Assaf Gavron - The Hilltop

“Approval for the laying of Route 991.” Giora stood and elaborated on the map. Avram tapped uneasily on the table with a box of cigarettes. The discussion dragged on. Giora outlined the strategic significance of the road. Malka gave a briefing on the political pressure for and against the road. The minister was well aware of Malka’s opinion, and knew by then how to relate to his briefings and alleged objectivity. He had even developed a mathematical system for calculating and understanding what truly lay behind his assistant’s position, by determining an average between what Malka said and the opinion of the ministry’s director-general and the decision of the head of the Finance Ministry’s Budgets Department. Regarding the road, everyone was actually of the same opinion.

From time to time, his aide informed him of an incoming call or a visit. The minister was hungry, and earlier, on the way from the committee meeting to the office, he had a little accident in the bathroom and wet his pants when his stream of urine split into two, and he didn’t notice it until he felt the wetness.

“Okay, bring me the documents for signature,” he ruled with lowered eyelids. He knew he’d come in for a lot of criticism for the road. He knew he’d get calls from Ambassador Milton White and from the secretary of state and from the leader of the opposition and from representatives of the left-wing parties on the committee the following week, not to mention Army Radio, the UN, and the peace movements. Well, let them fly off the handle. Let them call. One’s got to move ahead in life. “Anything else for this forum?” he asked his aide while signing the paperwork.

“Yes, something small, actually. Just came in.”

All eyes turned to Malka. “What?” the minister asked.

“The Japanese ambassador has submitted an official complaint about that story with the Japanese anti-Muslim underground sect that’s passing on weapons to radical Jewish elements in the territories.”

The defense minister’s eyes widened. “The sect that… What was that? A complaint about what?” He turned to look at the head of the Shin Bet’s Jewish Division, who appeared to be trying to bury himself in his cigarette box. “I don’t understand. Will someone explain to me what is going on?” the minister demanded. Malka reached out to drag the bowl of pretzels a little closer and fished out two, in a perfect impression of his boss.

“Forget it, it’s a ridiculous story,” Avram said, fruitlessly trying to evade the issue.

“What do you mean, ridiculous? I have a complaint from Japan here on the table. Do you realize who we’re dealing with here?” the minister said. Curious now, too. “Get the director-general,” he said.

“Some Japanese company is getting involved in the territories in an olive oil project. They’ve closed deals with Palestinian growers throughout the West Bank. They’re setting up a large olive press near Ramallah with their own equipment, a state-of-the-art—”

“Ah, Matsumata,” the defense minister said. And to the surprised eyes that stared at him, he responded, “I read about it in the Marker . With the support of the EU and JICA, tax breaks and all that.” He knew more than that, of course. Pressure from Japan had played a part in the suspension, for now, of construction work on the separation fence along that route; something that few knew about, aside from the prime minister, the defense minister, and the director of the Fence Administration. Perhaps Malka, too.

The minister glanced at his aide skeptically, feigning innocence. “So why are they complaining?”

Avram exchanged a look with Giora and sighed. “Someone played a prank. On one of their visits, the Japanese ended up at one of the outposts in error. And someone at that outpost spread a rumor…”

“Which outpost?”

Malka swallowed hard. Avram lowered his gaze. “Ma’aleh Hermesh C.,” he said.

The defense minister stopped chewing his pretzel. Malka feared the minister was choking and extended a glass of water. The minister’s eyes were steely and red. He swallowed, sipped from the glass, and, seemingly at ease, he focused for several seconds on a random point on the other side of the room. The images rose in his thoughts again, and with them came the feelings. The fucking “Scram” that had stuck to him and wouldn’t go away. The ingrates. He went there to support them, and they spat on him. In any normal country, the outpost would have been dismantled and they would have been thrown in jail. He didn’t care that he and his predecessors had provided permits or turned a blind eye, as Malka took the trouble to remind him sometimes. That’s no excuse. No longer.

“Ma’aleh Hermesh C.?” he asked. “Them again? Just as the Americans and Peace Now finally get off my back a little on that place and move on to Route 991… Hasn’t there been a High Court ruling regarding them?”

“Still under deliberation,” Avram said defensively. “The state prosecutor submitted a response to the petition, on your behalf, on behalf of the commander of the IDF forces in the West Bank, on behalf of the head of the Civil Administration, and on behalf of the commander of the Judea and Samaria police district. You all confirmed that the outpost in question is illegal, but because the required resources are currently occupied elsewhere, you’ve requested a delay in the evacuation.”

“Okay,” the minister said, and extended two fingers toward the pretzels. “So, someone was looking to have some fun, you said?”

“And spread a rumor that the Japanese from Matsumata are actually some kind of underground terrorist sect that’s supplying weapons to extremist Jews in the outposts. They even gave the name of some hilltop kid whom the Japanese supposedly visited at the outpost to make a deal with. Something like that.”

“Okay, so some settler made up a bullshit story. How does it get to this?” He picked up the Japanese fax that Malka had placed in front of him, waved it in the air.

“The person who heard the story was our informer at the settlement. She relayed it to us. And there was some kind of misunderstanding. The story wasn’t connected to Matsumata, no one connected the dots, and we issued an alert, and our guys were involved in a small incident with the Japanese.” The defense minister hung his head, his right hand supporting his forehead. “And our informer was exposed,” Avram continued. “That in fact was the essence of the prank, because they suspected her, and…” Avram’s voice trailed off.

The minister remained in the same position. The room was quiet. The muffled ring of a telephone came from the other side of the door. The past few days hadn’t been easy. His beloved dog, Soldier, had passed away over the weekend after a lengthy illness. Soldier had in fact lived with his ex, his first wife, but his death stung nevertheless. His second wife called that morning to tell him that both toilets were blocked. And he felt uncomfortable in his wet pants, and a faint smell of urine seemed to be emanating from them. But even all that wasn’t what prompted him to say what came next when he resumed speaking. Nor was it the stress and the questions and the demands and the accusations that rained down on him from every direction at the meeting of the Foreign Affairs and Defense Committee and every day and every minute, in conferences, at meetings, on the telephone, in the newspapers. Nor was it Route 991, the laying of which he had just authorized with his signature, as a gesture, so to speak, to the settlers and the right-wing parties, and which perhaps he now needed an action to offset, to appease the critics, a little candy for the Americans and the leftists and the attorney general — after all, almost every action is designed to offset, to appease, to serve as a gesture toward someone who’s been offended…