'How could he know anything on the basis of your stories alone?'

'But what's important is the way I I see and experience things.' see and experience things.'

How many times have we had this conversation?

'But he's talking about your relations with me me. The experience belongs to both of us, no? How could he say anything truthful about it after hearing only your side? I know how you distort things sometimes. The version he gets depends on the way your mood swings on the day you tell him. And your mood's about as reliable as Danny f.u.c.king Ronen! You...I can't...How can you believe a single word of it?'

After that neither of us said a word for several minutes. She turned up the volume. Danny Ronen was saying that the security forces had some leads pointing in the direction of Nablus. Terror cells in Nablus had targeted Tel Aviv in the past and they were the only ones with the capability to stage such a destructive attack. That was what a senior military source had told Danny Ronen. The explosive belt used by the suicide bomber, Shafiq somebody from Nablus, weighed 25 kilograms. The IDF was preparing an operation in Nablus in response.

'Look,' she said, pointing at the TV. 'Ten people died.' 'Eleven!' 'Eleven. And you were on that bus.' 'Not a bus.' 'I don't care what it is! It could have been you! So I was worried, OK? I got scared. My whole body was shaking. So I had a simple request to make. You think it was irrational? You think it was stupid? Fine. But I asked you. Your partner asked you to do something which in your opinion is irrationalto travel, for one day of your life, in taxis. So why do you do the opposite on purpose? What is it in me that makes you want to fight? That makes you incapable of respecting me? Do you hate me? This is hatred. I ask for something and you p.i.s.s on it. What is that if it's not hatred? So the question is: if you hate me so much what are you doing here at all? Why do you stay?'

Good question. Arguing's a matter of wanting. You can argue about almost anything and you can not argue about almost anything. In my American family we never rowed at all. With Duchi, it's the opposite; we have rows all the time. About anything. It's a permanent row. Perhaps it's compensation after suffering years of row deprivation with my family. Or merely something in her that gets on my nerves. She complains about my family, I do about hers. She's stressed, I'm relaxed. She thinks that if there was a terrorist attack on a Little No. 5, there's going to be another one soon; I disagree. But I don't enjoy the arguments. I don't know why they happen. I a.s.sume it has to be her. It must must be her. She's a lawyer, after all: their life's work is arguing. The difference between me and Duchi, in one sentence, is this: I say, things will be all right, and if they aren't, that's all right too. Duchi says, things will not be all right, and if they are, that's not all right either. OK, two sentences. be her. She's a lawyer, after all: their life's work is arguing. The difference between me and Duchi, in one sentence, is this: I say, things will be all right, and if they aren't, that's all right too. Duchi says, things will not be all right, and if they are, that's not all right either. OK, two sentences.

'I don't respect you?' I said. 'Sorry, I think you you don't respect don't respect me me. You don't respect my reasoningwhich has been proved to be correct!in selecting the particular mode of public transport vehicle in which I travel home.'

'Don't shout.'

'I'm not shouting!' I mean, it doesn't bother me at all that there are differences between us. Everybody has differences, every couple; everybody should. What bothers me is the way living together turns nice people into mini-dictators. Criticism of the partner's conduct becomes the basis of all communication. Improving the partner's conduct becomes the primary goal. Intimacy is the policing of the other's conduct.

'You are! You always end up shouting! You-'

'Wait, Dooch, wait...shut up! Turn it up! Turn it up!'

On the screen there was a photograph of a familiar face.

'Giora Guetta, twenty-three, has been identified as the last victim of the Tel Aviv suicide attack. In Guetta's parents' house in Hapalmach Street in Jerusalem, there were calls for the government to retaliate with maximum force.' A man was saying, '...They must do something! This government is abandoning our sons. We're letting them turn our lives into a circus...'

Hapalmach Street in Jerusalem. That was where I needed to go. Duchi looked at me, seeing that my attention was elsewhere now. 'What's happening?'

'I have to go there. To Hapalmach Street in Jerusalem.'

'You're not going to any Jerusalem. Are you crazy?'

'I have to,' I said. I kissed her forehead; I was already gathering my bag and phone and jacket. 'I have to go. He talked to me before the...he asked me to deliver a message. I have to.' I was all ready to go. 'Don't worry, Dooch. I'll be in touch,' I said, and in my heart I addedmaybe.

