Favor by Ronen Divon

The following story is inspired by true events. Sweat beads decorated Jonathan’s forehead, occasionally accumulating into a tiny stream that ended up dripping down his nose. His hands felt cold and sticky. His heart was pounding fast. Why in hell did I agree? Why? Why? Why? His mind was repeating like an engine stuck in neutral. There may still be time to turn around. They may not notice. But his body seemed frozen, his foot steadily pressing the gas pedal. The Israeli roadblock rose ahead, like a blood‐red desert sun. Two cars stood in line in front of him. Jonathan could clearly see the large cement blocks narrowing the passage, the small military post on the left, blue and white flag waving on top, soldiers in green uniform wearing body‐vests, semi‐automatic assault rifles strapped over their shoulders. He heard someone shout “PROCEED.” The cars in front of him moved. One car more to go before it’s my turn. His throat felt dry, barren. Please let it be Gideon, please, please… Gideon, a reservist soldier who manned the roadblock for the past two weeks, had befriended Jonathan. Yes! It was his friend who halted him to stop. “Hey you!” said Gideon, his face dead‐serious, his voice nail‐sharp, “What are you smuggling there?!” Jonathan’s eyes grew wide in terror. He knows. I am caught. My life is over. “Relax buddy,” smiled Gideon, “just teasing,” and then, inspecting Jonathan’s face more closely, added “What’s the matter? You look like hell. Are you feeling alright?” Jonathan, his voice barely audible answered “Oh nothing. Just tired. Heading home. It’s been a long night.” “Jonathan, come on, I can see something is wrong. You are not well. You look like you are going to have a heart attack.” He may be right, it occurred to Jonathan, on top of everything else, what if my heart fails? “Wait here,” said the soldier, “Let me get you some cold water.” “No, its okay, really. I just need to get home,” replied Jonathan. “Nonsense!” insisted his friend, “Don’t move,” and off he went to the small booth by the side of the roadblock. “Pull aside,” commanded another soldier that was coming from the other side of the road, “you are blocking traffic.” Jonathan pulled over. He looked nervously at Gideon through the booth’s window. Gideon was on the phone waving his hands and looking upset. Is it about me? A thought crossed Jonathan’s mind. His face tensed again. Maybe the Israeli Intelligence received information about this. Meanwhile the other soldier, standing by the car, rapped at the side window, shaking Jonathan back to the present moment. “I was told to do a random check on every tenth car,” he said, “and guess what? Yours is the lucky number. Please pop open the trunk.” Jonathan was completely unprepared for this. Gideon would get me off of the hook, if I could only buy some time. His sweat was now pouring down like a burst open dam. “What do you mean?” he mumbled, “Gi‐Gid‐Gideon said it was okay. He… he was just getting me some water,” and then in an almost pleading voice, “you… you see… it’s my heart…” time, only a little more time. “I am sorry,” said the young soldier, “these are my orders,” and then, seeing how worried Jonathan looked, added “you are an Israeli, you have nothing to hide. It will only be a minute. Please pop it open, or…” the soldier hesitated, some sympathy creeping into his voice, “it’s against regulations but if you need help, step out of the car and I will do it for you.” Jonathan sent last pleading look at Gideon’s direction but Gideon, still inside the booth shouting

over the phone, was too busy to notice him. The soldier however, was getting visibly impatient. “Sir,” he said, his hand sliding slowly to hold his rifle’s trigger, “out of the car. NOW!” A year earlier, Jonathan was driving his taxi in the streets of Tel‐Aviv, Israel’s largest metropolis. With over twenty years of taxi driving experience under his belt, and a large belly above it, Jonathan was known for his warm smile and friendly personality. His good sense of humor enabled him to survive traffic congestions, hot, and at times unbearably humid weather, and much stress, all associated with driving a taxicab on Israel’s busy roads. Driving early mornings and the wee hours of the nights, Jonathan catered to a large range of passengers. “Where to sweetheart?” he would ask Georgina, a she‐male prostitute Jonathan would occasionally pick up at dawn from the street corner she worked. “Oh, I am done for the night. Take me home honey,” Georgina would reply. She lived at a nice, newly built, multi‐family building, just outside of Tel‐Aviv. Jonathan liked her. Georgina minded her own business and would usually tip him handsomely. Shortly after dropping her off, on occasion, he would pick up Judge Jeremy from a neighboring building. “To court,” the Judge would order him in a commanding voice, “and make it fast but legal. I have a lot of cases to review today.” The Judge wasn’t a good tipper. It actually amused Jonathan to know that the Judge was occupying the very same seat warmed just a short while ago by a prostitute. But as a taxi driver, Jonathan learned to keep his mouth tightly shut; not only about his passengers, but also about what he saw and heard. Drug dealers cooking deals, underworld types planning hits, as well as celebrities keeping their heads low while picking up a prostitute, heading to a hotel. “Get a zipper,” joked Samuel, his mentor who coached him when Jonathan had just gotten his own medallion, “and zip it. If you speak, at best your reputation will be gone.” “And at worst?” wondered Jonathan naively. “Your body would never be found,” replied Samuel, his voice grave. With his oldest daughter pregnant from the bum husband of hers, a middle son in college, and a young son in high‐school, money was always scarce. Even at forty, Jonathan still found himself occasionally turning to his mom, now widowed, for help. He hated doing it; a matter of honor. And so when Samuel, twenty five years his senior, decided to retire and pass along his business accounts, Jonathan gladly jumped at the opportunity. Samuel’s largest account turned out to be Abdul and Sons Construction, a Palestinian business. “It is tricky,” said Samuel, “They pay well and it’s guaranteed steady income, especially now, at a time of financial instability. But then again, there is this bloody issue of the Palestinian uprising.“ “So should I take it or not?” wondered Jonathan, “You know how I feel about these Arabs.” “Take it, but watch your back,” replied Samuel. “Though Abdul is an honest man whom I have known now for close to twenty years, he is semi‐retired and the business is managed primarily by his sons, some of which I find to be hotheaded. I won’t be surprised if several of them are associated with various radical Islamic groups.” Samuel paused for a moment then went on “I never had any incident with them myself, but you heard about what happened to Joshua last month. How he was kidnapped at knifepoint by a Palestinian passenger who was a regular. They all lost their minds with this uprising. It’s insane. It’s bad for business.” Despite his political views, Jonathan, needing the money, took over the account. © 2012 Ronen Divon, All Rights Reserved.

