Ever since his grandfather tossed empty packs of Camels and Danny lined them up pretending his caravan was heading to hidden pools of water, it was his ambition to be a camel tamer. His grandfather encouraged him. Even when his sister busted up his lineup, he would begin all over again. Today, he finds the clinic off a side street in a rundown part of Beersheba. A sign on the door says CLINIC in faded letters.
He pushes open the door and finds himself in a bare room, except for a chair, a file cabinet, and a wooden desk with a black dial phone on it. The walls are a dull white, paint peeling in random splotches. A drawing of a one-humped camel with three legs is tacked on a wall. Groans come from somewhere in the back.
After about ten minutes a short man with wire-rimmed glasses walks in. “So, what can I do for you?” he asks.
“You have dromedaries here. Right? My tour guide sent me. My name’s Daniel Gravelstein.” Before he’d left New York for Israel, he had argued with his sister at the top of the stairs. He might be a screw-up, he said, but he wasn’t a loser. A loser was permanent, a screw-up, temporary. “Stuff is going to happen to me,” he added, waving his newly issued passport. His sister just laughed. She was the smart one and he was the disappointment.
“I was expecting you. I’m Dr. Cohen. We have plenty of dromedaries.” Dr. Cohen peers up through his wire-rimmed glasses toward the top...
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