I was taking the steps two at a time and already a floor down before I heard her voice so I couldn't hear what Duchi said, only her tone; only her anger and despair echoing down the stairwell behind me.

8

'Fahmi...'

Lulu? Lulu. Oh, Lulu, how I love your voice...

'How are you, Fahmi? I've missed you. You...you look well. You...'

What, Lulu? Why did you stop talking? Keep talking, Lulu.

'I saw Bilahl. Dad and I went to the trial. In the end they delayed it. He'll probably get about four hundred years, but he doesn't care. Fahmi, when are you going to come back to me? I rode the horse I was telling you about.'

With the guy. I told you to be careful of him. You're too young for that sort of thing.

'You probably would have said I'm too young for it. Uhh...yesterday I saw Noah's Ark Noah's Ark on TV. It was great. You'd have loved it on TV. It was great. You'd have loved it.'

Noah's Ark on Channel 2. I know itI'm always on Channel 2. I know itI'm always on on it. Again and again... it. Again and again...

'Israel's number-one programme, with television's brightest star, Tommy Musari!' booms the announcer, and Tommy Musari says, 'Fahmi Omar Al-Sabich?' and I say, 'Yes, good evening.' 'Good evening, Fahmi. You decided to follow in the footsteps of your grandfather and shoot Israeli cars in Bab al-Wad.' 'Right.' 'And you' (my partner in the Ark is a Jew) 'you shot and killed a twelve-year-old boy in the Al-Amari refugee camp in Ramallah for making an indecent gesture at you.' 'Right,' says the Jew. The audience applaud and we both smile and Tommy Musari smiles too, with his one non-gla.s.s eye. 'Fahmi,' he says, 'tell us why you decided to follow in your grandfather's footsteps.' 'I always admired Grandpa,' I say, 'and he loved me. His name was Fahmi too. He used to tell us how he hit the Jewish convoys going to Jerusalem in '48.' The audience applaud. 'Well, I wanted my life to be worth something too.'

'Come back to us, Fahmi. I'll come again next week. Goodbye, brother.'

No, Lulu, don't go...don't leave me here! I want to talk to you but this f.u.c.king body won't move. Lulu! I can't open my eyes...

'Fahmi? What is it? Fahmi! Nurse! Nurse! Fahmi, can you see me?'

No, don't call that f.u.c.king little fool. Stay here...

'What happened? Oh, he opened his eyes? OK. No, no, it does happen from time to time. It doesn't mean he regained consciousness. I'm very sorry. Were you alarmed at all?'

'Not really. I was hoping...'

'I'm sorry. Perhaps it's time to end today's visit. Maybe it's a bit of a burden on him.'

Oh no, you wh.o.r.e, no, don't send her away...Please! Don't leave me floating out here, with these fragments of memory...

'Goodbye Fahmi. You hold on in there for me...'

Lulu...

The early morning news on Channel 2 with Danny Ronen the clown. The security forces think the attack came from Nablus. Who's more of a clown, Danny Ronen or Shaul Mofaz? Not an easy question.

