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

know,” Sagi replied. “The guy you were talking about.”

Byron and I looked at each other.

“It’s better you keep your eyes on the road,” I told Byron.

“Yes, you’re one-hundred percent right.” Byron looked away. “That Gaze took the NBA championship, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” I answered. “And that’s after he lost the college championship—during extra time… What’s this crowd doing in the middle of the road?”

“I’ve no idea,” Sagi replied.

“It’s a demonstration against the use of coal,” Byron explained.

“It’s the sheep’s farts in New Zealand that cause the hole in the ozone—not you Australians,” I told Byron.

“Sure, that’s part of the problem,” Byron said.

“I’m hungry,” Sagi intervened.

“It’s only morning time.” I turned to him.

“The sheep you were on about made me think about kababs,” he said. “Say, what’s the name of the woman we’re going to get?”

“Noa. Noa Weisberg.”

Women, food, and the views of Australia. What complaints could we have?

Byron slowed the car to stop at a traffic light. The pedestrian light changed to green.

“Look, Sagi!” I jumped as if struck by a snake.

“What?” he jumped too.

“Byron, Look!” It was unbelievable. The second—the actual second—the little man turned green, a hedgehog jumped off the sidewalk. Think about it—the sidewalk is high, it’s probably equivalent to a human jumping off a meter-and-a-half edge. Anyway, the hedgehog started crossing the road, walking along like a little old lady weighed down by shopping bags in a busy street in Tel Aviv. Right as its light turned red and ours green, it started its climb onto the curb.

“Have you ever—in your whole life—seen something like that?”

“No,” answered Byron.

“And during the daylight, too. Normally, hedgehogs only walk around at night,” Sagi added. “All of their little quills… gross.”

“Those quills are for protection,” I said. “That’s nature for you. For every living thing. Some bite, some sting… it’s protection. And the best defense is always offence.” I’m a regular Confucius, what can I say…. I needed to up my game.

When a group of people walk down a hill, the one last in line is always the highest. Confucius.

“Byron, stop here for a moment. I need a smoke,” I said.

“Come on, mate,” he muttered. “Those things’ll kill you.

“So will women, Byron. So will women. Pull over.”

The car came to a slow stop and I stepped out.

This time I took a little more than a minute. Give a man time to breathe.

“Let’s get on with this,” I said as I shut the car door with a hard slam. Too hard—if Byron’s face was anything to go by.

“What’s the date today?” Byron asked.

“The seventeenth of February,” Sagi replied.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sagi answered. “What’s all the drama about?”

“No, nothing…”

“You didn’t jump up with those starry eyes for nothing. Are you in love perhaps, Eran? What happened? Did you forget your wedding anniversary?” He gave me a mean smile of a man who suffered that exact problem once or twice.

“No, someone’s birthday. Two someones, actually,” I said wistfully.

“May I ask whose?” Sagi asked.

“Of course, you may. It’s Mickey Burkovitch and Michael Jordan’s birthday,” I replied triumphantly.

“Right, remind me to stop and buy them a cake during your next smoke break, yeah?” he replied cynically.

“You’d need two,” I muttered to myself, not so cynically.

“What’s your deal with basketball?” Byron asked.

“Nothing. That’s the problem…. Kidding. I love basketball. It’s fun.”

“What’s so fun about it? It’s ten idiots chasing a ball,” Sagi said with his attention back to his documents.

I sighed.

Chapter Sixteen

“Byron, is it true that the M13 is spread across twenty-four-thousand kilometers?” I asked.

“Sure is. It’s Australia’s main highway, though some of it is nothing more than a dirt road.”

“We’ll all reach those sorts of sections, don’t you worry,” I replied. “It’s unbelievable,” I continued. “Earth’s circumference is a little over forty thousand kilometers.”

“Why are you so impressed?” Sagi cut in. “It’s only a road.”

“Right—only a road… should we try and build something like that in Israel? What do you say?” I glared at Sagi in a way a sleepy civil servant might, while sitting on a sidewalk with his three friends having Coke and cream.

He’d get fifty shekels an hour. Double, if it were up to me. He’d probably take a receipt for the Coke and cream and add it as essential expenses. Oh… Coke, cream and challah bread… though you can only get challah on Thursday and Friday shifts. And that’s also only for blue-blooded civil servants.

People who hear this usually say that food like that is only bought by those who can’t afford anything better. It’s packed with calories, so it’s generated energy, for cheap. But that’s bullshit. It’s ridiculously tasty. Fresh challah—and early in the morning it always is super fresh—is worlds better than pita bread, baguettes, or chapatis. The Coca Cola company was part of the Dow Jones even before the civil service offices were up and running. Plus, it helps with stomach aches. And cream?

Cream was given to Cicero well before Coca Cola made a staple for itself as part of the thirty most influential companies in the world. To be honest though, its story doesn’t have the best ending. A spear to your head in payment for cream and butter is not the best deal. Still, Cicero never missed an opportunity to miss an opportunity. What—did he sleep on the job? If you fall asleep on guard duty, that’s what happens. And that was the Philistines’ minister of defense. Tough.

I can’t imagine Arik Sharon falling asleep during guard duty or with some random woman. I can picture him having a heavy meal with Dr. Condoleezza Rice.

Personally, I’d add butter to that civil servant breakfast meal, but spreading butter on your roll in the middle of a crossroads isn’t the easiest feat. It’s hard when you buy it, which means it’s hard to spread anyway. If you don’t spread it well, then you gag on globules of condensed fat with every other bite. That would probably be the point when someone would show up to ask why the hell you’re simply sitting around doing nothing