The Suffering of Being Kafka | Page 7

am calmer. Que serra, serra.
At the edge of my awareness a shrill, self-righteous female voice:
"Get out now, or I am calling the police."
I open my eyes, trying to pinpoint the mayhem. Somewhat behind me, the altercation draws closer, a portly woman pushing aside strap-holding passengers. She is preceded by a far younger female scrambling, expression hunted, to flee the bully.
She passes me by, her coarse contours defaced by agony, wheezing through luscious lips, one hand supporting heavy bust, the other clutching a sheaf of papers densely written in calligraphic Arabic.
"Driver" - the mob exclaims - "There is an Arab on board!"
"Go down! I am not sharing a bus with a terrorist!" - a woman screams and then another: "Maybe she is dangerous? Did you frisk her when she boarded?"
The driver negotiates the dense circulation, manoeuvring among a fleet of barely visible compacts. The noise distracts him. Without braking, he turns around and enquires: "What is it? What's the matter?"
"There's an Arab woman here" - one volunteers to edify him - "She is aboard the bus and may have explosives strapped around her waist." "Get her off this vehicle, she may be lethal!" - another advises.
"I am not forcing anybody down who has paid the ticket!" - snaps the driver and reverts to the hazy windshield.
A stunned silence. They thought the driver was one of them, he doesn't appear to be a peacenik. Someone latches on to the frontal paned partition and expostulates. "It's not reasonable, your decision. Today, you never know. Even their women are into killing, I saw it with my own eyes in Lebanon. They explode themselves like nothing, not a problem..."
The woman who spotted the ostensible terrorist now badgers the driver:
"Give me your details. I am going to have a chat with your supervisors. You can forget about this cosy job of yours!"
The Arab stands mute, vigilantly monitoring the commotion. A passenger tilts and hisses in her ear: "Child murderer." She recoils from the gathering nightmare and bellows, addressing the jam-packed bus:
"I am a nurse. I tend to the sick and frail all day long, both ours and yours. Every day there's a flood of casualties. Our injured. Our corpses. Your injured. Your corpses. Children, women, shreds, all full of blood..." - She pauses - "Why do you treat me this way?"
Her Hebrew is rocky but sufficient to provoke a heated debate with supporters and detractors.
"What do you want with this woman? She is just an innocent commuter! Look at yourselves! You should be ashamed!"
Others are genuinely scared. I can see it on their faces, the white-knuckled way they cling to the metal railings opposite their seats, the evasive looks, the stooping shoulders, eyes buried in the filthy flooring.
She may well be a terrorist, who knows?
It is too late to smother this burgeoning conflagration. My neighbour exchanges heavy-accented verbal blows with someone behind us. Women accuse each other of hypocrisy and barbarism.
The driver, pretending to ignore us, head slanted, listens in and steals appreciative glances at his voluptuous fawner. To garner his further admiration, she plunges into the dispute, a brimstone diva with words of fire.
Some passengers begin to push the Arab and shove her with innocuous gestures of their sweaty palms. They endeavour to avoid her startled gaze. She tries again:
"What kind of people are you? I am a medical nurse, I am telling you. So what if I am Arab, is it automatic proof that I am a terrorist?"
My neighbour suddenly addresses me:
"You've got nothing to say?"
"To my mind, if she were a terrorist, she would have blown us all to kingdom come by now."
I let the impact of this sane reminder settle.
"This bus is bursting. The driver skipped a few stations on the way" - I remind them - "She is smack amidst us. She has no bags. She could have detonated herself and demolished us by now."
My neighbour slaps his thighs with furry hands, a sign of pleasure. I am on his side. Some voices crow, encouraging me to proceed: "Let him continue, go on."
But I have got nothing more to add and I grow silent.
The Arab scrutinises me doubtfully, not sure if she understood correctly. Do I suspect her of being a terrorist or don't I?
"And who might you be to tell us off, if I may?" - scoffs the woman who started it all. Her voice is screaming hoarse, her face aflame with stripes of lipstick smeared and make up oozing. Three golden bracelets clang the rhythm of her scornful question.
"He is a prisoner" - announces the driver's would-be floozy. She eyes both me and her desired conquest triumphantly. The driver studies her in his overhead mirror, then gives a haunted look. Control is lost. He knows it.
"An inmate" - shrieks the agitator for all the bus to hear - "The