Selected Detective
BEN-GURION AIRPORT

A friend of Layla's travel agent, Salim had booked him a British Airways flight ticket to Heathrow, London. There was indeed an early El-Al flight to the same destination, but it was more expensive, and in fact, there was an earlier El-Al flight to the same destination, the important thing is that he never used the Israeli National flight so he chose the next one, which was cheaper. Kamel, the driver, drove him to Ben-Gurion at 8:30am and dropped him off at the airport's main parking area, in front of a giant menorah statue by Salvador Dali. The driver was in a more sour mood than usual, and after making sure Layla and all her belongings were removed from the car, he tilted, closed the passenger door and drove the car without saying goodbye.

“Yahh, dickhead as well as you,” he muttered after the driver disappeared on the corner of the road.

Layla checked her passport and ticket, and, as she always did every time she came to the airport, stood for a while staring at the menorah surialis, all her arms hanging sideways, the faded surface of his brass twisted and solid so it looked as if his entire piece was melting slowly. As the emblem of Har-Zion's David Fighters, displayed every time they reached another pocket of Arab land, it was a symbol that implied a connotation of malice for Layla.

At the same time, almost indifferent, he discovered something hypnotic about his curving symmetry, how his arms stretched out and up, as if trying to reach the sky. Just last year he examined an article about his ironic importance to the Jews, how in the past, before being brought by the Romans in 70 AD, the Menorah has become the most revered object among all the sacred objects in the Temple. By looking at the statue of Dali's current work, with his dedication to “The Israelites, the elect”, he felt a sense of untasteful and inexplicable connection. Like his attitude towards Har-Zion itself, he often thought so. He looked at her for a moment longer, then grabbed his bag, rushing towards the departure terminal.

Getting out of Israel is always a complicated affair. He did not count how many times he could fly and in some cases actually missed the plane because Israeli security staff forced to check all the contents of his luggage up to the most delicate toothbrush, asked him a series of questions about where he was going, why he was going there, who he was going to meet, when he was going back his whole series of trips, basically, with a series of additional questions about the family, his friends, colleagues, personal and professional life. “You have enough information to make a biography of me,” one time he once bullied his interrogator, an overflow that, instead of speeding up the process, made him ask more intensive questions.

It applies to all Palestinians who will use the airport of suspicion, humiliation and obstacle. He suspects that his treatment of her is worse than that of most others, due to his reputation as a journalist.

“They have detailed data about you in his archive,” once upon a time Noah once said to him, half kidding, “And when you checked in a glance a lighted sign appeared on the screen, *Important: check this person in depth*He does what he can to make things easier, always arrive half an hour before the earliest check-in time and fill the suitcase to a minimum, perhaps not carrying an address book, there is no anti-Israel literature and expressly does not carry any electronic objects (except for one inescapable mobile phone).it has never made any difference, not even today. He was the first person to arrive for his flight and the last person to get on the plane. His mobile phone, as always, was always lab-tested by an internal bomb expert who had, as if by accident but on purpose, managed to erase all stored numbers. (“What does that mean?” he wants to scream. “The only person who planted a bomb inside a mobile phone is Israel geblek!”)

As soon as he finally sat down in his place he had requested that he be able to sit by the window or by the alley but, irresistibly, could not be refused, getting that seat in the middle of opening the page of the book he bought the day before about Cathars history, he felt less comfortable than the fact that he could get out of Israel smoothly. When leaving Israel is difficult, it is actually just a trivial thing compared to the inhaling that happens when going to enter the damn place.

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LUXOR POLICE STATION

Khalifa put out her cigarette the umpteenth time of the day, finished her tea and returned to her seat, with a slobber. He has been in the office since five in the morning, and is now almost two o'clock. Nine hours he had slammed his head against the wall.

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