A smoky smell of winter and a hard morning frost on the mud in the alleyways. Now that the rain had stopped, women were hanging out washing, and the muezzin was calling. Bilahl would have made me go to the mosque if he'd been there. He was pushing me to study in his college, Kuliat Al-Iman, the faith school in A-Ram. Not a chance: Dad would have gone nuts. And I still meant to go to Bir Zeit. Uncle Jalahl recommended electrical engineering at the Hebron Polytechnic, but how could I ever have got there? So in the meantime, I was waiting. Helping Jalahl with his electrician's jobs when he needed it. Watching TV. Al-Manar. Future TV. Al-Jazeera. Channel 2. Egypt, Lebanon, Dubai. The world at my fingertips. In The Mission The Mission on Al-Manar, Ehab Abu-Nasif asked contestants to name the Palestinian village in the Ramle region which was destroyed in 1949 in order to make way for the town of Yavne. Yibne. I got it right off. The shahid Amar Hamud was nicknamed...Too easy: Sword of the on Al-Manar, Ehab Abu-Nasif asked contestants to name the Palestinian village in the Ramle region which was destroyed in 1949 in order to make way for the town of Yavne. Yibne. I got it right off. The shahid Amar Hamud was nicknamed...Too easy: Sword of the Shuhada Shuhada. For which organisation did the shahida Wafa Idris volunteer? You're kiddingthe Red Crescent. The Jordanian contestant only won four million liras. The Weakest Link The Weakest Link on Future TV: which painting was stolen from the Louvre in 1911? The Mona Lisa. on Future TV: which painting was stolen from the Louvre in 1911? The Mona Lisa. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? from Egypt: where is Martin Luther King's birthplace? Tough one. Charleston. Atlanta. New Orleans. Little Rock. Atlanta. Yes. After from Egypt: where is Martin Luther King's birthplace? Tough one. Charleston. Atlanta. New Orleans. Little Rock. Atlanta. Yes. After The Mission The Mission, Al-Manar started showing Terrorists Terrorists and there it all was again, the children bleeding to death in Jenin and Gaza, the bodies ripped to pieces by missiles, the shattered houses in Chan Yunes. I zapped to a rerun of and there it all was again, the children bleeding to death in Jenin and Gaza, the bodies ripped to pieces by missiles, the shattered houses in Chan Yunes. I zapped to a rerun of Ya Leil Ya Ein Ya Leil Ya Einmusic and pretty girls on Future TV. Music and girls on Future TV...

Bilahl and I went on our way that evening after the prayer at the setting of the sun.

We met near a shed at the back of an old house we used as a hiding place. The two rifles were there, and spare clips which we divided between our backpacks. Bilahl made a phone call and we waited, leaning against the wall. Five minutes later a yellow taxi arrived. I put the rifles in the boot while Bilahl spoke to the driver. We drove to Bidu. The driver was listening to the news. The Jews had attacked Nablus and destroyed Shafiq's family home. The driver said, 'Why can't these Nablus p.r.i.c.ks get it into their heads that they're only causing trouble? Every time it happens we all get f.u.c.ked! Every time there's a bomb I know I'm not going to have any work tomorrow. n.o.body wants to poke his nose out. They're all waiting for the retaliation.'

We didn't say anything. Eventually Bilahl said, 'Why don't you stick some music on?' The driver switched stations.

We got out in Bidu, sent the taxi on its way. Bilahl was angry because of Nablus getting the credit. I said that if the Jews thought the operation came from Nablus, at least they weren't going to be coming after us. 'You always see the gla.s.s half full, don't you, kid?' he snapped. We walked in the mountains, following the goat trails through the terraces, through the sweet scent of the sage and zaatar zaatar. The night was dry and cool. Clouds covered the moon.

We hardly talked. I thought of Rana. And of Shirin Abu-Akla from Al-Jazeera. And the beautiful Osnat Dekel from Channel 2. I didn't think it worth bothering Bilahl with these thoughts.

When my brother was ten he threw stones in a demonstration in Murair. Because he was underage they just gave him a fine, and Dad had to pay it. Bilahl told Dad not to. Dad paid, and screamed at him: 'The Jews have the power! The Jews have the power and they will keep hurting us...' A couple of years later, he is stopped by three soldiers in one of the alleys in the village in the middle of a downpour. The rain is so hard it hurts; the drops are cold and as sharp as knives. The soldiers stand under a shaky corrugated tin shed and tell Bilahl to stand in front of them, outside the shed, and to take off his keffiyeh. They ask him questions in broken Arabic and laugh at him. The rain is so loud he has to shout. One of them, in the middle, is smoking a cigarette. He stands in front of them in the cloudburst, his hair stuck to his head like a mop, his face twisted from the cold and wet, and what is he thinking about? What is the kid in the rain thinking about...? They took him for a ride in their jeep, asked him to show them the Shabab Shabab, the kids who sprayed the walls and threw the stones, wanted to know who was sending them out, as if anyone needed to...At the end of the first intifada, when he was sixteen, they arrested him again for setting fire to the army watchtower at the entrance to the village: a month in 'administrative detention', a month during which he learned a lot about 'the only democracy in the Middle East'. He made a friend there who invited him to the faith school in A-Ram. He moved to Uncle Jalahl's apartment in Al-Amari. Stopped shaving and always went to the mosque for prayers. He talked to me a lot, even before I moved to live in Al-Amari.

