Ken McClure: Past Lives

Suddenly, Eli came running round the corner, one hand clutching a striped fabric bag, the other holding a baseball cap on his head.

‘Where the fuck have you been, man?’ demanded Benny.

‘Couldn’t get away,’ explained Eli, still badly out of breath. ‘Kepes wouldn’t let me leave the dishes till the morning and the place was full of tourists till late.’

‘Tourists,’ said Benny with an inflection that needed no further explanation.

The driver started the engine and a cloud of blue smoke drifted out the back. The whole bus shuddered and vibrated in sympathy with a diesel engine whose pistons seemed to be working in opposition rather than harmony. He looked round and counted the passengers before marking the figure down on a clipboard and pushing it into a pocket in the back of his brown plastic bucket seat. He took a swig from a bottle of water parked at his feet, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and released the hand brake.

The bus pulled out of the station and started out slowly and laboriously on the road up to Jerusalem. It sounded so sick that both men wondered if it would manage the steep climb. Benny shouted as much to the driver but the man dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand.

Now that he’d calmed down and things were going according to plan again, Benny took time to look round at the other passengers. They comprised mainly Arab women — wearing shawls and carrying covered baskets — but there were two European tourists on board, a thin, round-shouldered man and a blonde woman who was wearing shorts. They were young and had rucksacks tucked in at their feet. They averted their eyes when Benny looked at them so he took comfort from the fact that the girl was due for a nasty surprise when they reached Jerusalem. It might be thirty degrees centigrade down in Tel Aviv but it would be a lot colder up in the hills. Shorts were a big mistake.

Benny turned to Eli and said, ‘Tell me again what this guy said.’

‘Three hundred shekels is what he said,’ replied Eli with a grin of satisfaction.

‘Each?’

‘Yes, each; I’ve told you a hundred times, man.’

‘I just like hearing it,’ said Benny with a grin that exposed bad teeth. ‘But why us?’

‘Because we are Israelis — native Israelis, not Russians or Germans or American Jews who’ve come here to live here but true Israelis who were born here and whose parents were born here and whose grandparents were born here.’

‘I still don’t get it.’

‘Look, he wants to ask us things about our past, what we did, where we lived, stuff like that.’

‘You said this guy’s a priest? What kind of priest?’

‘They all look the same to me. You know, Christian, dressed in black with a cross round his neck.’

‘How’d you meet him?’

‘He came to the restaurant one night last week. I was emptying the bins when he left and he came over and spoke to me. He asked lots of questions about where I was born, where my parents came from, had I always lived in Israel. I told him me and my folks had always lived here. He seemed pleased at that and told me I was just the kind of guy he was looking for. If I was interested in making some good money I should meet him when I finished at the restaurant and he’d tell me more.’

‘So you did?’

‘I met him in a cafe down in Atarim Square. He bought me a couple of beers and told me how I could help with his research.’

‘Research?’

‘He said it was just a case of answering questions under what he called, “controlled conditions”. He said it was nothing to worry about but I would have to go up to Jerusalem and it would mean staying the night. Then he told me how much. Three hundred shekels! Just for answering some questions and staying over at his expense!’

‘I thought these guys were supposed to be poor.’

‘They pretend that,’ said Eli. ‘It’s crap. Miriam Cohen says they’re the richest organisation in the world. I asked him if I could bring along a friend. He didn’t seem that keen at first but finally he said it would be okay providing my friend and his family had always lived here in Israel. I said I knew lots of people like that but he said just the one, so I asked you, my friend.’

Benny smiled with satisfaction. ‘Three hundred shekels,’ he sighed.

‘For one night.’

After a few moments Benny’s smile faded as worries returned. He turned to Eli, ‘Shit, you know this doesn’t make sense. This guy wants to know about us ... a floor sweeper and a dish washer! And for that he’s going to pay us 300 shekels each? He must have missed out the bit about wanting our kidneys.’

‘Relax,’ said Eli. ‘Just think about what you’re going to do with the money.’

‘There has to be more to it,’ murmured Benny.

Eli grinned. ‘Come on, we deserve a little luck in our lives and think what Shula will say when you hand her 300 shekels.’

Benny went quiet and Eli raised his eyebrows. ‘You didn’t tell her?’

‘I told her I was working an extra shift at the factory,’ said Benny, moving uncomfortably in his seat.

‘You cunning bastard! You’re going to keep the money for yourself!’ chuckled Eli.

‘And you’re not?’

The two men lapsed into silence as the bus ground its way slowly up through the Judean hills in the darkness. The Arab women stared into space as if in a trance; the European man had put headphones on and the blonde girl rested her head on his shoulder. Occasionally, when the driver took a long time to change gear and the engine revs dropped, vague musical sounds escaped from the headphones, a thin, tinny sound.

It was just after eleven thirty and the moon was high above the Mount of Olives when the bus ground its way into the bus station and disgorged its passengers. Benny smirked as the blonde girl reacted to the temperature by hugging herself and complaining to her friend. Benny and Eli started making their way towards the walls of the old city.

‘He said to enter at the Jaffa Gate,’ said Eli as the walls of the old city stretched out before them, ‘and then make our way to...’ He paused while he fished out a grubby piece of paper from inside his leather jerkin, ‘the convent of St Saviour.’

‘True Israelis, eh?’ said Benny, puffing out his chest. He had been considering what Eli had said earlier. ‘He’s right. We belong here. This is our land and the Christians know it.’ He turned to beam at Eli who smiled at his friend’s ever changing moods.

‘Halt!’

Both men stopped dead in their tracks as they crossed the threshold of the Jaffa gate and heard the command barked from the shadows. It was accompanied by the sound of an automatic rifle being cocked. An Israeli soldier materialised from the darkness, his right hand curled round the trigger of an automatic weapon. He signalled with his left hand that the two men should move towards him. Both complied. Neither was nervous; it was a common enough occurrence.

‘Where are you going?’ asked the soldier.

Benny replied rapidly in Hebrew and the soldier relaxed as if soothed by the sound. He motioned with the barrel of the gun that they should proceed.

‘Shalom,’ said Benny.

‘Shalom,’ replied the soldier merging back into the darkness.

St Saviour’s was located down a small cobbled lane leading off the Via Dolorosa. The only outward sign was a wooden plaque on the wall, which the men had to struggle to read in the dim light emanating from the one street light fixed high on a wall some twenty metres away. There was an iron bell pull below the plaque. Eli yanked it and the sonorous sound echoed out to them from somewhere deep inside. A few moments later a hatch in the door slid back and a square of yellow light appeared. ‘Yes?’ said a woman’s voice.