the barely detectable lilt came from Germany, perhaps Austria. Calvi, a polyglot, knew accents.
Calvi fumbled with the mechanism but could not manage it. He had never fastened a seat belt in his life, except in airplanes, and this seemed far more complex.
âGod in heaven,â said the driver with some impatience as he switched on the interior light. Calvi thought it a mild oath when he saw the face it came out of. A face enormously broad, with a thick sweeping bony crescent of brow, two slabs of cheeks and a nose like a redoubt between them. The blond hair was thinning, the blue eyes were somewhat wide and in the mouth the teeth that werenât missing didnât match.
The blond man leaned across Calviâs body and reached for the seat belt. Calvi had never seen a thicker wrist, and the nylon fabric of his cheap jacket stretched tautly across his back. Not until the blond man had finished with the seat belt and sat straight did Calvi notice how close to the floor pedals the seat was pushed. The blond man could not have been more than a few inches over five feet. Standing, Calvi imagined, he would look like a being adapted to a much more massive planet than earth. Here he was in the wrong place. The thought was restorative.
âYouâre late,â Calvi said.
In answer the blond man started the motor and turned the car south, toward Mount Zion. He drove like a good citizen, obeying all the lights and signals and staying under the speed limit. Calvi patted his pockets until he found the one that held his cigars, and lit one, dropping the match on the floor. He drew smoke into his mouth and forced it out through his nose. The sting in his sinuses brought tears to his eyes. Despite the cold the blond man lowered his window two or three inches.
Outside the city, on the road to Beersheba, the blond man began to drive faster. At first there was a little traffic, but after the Bethlehem turn-off none. In the Judean hills the blond man pressed further on the accelerator, and Calvi knew that no Volkswagen could go so fast.
âWhat sort of motor have you got in this thing?â he asked.
âPorsche.â The blond man spoke the word as if it were the name of his baby daughter.
Calvi twisted around to see the back seat. There was no back seat; in its stead a thin metal casing had been hastily banged into place to hide the hypertrophied engine. He listened to the sounds of the spinning steel. It wasnât out of tune at all, not in the sense he had thought at first.
Calvi stared out the window as they climbed through the olive groves of Judea. The dusty leaves were silver foil in the moonlight. Calvi tried to play back in his mind the arrival of the Volkswagen at the Damascus Gate, and in this review he saw what his eyes had seen the first time, but his mind had missed: the very wide, very deep-tread tires of the car. He wondered now where they were going.
Ahead Calvi thought he could make out the round dark shapes of the bare hills of Gush Etzion. Two kibbutzim were sheltered in those hills, populated in part by descendants of the two hundred and forty Jews who had been killed on the same site in the â48 war. Fourteen, Calvi remembered, had blown themselves up in their armored car rather than be taken by the Arab Legion. In the end even the trees had been uprooted by the Arabs. It made the present inhabitants determined.
With a quick movement the blond man switched off the headlights, and slowed the car by half. He put his face almost against the windshield, squinting ahead. In the distance Calvi thought he saw a light, but he could no longer trust his eyes for that sort of thing. The blond man braked the car to a creep, and began peering into the vineyards that bordered the side of the elevated road bed. Then, with a suddenness that caught Calvi by surprise he jerked the wheel, and sent the car flying off the road. They landed with a sickening jolt that cracked the top of Calviâs head
Calvi fumbled with the mechanism but could not manage it. He had never fastened a seat belt in his life, except in airplanes, and this seemed far more complex.
âGod in heaven,â said the driver with some impatience as he switched on the interior light. Calvi thought it a mild oath when he saw the face it came out of. A face enormously broad, with a thick sweeping bony crescent of brow, two slabs of cheeks and a nose like a redoubt between them. The blond hair was thinning, the blue eyes were somewhat wide and in the mouth the teeth that werenât missing didnât match.
The blond man leaned across Calviâs body and reached for the seat belt. Calvi had never seen a thicker wrist, and the nylon fabric of his cheap jacket stretched tautly across his back. Not until the blond man had finished with the seat belt and sat straight did Calvi notice how close to the floor pedals the seat was pushed. The blond man could not have been more than a few inches over five feet. Standing, Calvi imagined, he would look like a being adapted to a much more massive planet than earth. Here he was in the wrong place. The thought was restorative.
âYouâre late,â Calvi said.
In answer the blond man started the motor and turned the car south, toward Mount Zion. He drove like a good citizen, obeying all the lights and signals and staying under the speed limit. Calvi patted his pockets until he found the one that held his cigars, and lit one, dropping the match on the floor. He drew smoke into his mouth and forced it out through his nose. The sting in his sinuses brought tears to his eyes. Despite the cold the blond man lowered his window two or three inches.
Outside the city, on the road to Beersheba, the blond man began to drive faster. At first there was a little traffic, but after the Bethlehem turn-off none. In the Judean hills the blond man pressed further on the accelerator, and Calvi knew that no Volkswagen could go so fast.
âWhat sort of motor have you got in this thing?â he asked.
âPorsche.â The blond man spoke the word as if it were the name of his baby daughter.
Calvi twisted around to see the back seat. There was no back seat; in its stead a thin metal casing had been hastily banged into place to hide the hypertrophied engine. He listened to the sounds of the spinning steel. It wasnât out of tune at all, not in the sense he had thought at first.
Calvi stared out the window as they climbed through the olive groves of Judea. The dusty leaves were silver foil in the moonlight. Calvi tried to play back in his mind the arrival of the Volkswagen at the Damascus Gate, and in this review he saw what his eyes had seen the first time, but his mind had missed: the very wide, very deep-tread tires of the car. He wondered now where they were going.
Ahead Calvi thought he could make out the round dark shapes of the bare hills of Gush Etzion. Two kibbutzim were sheltered in those hills, populated in part by descendants of the two hundred and forty Jews who had been killed on the same site in the â48 war. Fourteen, Calvi remembered, had blown themselves up in their armored car rather than be taken by the Arab Legion. In the end even the trees had been uprooted by the Arabs. It made the present inhabitants determined.
With a quick movement the blond man switched off the headlights, and slowed the car by half. He put his face almost against the windshield, squinting ahead. In the distance Calvi thought he saw a light, but he could no longer trust his eyes for that sort of thing. The blond man braked the car to a creep, and began peering into the vineyards that bordered the side of the elevated road bed. Then, with a suddenness that caught Calvi by surprise he jerked the wheel, and sent the car flying off the road. They landed with a sickening jolt that cracked the top of Calviâs head
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