When Issachar was twelve years old, he was the presumptive semifinals winner of Maccabi Jerusalem’s judo championship, ages ten to thirteen.
“Left, Dad, make a left!” he said, with the urgency of a presumptive winner about to miss his chance, as soon as he saw his father’s age-spotted arms turning the steering wheel to the right, on the afternoon of the semifinals at the Jerusalem YMCA.
“Stop it with the left, already,” his father, Yakob, said. “I’ve lived here for five years; I know the way.”
They had moved into the neighborhood only three years before, right after Issachar’s mother had split. But starting an argument over timelines wasn’t going to advance his immediate agenda.
“Dad, there is always a jam going down Mileikowsky Street. I don’t want to be late.”
“We won’t be,” Yakob answered, and entered the narrow street, which was lined with parked cars on both of its banks. There was not enough room for two cars driving in opposite directions to pass each other, and very few gaps for drivers—the more considerate ones—to retreat into.
It was twenty minutes before six and the start of the tournament. The sky was losing its light, draping the houses along Mileikowsky Street with an orange-fringed dark blue shawl. Yakob had yet to switch his headlights on, but the Volvo rolling toward them was bejeweled with blinding lights, and was about to meet Yakob’s Ford Fiesta in the middle of the slight curve ahead.
“Son of a bitch,” Yakob said. “He saw me coming.”
Issachar sat higher in his seat, surveying the rows of parked cars. There were two...
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