Free The English Teacher by Yiftach Reicher Atir Page B

thought this was suspicious. The bus set off with a jolt. The cop raised his hand and clutched the metal bar above him, and she saw the stain of sweat under his armpit and the fat and hairy midriff that was exposed. Her apprehension eased.

    T HE WOMAN WHO GOT ON THE bus with her stood behind her in the line for passport control. “How long will you be here?” she asked. “For a few days,” said Rachel, not turning around, thereby indicating to thestranger that there was no point in asking more questions. The line moved on one pace and she heard the woman huffing. Maybe she isn’t satisfied with my response. Fuck her. It isn’t my problem. She stood on the yellow line and waited until the tall man standing in front of her moved ahead. She kept the passport in her pocket. No point in getting it out too soon. Why should this woman know that despite the British accent she’s a Canadian citizen? Why should she see her new and empty passport?
    Her turn came. She walked the three ominous paces to the passport control booth, peered at the pleasant-looking official, and handed over her passport. “Nothing happens, it’s exactly like the exercises, and you need to be ready and believe in yourself,” Ehud said to her last evening, in an attempt to instill a little more confidence in her. “There’s no one who isn’t a bit anxious at passport control. That’s how it is when somebody offers his identity papers for inspection. When the officer looks up at you, look back at him and remember you have nothing to hide. This is your passport. This is your trip. This is the work you’re looking for. For every question you have an answer.” “True,” she said to him, and added what Ehud also knew was the difference—the knowledge of the real reason for her coming, and at the end of the day the capital city isn’t Jerusalem, and it’s no longer a test.
    The official looked up. She saw his black eyes behind thick-frame spectacles, and his tie, which was carelessly knotted, and she had time to think of what her father would have said about somebody going to work like that. “Where did you come here from?” he asked her, and she misunderstood him because of his accent and said she’d arrived just now. “No! Not when, from where?” She blushed. In training they had told her there was nothing worse than offending people in authority, the ones who think they know. All she needs is someone having ago at her now. “Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t understand you. I’m coming from Italy.” He flipped through her passport.
    â€œFirst time here?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œEver been to Israel?”
    If Rachel had been a regular tourist, or a businesswoman concealing a visit to the Holy Land, perhaps she would have been confused. Nothing wrong with being confused, so long as there’s nothing to hide. She was ready for this question, since Ehud trained her to answer it when they rehearsed the questions to be asked on entry to the destination country. “Not yet. It isn’t far from here, is it?” she responded. The official smiled back at her and wanted to know what hotel she was staying at. Rachel didn’t tell him to look at the document she had handed over with the passport. She repeated the name of the hotel twice and saw him checking that the details matched what she’d written. The official extended his hand to the heavy stamps, put a finger in the middle of the page, and stamped the page alongside the entry visa. She took the passport that was handed to her and began moving toward the baggage area. This is only the first hurdle, she told herself. Too soon to feel relieved. As if to prove to her that something unexpected can always happen, a male voice was heard behind her: “Lady, lady!” She carried on walking as if the call weren’t addressed to her, and was alarmed when she saw the