I spent a month in these conditions and was about to return, I feel
convinced.
The driver brakes the bus, rises, and gestures to the Arab helplessly.
She tries to extricate herself by moving towards his cubicle. Some
women mesh their hands, trapping her flapping arms, flailing about, her
cheeks lattices of translucent rivulets. Her fear is audible in shallow
exhalations.
But her captors persevere. They clench her scarf and the trimmings of
her coat and twist them around the Arab's breathless neck.
The driver disembarks through the pneumatically susurrating doors. He
walks the gravel path adjacent to the highway, desperately trying to
wave down a passing car. Someone finally stops and they have a hushed
exchange through a barricaded window. The hatchback cruises away.
The driver hesitates, his eyes glued to the receding vehicle. He
contemplates the hostile bus with dread and climbs aboard. He sinks
into his seat and sighs.
A patrol car arrives a few minutes later and disgorges two policemen.
One elderly, stout and stilted, his face a venous spasm. He keeps
feeling the worn butt of his undersized revolver. The other cop does
the talking. He is lithe, a youth in camouflage, penumbral moustache,
anorectic, sinewy hands, his eyes an adulterated cyan.
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