Blowing my own trumpetA Story by Haim Kadman
Below are four short excerpts of my books.
Blowing my own trumpet
Below are four "hors-d'oeures" of my four books, two are already published with Amazon Kindle and the next two would be published soon.
 'The death science'
Near a group of huts that reminded Samir his own village, their cab descended into a steep creek; the road curved round into a winding serpentine, leading downward to the valley, with the sun right behind them.
Just where is he heading for that driver? Samir wondered in growing alarm and moving forward uneasily on his seat he raised his voice asking:
‘Where are we going?’ Adding straight away reproachfully: ‘We have to cross one of the bridges before the day is over, don't we?’
‘We are not heading for the bridges!’ The driver answered smiling, with much satisfaction. He was a middle-aged man with a balding crown. A rim of gray hair from ear to ear covered the lower parts of his head and reached down his shirt collar. A bushy black moustache topped his mouth, covering his upper lip. Up to that very moment he was very busy watching the road, with a rather grim face; apprehensive of exposure and failure, which comes in its wake. But in spite of his anxiety and quite natural his fears, he was expecting question it seemed with much anticipation, Samir's surprised reaction. It made him feel much better. It revived him in fact. Relaxing his strained jaw muscles broadening his smile, he sneaked a look at Samir through the mirror. The young woman at Samir's side, who kept her face away from him, looking outside through the cab's window; turned swiftly to them curiously, watching each one of them in his turn, listening attentively to their verbal exchange.
The driver was an Israeli Arab, and Samir did not have to rack his brain to reach that conclusion. He must have been one of those tamed creatures, and he of all men was enjoying himself, showing off on Samir’s account. These were the thoughts flashing through Samir’s mind at that very moment; thoughts that annoyed and infuriated him. Yes there couldn't be any doubt about it, his accent the look on his face gives him away. He must be the cab's owner, or one of its owners. The name "Taher Moukader" appeared on three different small plaques containing his personal details, in three different locations in the cab interior. One was set over the glove compartment; two more faced each other on both sides of the cab, right above the door line. The data conveyed to the commuter, was in three different languages: Hebrew, Arabic and English of course. Strange as it seemed the driver must have been that certain Taher, the cab's owner.
Adding this to the fact they didn't head right away eastward, towards the kingdom of Jordan had turned everything upside down as far as Samir was concerned. The whole thing seemed rather eerie all of a sudden.
Could it be just sheer coincidence? What was wrong with crossing the bridges? Just what the hell makes him so happy, that old sleek "iben el sharmuta" (son of a w***e)? Was he a loathsome Jew slave? Have they managed to lure me into some sophisticated trap? Am I betrayed after all? Why are we heading westward then? Are we bound for the "Shabac's" headquarters near Tel-aviv! Is that our real destination? Why, arrest and interrogation that's what awaits me! Deadly torture in dark bloody dungeons is going to be my lot... Have they sacrificed me already?
‘Don't you worry brother o'mine!’ The driver said, glancing at him with compassion through his mirror. ‘A most safe escape route was selected for you. There're some more security measures, which we're about to employ. But let me first explain to you the escape route, and drive your doubts away brother o'mine!’ These warm and eloquent words were said while he was steering the cab with much confidence and ease, down the narrow curving passage, between the precipice and the mountain's rocky wall.
Still there was nothing unusual in the effusive manner, in which he addressed Samir. He would have gained the same warm treatment, if he were just a random passenger who has to pay his fare, having been picked up on a routine ride. A traditional warm welcome was no warranty against slander, betrayal or even a cut throat. But the driver had yet a few more things to say; and though Samir wasn't persuaded yet, he listened to him attentively, ignoring completely the young woman beside him.
 'An African sunset'
Through the open bathroom door Shatz could hear the Priels’ chatter, the bursts of laughter that accompanied it. From the few words he managed to hear, he had no doubts at all he was their conversation’s subject. No wonder, he woke up at eleven forty, and besides she had to spread a smoke screen to beguile her husband, and that was the right opportunity.
When Shatz left the bathroom and stood on top of the staircase ready to descend, they turned their smiling faces up to him.
‘So, as far as I understand you did return just this morning.’ Hilla welcomed him sweeping her husband in another wave of laughter.
