The Fifteenth Representative by Hilla Dagan (fiction novels to read .TXT) 📕

down. Take a sedative. Sit a moment and think. Did you have a tail after arriving? Think. Think back. I’ll get back to you in half an hour. Can you send over the footage?”

“Yes,” I replied and fell back onto the armchair next to the bed. My gaze was drawn to a plastic cent coin—some kind of necklace or bracelet or whatever Noa had around her neck since she was young. She looked a million bucks with it on. A million? No. Billion, more like. One-billion-and-two-million.

Idiot. Idiot! That’s what you are. You’re a fucking idiot.

It was already one-thirty AM. I loved the nighttime. But not this night.

Night is when the brain is more active. It’s a proven fact. Probably because, evolutionally speaking, our forefathers had to keep watch and keep themselves safe. Like today. Like now. That’s the reason people are more alert when it’s dark.

After a certain amount of time, you get used to it and you’re not tired anymore. Believe me, everything in life is a question of habits. If you get used to eating something, your body will acclimate and you’ll be dependent or addicted to it to a certain degree. Even if it’s something healthy.

If you eat a salad every day for years on end, you’ll lose it if you don’t have a salad for a few days. You’ll end up at a convenience store at two in the morning, buying three cucumbers and a carrot. I would know. My son has had a salad every day since he was about three, I think. He’s seventeen now, the big lug. And when I say every day, I mean every day. And those are a lot of days. It goes like this: three cucumbers, one tomato, an onion—preferably a purple one, though if it’s not, then never mind—one carrot, beets, and one bell-pepper. My son isn’t picky about the bell-pepper’s color though. You know, it can be red, orange, green, light or dark orange… it doesn’t matter. Anyway, to that he adds lemon juice, and if that isn’t available, then a vinaigrette. I mean—if there’s olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and mustard, the lemon is only there as extra seasoning.

You get the point. I love my son. He’s amazing. He can have his salad, and may he always enjoy it.

I did the math once, during the hundredth if not the thousandth time I made that salad—sometimes with pleasure, sometimes less so—that while chopping a salad like that, it ends up being comprised of thousands of little pieces. Many thousands.

Think about it. One cucumber—you cut it four times lengthwise, then another four after giving it a ninety degree twist—you’ve already reached sixteen merely from that. A regular-sized cucumber can be cut length-wise at least twenty times—because when I make a salad I cut it into tiny pieces, so that it’ll taste good, not like in a kibbutz’s lunchroom where it’s the size of a die.

So, just that one cucumber is about three-hundred-and-sixty pieces—minimum. And there are three. We’ve already reached one-thousand. Thereabouts.

What am I going to do about Noa?

How do I always get so messed up with her?

Since that day I lay eyes on her when she was nothing but a kid in Sinai… look what’s become of her. Look at what’s become of me…

I was in Nuweiba with Timothy, at the time. There was a fellow with us from the American embassy. He was married and also had someone on the side. I’m not the only one. Half the people on this planet do, too. It’s never someone specific, though—it’s always the guy’s friend. When someone tells you about something someone else does, know he’s doing it, too. Anyway, the diplomat and his wife were on one end of the hotel hallway, and his mistress was on the other. Unbelievable. Very believable. I figured it out. So, I dragged Timothy along, and all we needed was one picture for proof. We had need for a gentle persuasion and enough leverage for a certain matter. He was a small-time diplomat, married to someone whose father owned a very large US company—and big is very big there. Anyway, I pulled it off, and he really did end up helping us—against his will, but still. That’s what’s important in the end. You can’t ask someone to do something, then argue about the how once he winds up succeeding. It’s all in the rules of the game. There will always be that one smart-ass who’ll say ‘Yes, but if you did it this way, then this and that would have happened…’ but they only screw with your head. Did they actually do something for you? Offer anything? It’s all well and good to come up with ideas after the operation is over. Where were they before? If you did it and pulled it off, then everyone should sit down and shut up.

Long story short, I saw her on the beach, wearing a blue bikini. I can remember it as if it were yesterday. I got out the water and there she was, sitting there on a plastic chair on the beach. For a moment I thought our eyes met, but she was nothing but a schoolgirl with her friends, and I was twenty-seven, and married with a kid. Lost in work and life. I also figured I had to have been imagining—at least part of it.

I went back to the beach bar, where Timothy was sitting with a sweaty face.

A cold Coke was waiting for me.

“Thanks,” I’d said.

“You’re welcome,” he’d replied. “It’s on the Baron. But I’m limiting you to one. Unless you’d like to order one for the girl who almost made you swim to Saudi Arabia by accident?”

“Noticed that, did you, you bastard?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“What should I not think about, Timothy?”

“The thing you’re thinking about.”

“And how do you know what I’m thinking about?” I’d asked.

“Since I’ve been controlling your brain for years. I’ve trained you well. Now, sit. Drink your Coke.”

I sat.

But I got up after finishing. God,