False Dichotomies

“Real life has always seemed to us more frugal in coincidences than the novel or other forms of fiction, unless we were to allow that the principle of coincidence is the one, true ruler of the world, in which case, we should give as much value to the coincidence one actually experiences as to that which is written about, and vice versa.” Jose Saramago (The Double)

Abu Ghosh stilled as I came down the hill; another Thursday evening had arrived. As nobody else was waiting at the bus-stop, I assumed that the 185 had actually been on time. Even the broken plastic white chair was nowhere to be seen. I turned off my iPod and sat on the stone wall, intending to read until the next bus came. Agitated with the vanishing light, though, I decided to hitch. This was the first time I had tried to hitch my way away from work; I let my arm hang limply, like someone trying to solicit a prostitute for the first time.

Someone pulled over within a few minutes, a young Ashkenazi man in a trendy new car. The ride to the bridge was a short one – two minutes or less – but I felt the etiquette of the situation demanded conversation. I asked him about the music he was listening to – Israeli songs from back in the day, well produced and sentimental. “They’re songs from the fifties, the sixties, songs from the good Israel that once was,” he told me. I smiled and thanked him for the ride. “Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” he said, his tone making me feel a fool for even saying so.

The 405 to Tel Aviv arrived immediately. Some days, there are no seats to be had, which means I have to spend the forty minute journey standing. This time, though, the signs were good. A Haredi man on the front seat was sat next to his hat: if the front seat is vacant, there are sure to be seats further back. I ventured forth, eyeing a number of possible places to sit, turn on my iPod, and take my late afternoon nap. I make this decision on the basis of the size of the person who will be sitting next to me; having found a suitably small teenager, I took my place at the penultimate row.

The music is Screamadelica by Primal Scream; I am soon drifting off. Then there is a whiff, a hint of a smell. Cigarette smoke, a smell so recogniseable it has lost all potential meaning, no chance for it to be the smell that will resurrect people’s memories. I instinctively turn back, where a middle-aged woman is scrambling to put away a packet of cigarettes. She looks haggard, like she’s just been put through a paper-shredder. She knows that others know that she is the smoker; I can see it by the nervous look in her eyes. 

She has put the cigarettes away though. She’s been gently reprimanded by the man in front of her, the window has been opened, and the air of the foothills has stolen away the stench. We can, I think, return to our thoughts. But then a man steps forward, a bearded, pleasantly rugged man in a hoodie. He is telling her off, informing her of the rules. She is denying the charge. “What, you think you’re my husband?!?” she says, her whimpish voice righteously intoned, her denials brazen. “No I don’t think I’m your husband but…” and there follows a slew of slang which I cannot understand. No matter. Despite being the most self-righteous of anti-smokers, I am tired of this.

Now the bus has pulled over. This happened two days ago, for the bizarre reason that the GPS broke down (what bus driver needs GPS on Route 1?), and all the passengers leapt out of their seats as if they suddenly had the right to mill about by the side of the freeway. Now, though, there was no Israeli stampede. The driver stepped forward, and asked who was guilty of smoking. The woman did not confess; it took everyone else to point the finger at the accused. If they hadn’t, we might never have left. The driver asked her to patiently wait half an hour, until we were in Tel Aviv where she could smoke freely. Then he turned on the engine, pointedly blasting us all with the air-conditioner.

The argument between the old woman and the young man continued for another minute or so; by now my eyes were wide open, letting the coincidence draw its own conclusions.