'Dad told us not to get into trouble,' I pleaded.

'Dad lives in another time. In another world.'

And Bilahl was right. The world had turned on its head. The peace our father had longed for had turned out to be a monstrous Israeli deception. But he kept insisting that to struggle against it was even worse. Me, I preferred to think about something else. Until the army erected a dirt ramp around Murair for a week and I moved to Al-Amari, where a quarter of the families managed to stay alive only thanks to the rations of rice, flour, powdered milk, sugar and oil from UNRWA. How long could I sit around on my a.r.s.e watching TV, or boiling the same potatoes and eggs to mix with tuna in a pita, or walking the same streets and alleys between grey breeze blocks and open sewers, hoping that the wind would cover the stench with the smell of cooking or c.u.min? How long could I sit watching the camp's football team scuff around their dirt pitch? How long for? Even if they are the best team in the West Bank, how long can you do that for?

'Hoo, what a day I've had! I'm dying to get my head on a pillow. Let's just check everything's in its place...one tube for your p.i.s.s, another one for your air. Lovely. Good boy. Goodnight, now Lovely. Good boy. Goodnight, now.'

Yeah, yeah, Svetlana, now go away, I'm busy...

'And Dr Hartom says your scans were very good: your brain responded to the music. And tremendous responses to the photos of your brother and sister.'

Didn't you already say goodnight?

'OK, that's it. I'm off. Goodnight, lyubimyi moi...' lyubimyi moi...'

On the left we saw the lights of Har-Adar, and on the right the lights of Katana. We skirted around Maale-Hachamisha and Neve-Ilan. We walked for almost four hours. Bilahl whispered prayers. For several minutes we heard the murmuring of traffic on the road like a constant distant rain. A sharp ascent.

'After this hill I think we'll see the road,' said Bilahl.

I was tired, and soaking with sweat, and my heart was going like crazy, but I almost ran all the way to the top. We started descending through the pines. And then I saw the white and red snake of lights, the cars heading in opposite directions, and Bilahl came up to my shoulder and said, 'Yes.'

We descended a little farther until we were at a point not too high above the road with a good view in both directions. The whole ravine was steepa dangerous place, a place of ancient ambushes. Bab al-Wad: 'The Gate of the Valley'. Not far below us, in a scrubby little central island which the two streams of cars flowed round, one of Grandpa's metal skeletons was resting quietly.

'This is the point,' said Bilahl. He checked the time. 'The getaway car will arrive right beneath this bus's skeleton in a little over an hour. We will open fire together for a few minutes just before eleven and then go down to the ditch beside the road to wait. Let's get the rifle-rests ready.'

We made comfortable rests for the rifles out of soil and stones, a few metres apart, with room enough to lie and aim across a wide field of fire. Bilahl gave me earplugs. I felt sick to the stomach. 'We've got fifty minutes. We will pray. Remember, we are only shooting at the other side, at the white lights. Wait for my sign, and shoot at the windows. From the moment we start, shoot as much as you can. If your weapon is blocked, do the checks I showed you, change the magazine and c.o.c.k the rifle again. If it doesn't work we will exchange rifles and I will try. The whole operation will not take more than three minutes and then we'll go down to the road with the rifles. Remember Silwad. Be quiet. Composed. Brave. Do as I do. Don't think too much.'

9

A soldier was standing by the slip road on to the Ayalon highway with a hitchhiking finger out waiting for a bite. I stopped and lowered the window. 'Jerusalem?' 'Jerusalem.' 'Thanks very much.' 'You're welcome,' I said, and he slung his huge bag into the back and got into the pa.s.senger seat still holding his rifle. 'Just don't point that thing in my direction.'

'Don't worry,' he said. 'What does "Every Second Counts" mean?'

'What?'

'The sticker. On the car.'

It took me a moment to clear my head. We were in the green Polo I got from work. I mean, I say 'got', but I paid for it every month out of my salary. I hardly ever drove it because the Little No. 5 took me to work. Duchi was the one who took the Polo to work every day.

