On the bus

I struggle up into the bus, balancing a coffee and computer bag whilst talking to Dani on the phone. I almost fall, but make it to a backwards-facing seat, opposite a wide Russian woman who has white skin and brown, felt-tip eyebrows.

‘Do you know Ha Bima?’ I ask. She shakes her head. I am on my way to Dani and Uri, and we are going to see an exhibition at the museum of art. Dani and Uri live near the theatre – Ha Bima – in central Tel Aviv.

Faces are peering curiously at me, with encouraging expressions. I smile back. One old man gestures that I have coffee on my upper lip. I wipe it off.

‘Where do you want? Ha Bima?’ says another man, maybe 60, with a bronzed, bald head. ‘Still a little way to go. I’ll tell you when.’ He nods in confirmation that this is how we’ll deal with the situation, and gestures for me to come and sit next to him, taking the hot coffee and placing my bag on the floor beneath his seat.

We sit in silence for a while, watching the white-out windows, blue plastic Hebrew, and clothes stalls on the street.

Then he says: ‘Where are you from?’ He has an oval face, and a few white hairs combed over his scalp. ‘What? Are you a tourist?’

‘No – I am living here.’

‘Good for you. When did you come?’

‘A week ago.’

‘Your family too?’

‘No, alone.’ The coffee is finished; I put the cup under my seat.

‘Welcome.’ He smiles.

Encouraged, I say: ‘People ask me, why did you come? There’s a war here, the people are no good.’

‘The whole world there is war,’ he says. ‘People here don’t know what they have because they’ve never left.’

His name is Mordechai and he is from Iran. He came in 1950, and it was a balagan – a chaos, then.

‘Listen.’ Mordechai nods towards the front of the bus, where the driver has turned the radio up. ‘They’re talking about Iran.’

For a few minutes, the disco music stops and we’re all glued to the radio news. A discussion breaks out amongst the passengers, something about Ahmadinejad, but I don't really understand.

‘You have friends here?’ Mordechai wants to know.

‘A few.’

‘Of course. It’s no good to be alone.’

We have reached the end of Rothschild. ‘Ha Bima – here it is,’ he says. ‘I wish you a good day. Hope to see you again soon.’

As I get off the bus I see him stare up and out, into the rock hard sky.