The Suffering of Being Kafka | Page 6

unshaven man. His abraded
pair of horn-rimmed glasses is adjoined to his prominent nose with a
brown adhesive. He reeks of stale sweat and keeps pondering the
clouded surface of his crumbling watch. His pinkie sports a rectangular,
engraved ring of golden imitation.
The bus exudes the steamy vapours of a mobile rain forest. People cram
into the passages, dragging nylon-roped shopping bags, shrieking
children, and their own perspiring carcasses, their armpits and groins
stark dark discolorations.
All spots are taken. Their occupants press claret noses onto the grimy
windows and rhythmically wipe the condensation. They explicitly
ignore the crowd and the censuring, expectant stares of older
passengers. As the interminable road unwinds, they restlessly realign
their bodies, attuned to seats and neighbours.
Our driver deftly skirts the terminal's piers and ramps. Between two
rows of houses shrouded in grimy washing, he hastens towards the
freeway. He turns the radio volume up and speakers inundate us with
tunes from the Levant. Some travellers squirm but no one asks to turn it
down. It is the hourly news edition soon. Thoughts wander, gaze
introspectively inverted, necks stretch to glimpse the passing views.
The broadcast screeches to a sickening but familiar halt. Faint cries, the
Doppler wail of sirens, air surgically hacked by chopper rotor blades,
the voices of authorities grating with shock and panic. The
disembodied speech of spluttering witnesses. On site reporters at a loss
for words record mere moans and keens. An orgy of smoking flesh.
The breaking news has cast us all in moulds of frozen dread and grief.
Here burly finger poking nose, there basket petrified in midair haul, my
neighbour absentmindedly rotates his hefty ring.
The announcer warns of imminent terrorist attacks on public transport.
It recommends to err on the side of caution and to exhaustively inspect
fellow commuters. Trust no one - exhorts a representative of the law -

be on alert, examine suspect objects, call on your driver if in doubt. Pay
heed to dubious characters and odd behaviours.
Our bus is trapped in a honking row of cars, under a seething sun. The
baking asphalt mirrors. I am anxious not to be delayed. The wardens
warned us: "Never be late. Make no excuses. Even if God himself
comes down - be back on time." Latecomers lose all privileges and are
removed to maximum security in Beersheba.
I debate the fine points with myself: is mass slaughter ample reason for
being tardy or merely an excuse? No force is more majeure that prison
guards. I smile at that and the tension plexus slackens.
A febrile thought:
Jailers are ultra right-wing and rabid nationalists. Terrorism must never
be allowed to interfere with the mundane, they say. And I rehearse in
hopeful genuflection: "You mustn't send a Jewish prisoner to an
Arab-infested prison. After all, I was held up by Arab assassins who
slaughtered Jews!"
The legalistic side (they are big on it in penal institutions):
How can I prove my whereabouts (on this bus) throughout the carnage?
Think alibi. The inmate always shows that he has complied, the warden
equally assumes he is being conned, but even he must prove it. A
stalking game with predators and prey, but ever shifting roles.
I rise, prying my neighbour loose from contemplation. He eyes me,
wicked. I pass a soiled boot above his clustered knees and place it
gingerly between two bursting bags. Moustachioed women wipe milky
exudation from upper lips with blotted synthetic handkerchiefs. They
address me in a foreign, gravelling, language. They use elephantine,
venous, legs to push aside their luggage - a gesture of goodwill more
than a decongesting measure.
I feel the clammy, throbbing breathing of another on my trousers.
Thrusting my other leg, I straddle the passage, two Herculean pillars, a
sea of Mediterranean groceries between my calves. Toe by heel, I get
nearer to the stuporous driver, a human ripple in my wake.
"I am a prisoner" - I inform his beefy neck.
His muscles tense but he does not respond or turn to scrutinise me.
"I am an inmate" - I repeat - "Can you please confirm by writing in this
diary (I point at a grey notepad I am holding) that I was on your bus at
this hour? I have no pen" - I add.

He casts a sideways glance at me, monitoring the hopeless traffic jam
from the corner of a bloodshot eye.
(Emphatically):
"So, you are a prisoner? What could you have you done?" (you chalky,
myopic, intellectual).
Right behind him, a woman past her prime, face coated, breasts nestled
in a pointed bra. The driver cannot keep his eyes off them. She, on her
part, seems to be fixated on his tensile musculature. They both start at
the sound of my voice:
"Banks."
"Banks!" - the