gigantic mustache and acts big, as though he is at least the company commander.
"Hey, you there, boy!" he says to me over his shoulder. "Climb up with the others behind!" Actually I should obey his "order." We have a long-standing agreement to help each other impress girls. But up behind it is cold and wet, and I feel that the girl belongs to both of us equally.
"Hhhmmmmmm ..." Jamus reflects. He knows how to extract himself elegantly from the business. "I don’t want to be like that and play the gentleman at your expense. You can stay," he says to me, and "Please take your place" to the girl. "I will stand on the running board."
"Are you sure you don’t mind?" asks the girl shyly and sits next to me. She has no choice. At this time of the day she won’t find another lift.
"Quite the opposite!" Jamus assures her. "It is a pleasure for me. And I can also keep an eye on my people."
We drive off. The roads are deserted. At the Abu-Kabir crossroads, on the way out of Tel Aviv, it starts to pour down. The girl feels uncomfortable. Jamus’s gentlemanly behavior has visibly impressed her. These days girls traveling on their own don’t always run into young men who behave so chivalrously toward them.
"You know what?" she suggests, "why don’t you come back in? There must be room for the three of us."
"If it doesn’t make you too uncomfortable," says Jamus gener-ously, but gets in. We twist and turn like sardines in a tin. And then we are all sitting comfortably: Jamus and I on the seat and the girl on us - the left side on one of Jamus’s legs, the right on mine. Behind her back Jamus winks at me. The dog has a good grasp of psychology.
The girl is embarrassed and tries to find something to talk about which will distract us from our intimate contact. She shifts around in search of a more comfortable sitting position. We don’t feel in the least distracted.
"Are you the commander here?" she asks Jamus.
Jamus makes a dismissive gesture. "I am only in command of the company," he admits.