Enough. Get up, Yoel. Get up. The parents are waiting.
At the central bus station, [ ] would wait next to the buses. Sometimes for hours. Everyone passes here, he thought, so he will pass here too. “He.” Nobody looked back at him.
If he could see him, only for a minute, and even from a distance, it would give him a little peace. And so in the beginning he would go and look for him. Just stand there at school fences. Is that him? Is that him? For years.
And he would sit and play at the bus station, and sometimes in the streets next to it, and sometimes people wanted to throw him a coin, but he never put out a box, and his case was closed, so nobody threw a coin, or else they put it down on the ground. One day, [ ] thought with the sound of the music in his ears, he would bend down to me with a shekel in his fingers. Everybody passes here. Yes. One day he would turn up too. He had to. The name they gave him was Emile. In 1970. But who knows what his name is now.
Get up, Yoel, get up. And running.
Almost running, he’s got a cut from shaving, he crosses the street, leaving the shade of the trees in the avenue, opposite the birdsong, the chiming of the wind chimes on the open porches, making a beeline for the fixed route share-taxi, the kids push ahead of him in the queue, he doesn’t say anything, he’ll wait for an empty van. One is sure to come. No, not empty, but with room for just one more. An old man gets out, Yoel gets in. Like someone penetrating a dank jungle, forging on with head lowered through the sounds echoing in the interior, yes, route 5, he sits down in the old man’s place as the taxi takes off with screeching tires, orangutans shriek from the branches, a tiger slinks through dense foliage, roars, an iceberg creeps slowly from the north, a sun sits on the snowy horizon. He sits down and passes a gleaming coin to the passenger in front of him, who bends his hand backward, here, give it here.
So you tell me, Professor, the driver said to him as if continuing a lengthy conversation, is it permitted or forbidden for the driver and the passengers to have a conversation? And one of them, a pregnant woman with a bag on her knees from one of the bridal boutiques in Dizengoff Street, jumps in: In the buses they used to have stickers, it used to say, “Passengers may not stand next to the driver or talk to him while the vehicle is in motion,” but I don’t see any sticker there behind you, and the driver said, never mind the sticker, forget about the sticker, I’m talking to you about a principle here, is it permitted to talk to the driver or forbidden to talk to the driver? If I have an accident, said the driver, yes? if I have an accident, and we’re all God forbid killed here to death, will they come and say afterwards it’s because he didn’t have a sticker with “It’s forbidden to talk to the driver” on it? I don’t understand you, Sharon, I really don’t! Let me concentrate on driving, let me concentrate on the road! Let me go with the traffic flow, I’m taking a turn here now! And the woman said, pardon me, if it doesn’t say that it’s forbidden to talk to the driver I’ll talk to the driver, and if you don’t like it you don’t have to answer. I take taxis specifically to talk to the driver, if I didn’t want to talk to the driver I’d get onto a long bus and sit on a back seat, and the driver laughed and suddenly braked to let a cat blind in one eye cross the street.
One of the passengers, sitting behind Yoel, who had a blue inflatable felt cushion tucked under his backside and whose whole appearance shouted “senior bureaucrat” said, in your case there should be a sticker saying the opposite, “It’s forbidden for the driver to talk to the passengers,” and the driver said, and maybe there should be a sticker that says, “It’s forbidden for the driver to read stickers”? All the passengers laughed, and Yoel laughed too, and said to the driver, can I talk to you for a minute? And the driver said, feel free, there’s freedom of speech here, and the pregnant passenger said, so why have you been drumming it into my head for an hour that talking to the driver is forbidden, now you’re telling him that it’s permitted to talk to the driver, and she smiled at Yoel, and the driver said, sure it’s permitted to talk to the driver, it depends which driver, I meant another driver. The bureaucrat shifted his position on his blue cushion and said, I’ve never in my life talked to the driver or stood next to the driver, I always bring a cushion and sit at the back, and Yoel turned round and asked, the cushion, is it for piles? And the bureaucrat said, not at all, the cushion is for added height, and Yoel saw that the top of his head was already pressed right up against the roof of the taxi. Hilik, you need a cushion for your head as well, how many times have I told you? Padding top and bottom, why discriminate, the driver roared with laughter as he let off an old woman, interrupting her “thank you” with a “good day,” his eyes on the green light. “Hurry up, get in, there’s a Jumbo behind us,” he said to a couple of young women laden with packages, “but please don’t talk to the driver or stand next to him!” And one of the new passengers sat down and said to her friend, Oho, my father was a bus driver for thirty years, I know those stickers by heart, “Don’t put your hand or head out of the window,” “Don’t crack sunflower seeds—don’t spit—don’t litter,” apparently people used to like to spit a lot, “Don’t put your feet on the seats,” “Passenger! Have you forgotten something on the bus?” I would copy those stickers whenever I had to write one of those “My Family” compositions at school, I would always end up writing about the bus, that’s what everybody was interested in, not my mother who was a seamstress and who didn’t have any stickers or anything else, only the tak-tak-tak-tak of the sewing machine, tak-tak-tak-tak from seven o’clock in the morning in the textile district, if there’s a word I really hate it’s “textile,” but that didn’t interest the teacher, the teacher always told me, give me stories about the bus, “all the children want to hear them,” and once I made up a story about how they broke the windshield with the red hammer, it was utter chaos in the class, I couldn’t even tell you. Yoel looked at his shoes but he was listening closely. In twenty minutes he would arrive and leave the taxi and go up to their apartment and stand before Emile’s parents. And he already knew that he would stand before them tongue tied. In other words, that once more he wouldn’t go up at all, that he would chicken out, like yesterday and the day before. You’ll chicken out again, Zisu, he said to himself. Chicken. His tongue passed over his front teeth. I would stand behind him, every day I would come back from school with him on bus no. 5, there were no shared taxis then, and even if there were I wouldn’t have taken one, because I had a free bus pass as a member of a Dan Bus Company family—and her friend interrupted her and said, which is funny, since your last name really is “Dan”—and the first one went on talking and said Shosh, don’t pour salt on the wounds Shosh, my father changed our name in order to prove his loyalty