"You, come with me" - he motioned to Shalev - "The staff complained
yesterday. Clothes were amiss. What happened?"
Shalev kept mum.
"He doesn't talk" - somebody volunteered - "He is on a strike." And
wicked sniggering.
"What is it that I am told?" - the warden shrilled - "You are not
talking? With this scum" - his outstretched hand enclosed us all, a
brown effluence - "you can do whatever you want. But with the
authorities of this facility, you hear, you will respond! Clear?"
Shalev just nodded absentmindedly. This far from innocuous acquiescence
infuriated our guardian.
"It is not the last you hear of me" - he spat and trotted towards the
management's stone parapet, splashing jets of mud on our rubber boots.
Shalev grabbed my arm and navigated me towards the prisoners' public
phone. Today was his turn to make use of it, his ten minutes with the
outside world.
A big, uniformed, crowd surrounded the booth. Everyone knew by now
about Shalev's weird protest. They came here to loot his minutes, to
scavenge the carrion of his allotted phone call. When they saw me, they
hummed in disappointment and dispersed, only to perch on the nearby
benches, just in case.
Torrential rain volleyed the butt-scorched and graffiti-tattooed
plastic shell with itinerant orange leaves.
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