Everything started an hour ago, Saddiq said. No, actually everything started fifty years ago, when the Jews came in and threw my family out of this house. On the night they drove us out, my mother left something here. And today I came here, to my house, to get what belongs to me.
I un-der-stand, the tie said in the tone of someone who didn’t understand a thing. So how did things deteriorate into shooting?
The shooting’s because of him, Saddiq said, pointing his chisel at the midget.
Because of me?! He threatened me with a knife, the midget said, breaking the official silence he’d imposed on himself just half a minute ago. That man broke into a private home, harassed the tenants and threatened to kill me with a knife.
Liar! He didn’t threaten to kill you, Avram broke away from Gina’s embrace and all the media’s attention switched right over to him. That man on the ladder is my son, Nissan. He came home to see me, his father. And all these people want to take him away from me. So I came out with the bread knife and told them that if Nissan goes, I cut.
And that’s when the shot was fired? the tie asked, and you could hear a little bit of disappointment creeping into his voice.
No, what are you talking about? Avram explained slowly, as if he was speaking to a child. Nissan here took the knife out of my hand and gave it to the policeman, and then the policeman shot at him for no reason.
The tie turned to the camera and motioned for the lighting man to turn the lights on his face. He squinted and said: It’s still too early to say, but from the testimonies we’ve heard in the field, it is possible that we’re talking about a police foul-up. And if so, it won’t be the first foul-up the Israeli Police has made recently, and perhaps, perhaps we’re talking here about a syndrome, a syndrome that some higher-ups are calling ‘the shoot first, think later syndrome’, while others are calling it …
What syndrome? What syndrome?!! the midget interrupted and tried to squeeze between the reporter and the camera.
Hey! the cameraman yelled.
Please, the tie said to the midget, you’re interfering with the media trying to do its job.
And maybe you’re interfering with me trying to do my job? the midget said, not moving from where he was. The two of them stood facing each other, like in a western. You could have cut the tension between them with a knife. A bread knife. But before either one could draw, some neighbours from our street burst into Avram and Gina’s living room. Somebody must have seen the television crew coming in and called everybody. Dalia’s Nissim was there. And Razi, who used to deliver for the supermarket. And Avi from Avi’s Flowers. And some other old people who always sit on the bench near the park and hassle the girls walking by. They stood in the middle of the living room, took a quick look at Saddiq, another one at the cameraman, and started yelling: Death to the Arabs! Death to the Arabs!
The lighting man turned on the spotlights. The cameraman rushed around trying to arrange the setting. The policemen started pushing the demonstrators out. By force. Watch the lamp! Gina yelled, watch the lamp, but everyone knew that Razi the delivery man was not the calm type. Once, he cracked an egg on the head of a woman who wanted to give him a tip, and now he gave Zabiti a little whack right on his scar, and Zabiti pulled out his club and a commotion started. Gina and I ran into the kitchen, behind the counter, and watched what was going on from there. I had a weird feeling — as if I was watching a film, the kind they show on the movie channel at two in the morning — as if none of it was really happening. Avi Flowers jiggled Saddiq’s ladder to shake him off it, but Avram went over and slapped him. Razi the delivery man and Zabiti had grabbed each other’s collars and were shouting at each other, don’t touch me! don’t touch me! The tie reported to the camera on the violent demonstration. The horny old men from the park bench started chanting: Po-lice State! Po-lice State! And everyone else joined in. The midget chased after Dalia’s Nissim, trying to get handcuffs on him. Gina said, call the police! Call the police! I told her that the police were already here and dragged her a littler further into the kitchen, just in case. The big picture fell off the living room wall and the glass frame shattered into a million pieces. Avi Flowers stepped on one of them and started screaming, I’m hurt! I’m hurt! And his blood dripped on to the carpet. That’s the end of our carpet, Gina said and called to Avram to let go of the ladder and come into the kitchen. A big black dog ran into the living room and started barking at the cameraman, of all people, and the tie raised his voice so he could be heard over the general uproar: the Israeli Police have once again demonstrated how powerless they are when dealing with situations of this kind. We are seeing once again how lack of judgement creates new problems instead of solving existing ones. Once again …
Halas with that ‘once again’, Zabiti said and snatched the camera with one hand (the other was still holding Razi’s collar). The tie suddenly looked helpless without the camera. The cameraman mumbled in English: this is un-fucking-believable, un-fucking-believable, and then went up to Zabiti and yelled at him in English: are you out of your mind, man?! Do you know who I am?
Chief, Zabiti suddenly called in a scared voice, there’s this guy here talking English. The midget, who was busy chasing the black dog, dropped everything and went over to Zabiti, his face pale. You know what the orders are about foreign media, chief, Zabiti said. Sure I do, the midget said, but are you sure he was speaking English? Zabiti nodded. Ask him where he’s from, the midget said, ask him who he works for. Vere are you, pliz, Zabiti asked in English. First give me back my fucking camera, then we’ll talk, the cameraman answered. O-o-kay, the midget said, climbed on to the coffee table, stood on tiptoe and announced: attention, ladies and gentlemen, until further notice this area is declared a crime scene and is off limits to the media. That’s denying us freedom of speech, the tie protested. Shut up, Zabiti told him, grabbed him by his tie and pulled him toward the door.
The rest of the people followed them out. The horny old men got tired. Dalia’s Nissim must have had to go back to Dalia. Avi Flowers was a little dizzy from the slap Avram gave him and he wasn’t sure now who was against who. And, besides, now that the television was gone, nobody was having fun any more. They left, one after the other, mumbled I’m sorry in Gina’s direction, wished Avram good health and kissed the mezuzah. Even the dog went out with its tail between its legs. Only the cameraman kept on demanding his camera back. But the midget refused to give it to him and told him, in Hebrew, that the Police Department’s office of confiscated property was open on Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays, between nine and one, and on Tuesdays till two. Fuck you, the cameraman said and left too, without kissing the mezuzah.
Zabiti, the midget, and the third policeman who hadn’t said a word, leaned on the wall and licked their wounds. The midget talked to someone on his walkie-talkie and his tone got more apologetic by the minute.
Avram and Gina’s house looked like those houses you see on TV after a tornado has passed through them, or maybe a hurricane, I don’t remember what they call those storms. The carpets looked like rags. The table looked like a chair. The chairs looked like beetles lying on their back. And with all the plaster sprinkled on the sofa from the shot, it looked like a doughnut covered with powdered sugar.
I wanted to get out of there and get back to Lilach, but I knew that if I left now, Gina would never forgive me for not staying to help. So I took the broom out of the cupboard and started sweeping. Saddiq, who’d kept trying to make himself small during the whole commotion and let the Jews fight each other, went back to working with his chisel. I watched him working quietly, and all of a sudden I could see what he must have been like as a child. That happens to me with people sometimes. It happened to me with Moshe when we first met. It happened to me with Amir only a week ago (what a handsome little boy he was!), and now it was happening to me with that Arab. I could see him running around this house with laughing eyes, bringing his mother water from the well and fighting, not seriously, with his brothers. I was ashamed about pushing him and shouting like I did when he asked to come in. After all, what did he really want? To walk around the house he was born in and take something that belonged to him? When I went to Ashkelon a year ago and asked the family that bought our house if I could take a look around, they treated me very well and even invited me to stay the night. On the other hand, I thought, how could I have known? Today, any Arab could be a terrorist. After another few bangs, he dug out the second brick and exposed something behind it. Allah yasidni, God help me, he mumbled to himself and shoved his hand into the wall to take out what he’d found.