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scratches it, loses, then throws it into a huge pile. Every time he throws the card he makes a “woo” sound as it glides through the air.
    Abu Dalo: Eight hundred and seven. Eight hundred and eight. Eight hundred and nine.
    Enter SHIMON with a beer in hand.
    Shimon: What the hell is going on here?
    Abu Dalo: Eight hundred and ten.
    Shimon: What is this shit all over the floor?
    Abu Dalo: Eight hundred and eleven.
    Shimon: What are you doing?
    Abu Dalo: Scratch. And lose. Heh, heh, heh. Eight hundred and twelve.
    SHIMON smells him for booze.
    Shimon: Are you drunk?
    Abu Dalo: Absolutely not. I’m a Muslim. Muslims don’t drink. We’re the most boring, stiff-faced losers on this planet. We fly airplanes into skyscrapers for fun. We can’t look at a cartoon without killing people. Where’s our sense of humour? I want a sense of humour! Make me laugh, Jew. And make me win. Eight hundred and thirteen. Eight hundred and fourteen…
    Shimon: I’m making you some coffee, you drunk Arab pig. Sober up. We need to get to work.
    Abu Dalo: I am working.
    Shimon: Yes, you’re working at annoying me.
    Abu Dalo: Science! Much more practical than literature. I bought one thousand Scratch ’n Wins. Hypothesis: A man can go on such a nasty losing streak that he loses everything: House. Family. Soul. Become a black hole of loss. Woo!
    Shimon: You need to think a little more positive, Abu Dalo. Here. Drink this.
    SHIMON brings him coffee. ABU DALO starts to drink. Spits it out.
    Abu Dalo: The least you Jews could do is learn how to make good coffee. You stole our falafel. Why don’t you steal our coffee too?
    ALEX and SUHA in the basement.
    Alex: And so I was floating in a basket on the Jordan River—
    Suha: Got the flashlights?
    Alex: Roger that. And my father found me. Pretty amazing, huh?
    Suha: Uch. It stinks down here.
    Alex: It’s a root cellar. What were you expecting?
    Shimon: Who the hell is that?
    Abu Dalo: My daughter. Her name is Suha. And she’s from hell. You’ll love her. (takes a swig of Scotch) Eight hundred and fifteen. Eight hundred and sixteen.
    Shimon: You never told me you had a child.
    Abu Dalo: I haven’t told you many things. For example, I haven’t told you that when I drink Scotch whisky I become incredibly intelligent; that I gain an insight into the world whereupon I see tiny white sparks lighting up the sky like a disco ball. I see the essence of things; I see the world of spirit is in fact one big disco ball.
    SHIMON grabs the Scotch from ABU DALO.
    Shimon: She is not staying here.
    Abu Dalo: Wonderful. I didn’t even invite her in. Eight hundred and seventeen. Eight hundred and eighteen. Eight hundred and nineteen.
    Shimon: Where’s her mother?
    Abu Dalo: Dead.
    Shimon: Oh… I’m, uh—
    Abu Dalo: No—
    Shimon: I am—
    Abu Dalo: Don’t say it! Don’t you dare say you’re sorry!
    Shimon: Well, if you need anything—
    Abu Dalo: I need you to shut up. My wife died. Not from old age. Not from cancer. But from a fucking bomb from your fucking army. Three lousy years ago. So leave me the hell alone. Please. (Scratches. And wins.) Oh my God. I just won. I won a hundred shekels. I’ve never won anything before. Incredible. I feel… (a beat) Incredibly sad.
    Shimon: (presents ABU DALO the cup of coffee) Drink this.
    Abu Dalo: No.
    Shimon: You have a kid. Drink the coffee.
    Abu Dalo: No.
    Flashback, 2001. Enter SHABAK AGENT.
    Shabak Agent: Drink it. Go on. It’s good. I made it myself. (ABU DALO refuses.) Cigarette?
    ABU DALO nods. She lights him up. They both smoke.
    Abu Dalo: Have you ever been to Paris?
    Shabak Agent: No.
    Abu Dalo: Are you married?
    Shabak Agent: Marriage gives me the creeps. Too much compromise. Who wants to fight over dirty dishes and taking out the garbage? I like being alone.
    Abu Dalo: I don’t like solitude.
    Shabak Agent: You’ve been in and out of prison for nine years. You shouldn’t have written the things you did. (a beat)
    I’m glad you came to talk. Say