'Oh yeah.'

'Yeah what?'

'Sorry, what did you ask?'

'What does "Every Second Counts" mean?'

'Uh, well, let's see.' We got on the highway. It was chilly but I opened the window a crack to feel the fresh night air. 'You know when you buy some new gadget but you can't be bothered to read the instructions?'

'What?'

'Or the bags of pre-washed salad you get in the supermarket? The jeans you buy already worn out and patched?'

'Sure, I've got a pair, waste of time!'

'Exactly! A waste of time. People don't like wasting time. Every second counts. Get it?'

'You make bagged salad and pre-worn jeans?'

I guess that people who don't themselves physically embody the phrase 'Every Second Counts' might be slow to grasp it. When I went up for my job at Time's Arrow, Jimmy Rafael asked me at the end of the interview whether I was a time victim. 'A time victim?' 'Does the question of how to do things more quickly, or do as many things as possible in as little time as possible, ever cross your mind?' 'All the time.' 'Do you ever find yourself consciously accelerating your own thoughts, movements and speech and trying to accelerate them in those around you?' I nodded. 'Planes simply have to have to take off on time? Slow drivers make you want to murder them? Do queues in the bank or in the cinema drive you mad? Do you absolutely hate having to wait for your food in a restaurant?' 'Of course.' 'Every second of wasted time, time in which you could have done something else, makes you furious?' 'Yes! Yes!' 'Welcome to Time's Arrow.' Jimmy smiled, and shook my hand. I felt at home. Later he told me that he tried to pick all his employees according to these criteria, and in fact I liked the way I was always surrounded by people of my own type at work. Some people look down at us or feel sorry for us, wonder why we rush around breathlessly from place to place; what do we get out of it, out of managing to do more things? You can always manage more, they say, but you can never manage everything. So why, they say, don't you find the balance that will let you relax a little and enjoy life? What they don't understand is that, ultimately, that take off on time? Slow drivers make you want to murder them? Do queues in the bank or in the cinema drive you mad? Do you absolutely hate having to wait for your food in a restaurant?' 'Of course.' 'Every second of wasted time, time in which you could have done something else, makes you furious?' 'Yes! Yes!' 'Welcome to Time's Arrow.' Jimmy smiled, and shook my hand. I felt at home. Later he told me that he tried to pick all his employees according to these criteria, and in fact I liked the way I was always surrounded by people of my own type at work. Some people look down at us or feel sorry for us, wonder why we rush around breathlessly from place to place; what do we get out of it, out of managing to do more things? You can always manage more, they say, but you can never manage everything. So why, they say, don't you find the balance that will let you relax a little and enjoy life? What they don't understand is that, ultimately, that is is the way we relax a little and enjoy life. The beauty of this way of life is all in the word 'complete'completing tasks, and feeling complete. I'm jealous of people like Jimmy Rafael who have done and are doing so much. Their lives fascinate me; I want to be like them: a busy week filled with completed tasks is a satisfying week, a h.e.l.l of a lot more than lying on the beach and incompletely staring at the sun. My hitcher wasn't the sort of guy who would get this. I tried to attack it from a different angle. the way we relax a little and enjoy life. The beauty of this way of life is all in the word 'complete'completing tasks, and feeling complete. I'm jealous of people like Jimmy Rafael who have done and are doing so much. Their lives fascinate me; I want to be like them: a busy week filled with completed tasks is a satisfying week, a h.e.l.l of a lot more than lying on the beach and incompletely staring at the sun. My hitcher wasn't the sort of guy who would get this. I tried to attack it from a different angle.

'You know Federal Express or McDonald's?'

'Yeah. You work for them?'

'Multinational empires built on the principle of saving time. Before Federal Express, an international delivery would take about a week. Fed-Ex takes a day. Same with McDonald's and food. One-hour photo development. Twenty-minute pizza delivery.'

'Last time I went to McDonald's it took less than a day,' he chortled.

The best test for a good salesman is a tough customer. If I could sell Time's Arrow to this dunce I could sell it to anyone. I liked these challenges. 'We shorten the length of phone calls to directory a.s.sistance,' I said: if you can't summarise what your product can do in one sentence, you won't sell it.

'Uh...'