73

After seeing Maradona by Kusturica: We walked slowly up the street, Motzei Shabbat coming to an end. The road was lit by the lights from the Dizengoff Center and the downmarket fast-food joints that lead to its entrance, like the market-stalls leading up to the temple, any temple. Across the road, the 73 bus was just pulling in, its metallic lighting lush against the pavement, every rev of the engine indicating that this was the last bus home. “Which bus is yours?” I asked my friend. “The 73,” he replied, but did not rush away. Instead, he said goodbye like a human being, before embarking on an evolutionary leap through the gears, as if he were on the pages of some flicker book. I turned to watch, transfixed by the unlikely prospect of success. The bus pulled away, but he kept moving, banging on the front windows with an insistence that could not be refused. The doors opened; my friend stepped on, homeward bound. I raised my hands in celebration, like Maradona at the Estadio Azteca, revelling in the mango-splendour of this moment.