CrocAttack!. Assaf Gavron
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and people were shouting or crying. They had their solutions. They announced their solutions. They said: kill, retaliate, blast them to bits, withdraw…
I turned my head away from them towards a gap between two buildings. I wasn’t looking for anything. I’ve no idea why my eyes were drawn there. Maybe it was the tree standing there, an old olive tree that looked out of place among the palms, that didn’t seem to belong in the little alley. I looked at the olive tree and moved as if compelled towards it, and that’s when I saw, a little above where the trunk fissured, cradled in the crook of one of the bigger branches, the PalmPilot of the guy who’d been sitting next to me.
‘Good morning, Fahmi.’
If I am dreaming, this dream is never-ending…
‘How are we doing today? Let’s have a peek at those pupils…’
Hate this light. Hate the wash. Why can’t she leave me alone?
‘Time for your wash, Fahmi. Your favourite part of the morning, ha ha…’
Go away, Svetlana. Fuck you.
‘We are mad today, aren’t we? What a face you’re making! Let’s have a look at what you’ve got on later. Oh – you’ve got a deep massage this morning. What fun!’
I’m floating in the sea. I can see the shore but I can’t reach it. The tide keeps me away. I see Bilahl on the beach.
‘Here. That’s better. Come on now.’
I’m not here, I am…where was I before she came to disturb me?
‘And visitors in the afternoon! So who’s coming to visit you? Who’s he going to be? Or she?’
Where was I? I’m floating in the sea. Where’s Mother? Lulu? Rana? Where was I before she disturbed me? With Bilahl…with Croc…somewhere…in the village? In the camp? In Tel Aviv?
In Tel Aviv.
Shafiq started everything, in Tel Aviv. He wanted to smoke a cigarette with the driver. That’s what the driver said afterwards. He took off the belt, locked it in the trunk, they smoked the cigarette and then he put on the belt in the back seat. That all happened when they were still in Jaffa. Then he took a cab to Tel Aviv…Bilahl had found someone who knew the Jews, knew Tel Aviv well. He told Shafiq to go to a crossroads near Rabin Square, where they have their demonstrations and crowds gather. Explained to him where he should stand, which corner and what time – a place where there was always a gridlock at rush hour. But then we saw the news, on Channel 2 and Al-Jazeera: he’d got on a bus. No square. No crossroads…
What the hell are you – Svetlana…?
‘Good boy, Fahmi. Don’t make a face, it’s only water. Don’t you want to look pretty for your visitors today? So just let me get behind your ears…’
Stop it, you fucking whore! What visitors? Where am I? Where was I? Floating among my fragments of memory…and you’re mixing them up. Getting my wires crossed. Crossroads. Shafiq…
Shafiq. He didn’t do what the guy who knew Tel Aviv told him. Went with the shaved cheeks and the haircut and the clothes Bilahl gave him, and then got on a bus. Only a little bus, they explained on TV. Danny Ronen, the clown with the eyebrows. How did he get there? How had it been, getting on, paying, waiting? And how must he have felt, a moment before heaven? He must have felt whole. A moment away from heaven. The best feeling he’d ever had, better than anything he had imagined. The moment of his life. And me, with Croc and the green grenade in Tel Aviv, how did I feel?
Shafiq would have been sure at the end. Not like me. The light turned green and the driver of the little bus would have pushed the pedal and turned the wheel. Shafiq, and everybody around him, had all lived their lives to get to this moment. Everything heading towards this moment. Every drag on a cigarette, every blink, every swallow of saliva, every emotion, every motion, every breath, every thought, every word anyone on the little bus had ever said had been headed towards the moment when Shafiq stood up and turned his back to the passengers and pushed the button, and his body blossomed with the fullness of his power; his clean, his warm, his Babylonian power…
‘That’s better. Nice and clean. You can hardly even see the scratch on your forehead. I’ve got patients here who are totally deformed. Damaged for ever. But you’re whole, Fahmi. Perfect for your visits. So, then. Who’s coming to see you today? Who would you like? Your dad? Your little sister? Your cute girlfriend?’
Oh, shut up, you goddamned Jewish whore! Losing my thread…
Father. A good man. A sad man, since Mother…
‘Fahmi, I will not put up with this. Not you.’
‘I’m not doing anything, Father.’ He was standing right in front of me, obscuring the TV, with his solid grey mane like a lion’s. His brown eyes were angry.
‘Father, please don’t stand there. Let me see, please.’
‘I know what you’re doing. I know about Bilahl. He’s a lost cause, but you? You promised me. You promised to go to Bir Zeit University – you’re going to give me a heart attack…’
‘I will go. I’ll fulfil my promise. Please don’t worry.’
Later, Bilahl would attack me: Why do you apologise? Why do you grovel in front of him? He’s let them humiliate him and walk all over him his whole life. That’s what’s the matter with him…
Oh no. No! Don’t touch me there! Oh, fuck you, you filthy Jewish whore!
‘Well done, Fahmi. Now try not to get excited, OK? I’m just going to wipe here. Slowly, very slowly, ever so softly…Just going to get you all clean and pretty and smelling good for your massage and your guests. You like that, don’t you?’
My name is Eitan Enoch but everyone calls me Croc. Because: Eitan Enoch = ‘Hey, Taninoch!’ That got shortened to ‘Hey, Tanin!’ And in Hebrew, Tanin means a crocodile. That’s the evolution of my name. Enoch itself, it turns out, evolved from Chanoch, the father of Methuselah, the oldest guy in the Bible. A settler told me that once.
I grew up in Jerusalem but moved to Tel Aviv, where I work for Time’s Arrow, or Taimaro!, as our Japanese customers like to pronounce it. A year and a half ago my older brother left Israel with his wife and three boys because of the bombs. We’ve got a rich grandmother in Maryland who invited us all to come and live there. My younger sister Dafdaf wants to go too, with her husband. All of us have American citizenship because our parents are from there: my father grew up in Maryland – so green and pleasant, so relaxed and comfortable – and Mom’s from Denver. They came to Israel before I was born. God knows what they were thinking of. Every time I visit Maryland, I ask myself that question. Maybe they were excited by the young Jewish state. Maybe it seemed exotic. Or maybe it was that Dad had big ideas: he wanted to teach the young country how to spread peanut butter on its bread. Efraim Enoch from America: the capitalist, the entrepreneur, the great peanut butter importer. But the land of the Jews didn’t have time for peanut butter, or, at any rate, not for the one he imported.
When I see them now, it’s as if every bomb blows another brick out of the wall of the decision to emigrate. Their mistake. They can’t blame us for running away, but their hearts are breaking. It’s difficult, what they did: leaving the comfortable life in America while they were still young, travelling to a new, hot, primitive country and trying to build something from nothing: a family, a business, a state. They called it Zionism. And then they had to watch everything get blown to smithereens, their children and grandchildren leaving, going back to America. I’m