.
Since then, it hasn’t been the same. What she said bothered me, the part about not connecting. Now I fucked the girls like before, but I didn’t really feel connected. Everything was ruined. At first I thought it was the sounds. So I’d say to the girls, “Make sounds.” And they’d make all kinds of sounds: Mickey Mouse, jackhammers, politicians. It was a nightmare. I had to demonstrate the actual words I wanted them to say. “Oh yeah.” “Do it to me, do it to me.” “Harder.” That kind of stuff. And they’d repeat them when we were fucking, but always in my intonation.
“No!” Stein yelled, managing to take a step toward the officer. The mute smashed the back of his neck with the heavy wooden truncheon, and Stein fell to the ground.
“Hold him with his head up,” Stein heard the officer command.
“Not the Arab, you moron,” said the Russian, “the bleeding heart.” He snickered.
Stein was on his knees now, the mute supporting him under an armpit with one hand, pulling his hair back with the other. Three meters away from him, the officer was moving the knife to the Arab’s trembling stomach, and there was nothing he could do. With a quick slice, the officer cut the stomach in two, and rolled-up flags, flyers, candy, and phone tokens came spilling out of it.
“Don’t touch the candy,” the officer warned them. “It’s poisoned.” He handed the knife back to Zanzuri. The Russian unrolled one of the flags. It was a PLO flag. Zanzuri and the black soldier filled their pockets with phone tokens. The Russian stripped the Arab, who was lying on the ground flat as a sheet after being emptied out. He folded him in eight and laid him on the jeep’s spare tire.
“Hey, Russki, what are you going to do with him?” Zanzuri asked.
“A cover for my motor scooter, a cape, who knows,” said the Russian, and he shrugged. “It must be good for something.”
“Man, those Russians are stingy,” Zanzuri whispered to the black soldier, the tokens jingling in his pockets. Even though more than five minutes had gone by since the mute had hit him with his truncheon, Stein decided that the time had come to faint.
Stein woke up on his bed in the tent, wearing his clothes and shoes, the pain so agonizing that he could barely move his neck. Everyone was sleeping now. The needle of the broken compass on Zanzuri’s knife handle glowed brightly in the dark. Stein got up quietly, pulled the knife out of its sheath, and started walking where the phosphorescent needle led him.
Freeze!
Suddenly I could do it. I’d say “Freeze!” and everyone would freeze, just like that, in the middle of the street. Cars, bicycles, even those little motor scooters delivery guys use would stop in their tracks. And I’d walk past them looking for the hottest girls. I’d tell them to drop their shopping bags, I’d walk them off a bus, then I’d bring them home and fuck their brains out. It was great. Beyond great. “Freeze!” “Come here!” “Lie down on the bed!” And kablooey. These girls I had were knockouts, centerfolds. I was on top of the world. I felt like a king.
And then my mother started getting involved.
My mother told me she wasn’t completely happy with the whole business. I told her there was no reason not to be happy. “I tell the girls to come and they come. It’s not as if I rape them or anything.”
And my mother said, “No, no. God forbid. It’s just that there’s something very impersonal about it. Unemotional. I don’t know how to explain it, but I have this gut feeling that you don’t really connect with them.” So I told my mother that she could keep her gut feelings to herself. I told her that she could live her life and I’d live mine. I told her “Freeze!” and left her like that in the middle of Reiness Street in the pouring rain.
It pissed me off, her sticking her nose in my business.
Since then, it hasn’t been the same. What she said bothered me, the part about not connecting. Now I fucked the girls like before, but I didn’t really feel connected. Everything was ruined. At first I thought it was the sounds. So I’d say to the girls, “Make sounds.” And they’d make all kinds of sounds: Mickey Mouse, jackhammers, politicians. It was a nightmare. I had to demonstrate the actual words I wanted them to say. “Oh yeah.” “Do it to me, do it to me.” “Harder.” That kind of stuff. And they’d repeat them when we were fucking, but always in my intonation.
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