What’s the matter with her, has she released herself from every mean of precaution? Shatz wondered surprised smiling back to them with embarrassment. He didn’t answer but descended the staircase and sat down opposite them, sneaking a look into her laughing face, noticing her lovely dimples her rose cheeks; and again he was overwhelmed by her exceptional beauty and the serenity with which he was enveloped up to that moment " vanished. Like a repeated projection in slow motion, Hilla’s naked body formed itself in his mind’s eye, at that certain moment before dawn, when she sneaked away from his arms. He could see her rising, the lovely features of her face, her proud shoulders, her full bossom and the dark triangle down her belly, between her thighs…
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ She asked waking him up from his hallucinations. ‘It’s a bit lukewarm I’m afraid.’ She added.
Shatz didn’t notice that they were both relaxed already and kept watching him curiously.
‘Alright, thank you,’ he answered her absent-mindedly, and sent his hand forth to the empty cup. Right after she poured him the coffee he raised the cup to his lips.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ She went on asking, ‘after the good times you surely had last night?’
Shatz was choked in mid drinking, laid the cup back in a hurry, and while taking pains to swallow the little that was left in his mouth he sneezed suddenly; spraying the table before him with the numerous tiny coffee droplets that gushed out of his nostrils.
 'The remote control job'
‘What's wrong, what are you afraid of?’ She was laughing again. ‘You need a hair cut badly, and that beard of yours that becomes you so much, has to be trimmed don't you think?’ She kept on eating loading bits of food on her chopsticks, casting curious glances at him. ‘Don't you wish to breathe some fresh air once in a while, to see the sky? You're allowed to leave your room once a day, don't you know it?’ Seeing his surprised and baffled expression, she went straight on. ‘That's why I'm here, don't you see? Just go ahead and say yes thank you, that’s all you have to do.’
What a bloody fool he is! She thought disgusted, pushing her empty bowl away from her. Isn't he going to answer me? Well, I need a break and I am going to get it even if I'll have to shove the bloody answer down his throat! I don't intend to sit on under that stare of his, not even one more second! When that door opens up again, I'm off!
‘Your conduct has been excellent, so I've been informed, well in that case I'm authorized to settle your requests, right away; requests that we can cope with of course, what's your answer then? go ahead just say it, that’s all.’
‘If that's so, I want to send a word to my parents.’ He stammered at last. ‘To let them know I'm still alive.’
So that's it. That's why he is staring at me with that beseeching look of his! The quick thought crossed Lee Chen Woe’s mind. He's still tied to the outside world then. Well, it's just the beginning, but he shall forget them all, his parents, his girl friend if there is one, his home town, soon enough! ‘Oh I see!’ She raised her voice with feigned compassion. ‘You must be on the missing in action list by now, that should be the right term if I am not wrong; I can't promise you anything on that matter yet, sorry. I'm awfully sorry indeed, but I'll see what can be done, don't despair!’
 'Summer tempest'
After one more glass of bourbon Yoske heard himself telling them an episode of his own childhood, about another woman that made many lose their heads.
'I was about nine or ten years old then and I climbed to our house roof to look for my best friend. His mother was up there dealing with their laundry, and in those days if you remember every family had its day of laundry on top of the roof. There was an open room in one corner where the laundry was boiled in a huge boiler upon a fire. My friend was supposed to help her to keep the fire going, and some other small errands which he was able to fulfill. His mother was a Yemenite, a beautiful woman with black curly hair, black eyes. She was married a second time to my best friend's step father, and young men still courted her with much zeal. I reached the roof and saw her standing near the roof's parapet, and a young pale men stood next to her leaning on the parapet with his elbow - while she was hanging her washed laundry.' He made a short pause and emptied his glass, surprised how eager they were to hear more - including his own wife that never heard that certain story ever before. 'Well that young man was talking to her ceaselessly, while she looked at him from to time with a shade of a smile - a Mona Lisa mysterious smile. I was getting near them to ask her where my friend could be. My lips almost uttered my question: "Jacob's mother where's Jacob?"; when I heard the young man say: 'Just one word from you and I'll jump off the roof.' Yes that's what he said, and he was much younger then her, no more than twenty, twenty two years old. I was a yard away when she turned to me smiling and asked 'shall I tell him?' Shocked and frightened I raised both my hands as if to protect my face, and shouted no, no and ran back to the staircase.'
© Haim Kadman 2012 " all rights reserved.
© 2012 Haim Kadman
AboutProfile: A few words about myself: being a native of a small country whose waist is seventeen kilometers wide in a certain area; and in seven to eight hours drive one can cross its length, I was amaze.. more..
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