The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God & Other Stories by Etgar Keret

he ran Rabin over with his sidecar, then he called us names and then he went and slapped me too. Tiran’s dad asked him if it was true, and Tiran didn’t answer, but he nodded. I could tell that he was dying for a cigarette but he was afraid to smoke next to his dad.
    We found Rabin in the Square. Soon as we got off the bus we spotted him. He was just a kitten then, and he was so cold he was trembling. Me and Tiran and this uptown girl with a navel stud who we met there, we went to get him some milk. But at Espresso Bar they wouldn’t give us any. And at Burger Ranch, they didn’t have milk, cause they’rea meat place and they’re kosher, so they don’t sell dairy stuff. Finally at the grocery store on Frishman Street they gave us a half pint and an empty yogurt cup, and we poured him some milk, and he lapped it up in one go. And Avishag—that was the name of the girl with the stud—said we ought to call him Shalom, because shalom means peace, and we’d found him right in the Square where Rabin died for peace. Tiran nodded, and asked her for her phone number, and she told him he was really cute, but that she had a boyfriend in the army. After she left, Tiran patted the kitten and said that we’d never in a million years call him Shalom, because Shalom is a sissy name. He said we’d call him Rabin, and that the broad and her boyfriend in the army could go fuck themselves for all he cared, ’cause maybe she had a pretty face but her body was really weird.
    Tiran’s dad told Tiran it was lucky he was still a minor, but even that might not do him much good this time, because bashing people with a crowbar isn’t like stealing chewing gum from a candy store. Tiran still didn’t say anything, and I could tell he was about to start crying again. So I told Tiran’s dad that it was all my fault, because when Rabin was run over I was the one who yelled it to Tiran. And the guy on the scooter, who was kind of nice at first, and even seemed sorry about what he’d done, asked me what I was screaming for. And it was only when I told him that the cat’s name was Rabin that he lost his cool, and slapped me. And Tiran told his dad: “First, the shit doesn’t stop at the stop sign, then he runs over our cat, and after all that he goes and slaps Sinai. What did you expect me todo? Let him get away with it?” And Tiran’s dad didn’t answer. He lit a cigarette, and without making a big deal about it, lit one for Tiran too. And Tiran said the best thing I could do would be to beat it, before the cops came back, so that at least one of us would stay out of it. I told him to lay off, but his dad insisted.
    Before I went upstairs, I stopped for a minute at Rabin’s grave, and thought about what would have happened if we hadn’t found him. About what his life would have been like then. Maybe he’d have frozen to death, but probably someone else would have found him and taken him home, and then he wouldn’t have been run over. Everything in life is just luck. Even the original Rabin—after everyone sang the Hymn to Peace at the big rally in the Square, if instead of going down those stairs he’d hung around a little longer, he’d still be alive. And they would have shot Peres instead. At least that’s what they said on TV. Or else, if the broad in the Square wouldn’t have had that boyfriend in the army and she’d given Tiran her phone number and we’d called Rabin Shalom, then he would have been run over anyway, but at least nobody would have got clobbered.

Plague of the Firstborn
    I n late June, after the Plague of Frogs, people began leaving the Valley in droves. Those who could afford it left a caretaker in charge of their property, packed up their families, and set out on the long journey to Nubia, where they intended to wait until the wrath of the God of the Hebrews had been spent, and the plagues had run