The Betrayers Read Online Free PDF Page B

one of theirs. But I bought this car. It belongs to me. A Nissan Maxima. I paid for it with my own money. I takecare of it. I answer for it. What do you expect me to accept in return, crumbs?
    —I understand, Kotler said and took Leora by the arm.
    If righteous anger was the man’s negotiating tactic, Kotler didn’t care for it. He’d encountered it in more consequential settings and hadn’t indulged it there either.
    —If you understand, then pay! the driver shouted after them.
    Kotler and Leora crossed the street to the taxi stand.
    —And they ask why we didn’t make peace with Arafat, Kotler said.
    Since the man with the vest and the cap was the authority, Kotler addressed him.
    —Fifty hryvnia, the man said, precluding any need to negotiate.
    —Very well, Kotler replied.
    He was surprised to see the man walk to the lead cab, shrug out of his vest, and toss it and the walkie-talkie through the driver’s-side window and onto the passenger seat. The man then opened the driver’s door and climbed inside. How the other cabbies were supposed to manage without his generalship, Kotler didn’t quite understand. But wasn’t that the beauty of life—when it departed from sense? The little car, another Lada, sputtered to life and Kotler and Leora took their places in the back.
    The driver stepped on the accelerator and the car bolted forward. Traffic was sparse but the driver pressed ahead as if he were in a terrific hurry. He weaved around slower vehicles and aggressively took the turns. Kotler and Leora were thrown against each other like riders at a Luna Park.
    —We’re on vacation, Kotler called to the driver.
    —What’s that?
    —We’re on vacation, my friend. We’re in no hurry.
    —Ah, forgive me. Habit, the driver said and slowed down.
    He glanced at them in the rearview mirror as though really seeing them for the first time.
    —Where are you from? he asked.
    —Moscow, Kotler said, after sifting through his mind for the appropriate choice.
    —Moscow? Intellectual people like you? What are you doing here?
    —Meaning?
    —One doesn’t encounter many people from Moscow. Not intellectual people. I thought the fashion was to go west. To Turkey or Cyprus.
    —We’ve been west. We got nostalgic for Crimea.
    —I suppose, the driver said. If one hasn’t been for a long time. I don’t have the right perspective. I’m here every summer now for twelve years. To me, Cyprus sounds good. But for that you need money. Have you been there?
    —I have, Kotler said. But only for work.
    —You’re a businessman? A banker?
    —No, nothing like that. International development.
    —Oh yeah? the driver said, with due indifference.
    Kotler had in fact been part of a UN-sponsored mission to see how deeply the Cypriot Turks and Greeks had buried their hatreds. Deep enough for radishes, Kotler had felt. In a generation or two, maybe deep enough for olives.
    —Even after their crisis, I hear Russian people still keep accounts in Cyprus, the driver said.
    —Apparently, Kotler said. I personally don’t. But Lena here does.
    —Is that so? Is it hard to get one?
    —The more money the easier, Leora said.
    —Isn’t that the truth! the driver said mirthfully.
    They had turned off the main road and started up into the darker foothills. The driver maneuvered the car along streets that were badly lit and seemingly unmarked. He accomplished this while swiveling his head back to better engage Leora on the subject of her fictitious numbered bank account. After all his illustrious battles, Kotler thought, wouldn’t this be a fitting end.
    —If I had the money, I’d stash it there. Then I’d go on vacation and pay it a visit. The driver laughed. Now, that’s relaxation! A few hours on the beach and then pop into the cool vault to see my money, give it a little cuddle, make sure it’s safe and sound. Isn’t that how the rich live?
    —Once a week, without fail, we go to the bank and cuddle our money, Leora said. Or our health