In the months that followed, Jonathan was happy with the Abdul and Sons account. As promised, it provided some steady income at a turbulent economic time. Money was still tight, and now even more than ever, with his daughter giving birth and her husband nowhere to be found. Of his new passengers, Jonathan especially took liking to Saeed, Abdul’s youngest son. Their mutual initial suspicion transformed into long chats about favorite foods and sports, namely soccer. One topic they both tread carefully was the minefield of Israeli‐Palestinian politics. Jonathan, an avid supporter of the Israeli right wing kept his views to himself, while Saeed indicated he believed the time has come for a Palestinian statehood. Yet, he didn’t press the point and somehow they both managed to remain on friendly terms. One early August morning, just as Jonathan was starting to head back home after a long night on the road; a night that barely saw any passengers, his mobile phone rang. “Jonathan, its Saeed,” came the voice on the line.“ “What’s up Saeed?” replied Jonathan. “I need a favor,” said Saeed and paused. Jonathan waited. The silence went on too long for comfort. When Saeed finally spoke, his voice was stern. “There is a curfew on the territories again,” he said. “I have a job I must finish this week just outside of Tel‐Aviv. The homeowner will not care that we cannot make it because of the curfew. His patience already ran out during the previous one. He will hold payment, including what he owes us for work that was completed already. I need that money. I really do.” Saeed paused again. Jonathan said nothing but his big belly twisted. Saeed continued “I usually won’t ask you for something like this, you know. But I really need your help this time.” It was Jonathan’s turn to pause. When his silence lasted a little too long Saeed, with a hurried voice added “Will you? I will pay triple the regular price. I know you will be taking a risk.” “A risk?! You must be joking,” burst Jonathan. “A risk is an understatement. Not only will I lose my license, they can throw me in jail. I just cannot do it.” “Listen,” Saeed’s voice now had a slight edge of anger. “I am not really asking you. This needs to be done. If you are not helping us, you can forget about this company’s account. I will see to it that my father gives it to someone else, to a cabbie that understands what business loyalty is all about.” Jonathan felt a lump in his throat, making him feel like he was suffocating. He cannot lose this account, not now. “Wait, wait,” he said. “Let me reconsider.” Silence, then, “let’s say that I agree. How will I take you? There is always a roadblock and the soldiers will ask for your papers. During curfew, in a good case scenario, they will simply ask me to turn around and take you back to the village.” Saeed paused for a moment and then said in a quiet voice “let me first clarify, it’s not me you are taking. I am useless on this job. It’s my tile man, Shahid.” “Oh!” Responded Jonathan surprised, and not knowing what else to say added “I don’t know him. How can I drive him?” “But I know him,” replied Saeed. “He is my man. I vouch for him,” and then, after another moment of silence, “as to how you will take him, we will need to hide him in the trunk. The soldiers are usually the same guys. They know you. They won’t ask you to open the trunk. You will do fine.” Jonathan felt his heart sinking to a void deep down his stomach, but he whispered dryly “okay. I’ll do it.” “This is my last warning. OUT OF THE CAR NOW!” Jonathan found himself staring at the tip of a muzzle. “The… the lever is broken. I’ll… have to open it for you from the outside,” he told the

soldier, and to himself: Maybe this never happened. Maybe it is all just a bad dream, a figment of my imagination. His arm felt heavy as he slowly moved to open the door. He wasn’t sure if his numb legs would carry his body’s weight. But they did. The soldier behind him, Jonathan moved towards the trunk like a prisoner on death row. Facing the back of his taxicab, hand surprisingly steady now, he opened the trunk swiftly. Shahid, crunching inside, stared at them, face white, hand frozen holding tight to a triggering device, visible fear in his eyes. Epilogue Whether Shahid, the young would‐be suicide bomber, was caught off guard when Jonathan popped the trunk, or whether he simply favored life over a remote promise for heaven, remains unclear. Jonathan, however, unintentionally an accomplice to a terrorist plot, was to be tried for treason. Remember the Judge that Jonathan occasionally drove to court? Fate wanted that Judge Jeremy was on reserve duty when Jonathan was brought in for a preliminary hearing at the military court. Recognizing his cabbie and taking pity on him, the Judge pulled some connections and was able to set up a very sweet deal. In return for undisclosed and very confidential information about some Israeli crime lords, Jonathan never stood trial. In fact, his file was entirely erased from the system and his testimony against the underworld bosses was taken under complete secrecy. Jonathan ended up being instrumental in putting some very bad people away for a very long time. And luckily, it was done in a manner that protected his identity. Next time you are hailing a cab in Tel‐Aviv, it may be Jonathan behind the wheel. He is still short of money, but as his passenger Georgiana likes to say, “Sweetheart, what goes around comes around. You keep smiling at the world and the world will smile back at you.”