The hubbub outside had ceased. The cab of the truck was now at right angles to its trailer. A sweating policeman hopped around it like a cricket, trying to direct traffic, while Captain Water Buffalo and the truck driver sat smoking by the exhausted engine like two comrades-in-arms gone down to a joint defeat. Apparently they did not blame each other but rather some unfriendly act of God. There was nothing to do but wait. Besides, they’re sure to build a highway here some day and all these old Turkish buildings now in the way will be shipped off to Saudi Arabia. Till then, what’s the rush?

14

Yonatan rose and paid his bill, muttered something to the counterman, and forced himself to say “See you, baby,” to the good-looking woman but grinned at the floor as he did so. Everything was right on schedule. The desert was still waiting for him. He hoisted his gear onto his back and walked out of the cafe with leaden strides. Was he really all that tired? Not really. In fact, quite the opposite—groggy but rested, as if he’d just slept for twenty hours straight. Why, he had slept away all the years of his life like a log and now he was awake as all hell. There must be a Russian saying for it. What the hell? Not mea culpa.

At an army hitchhiking post at the edge of town Yonatan was greeted by a smell of sweat, smoke, rifle oil, and dry urine. On the asbestos wall of the shelter someone had scratched a crude pair of fat, outspread thighs and, between them, a floating penis that resembled a mortar barrel but had an open eye in the act of shedding a tear. Above it the artist had scratched the words GOOD TO THE LUST DROP.