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

in tights and schnitzels between their feet soles and the dancing shoes… truly, I’m asking you. I once had a female friend from my class, who danced in a serious ballet dancing group while I was in high school. Actually, there were two of them and they were friends themselves. The inside information about the schnitzels is from one of them.

Though, it’s more like chicken cutlets from a butcher than merely schnitzel, which basically means cutlets with pyjamas. Probably shaped like Smurfs. Where is my lady in red?

She should be in the other section, sitting on the right-hand side. Ah, there she was. Always impossible not to notice. Even a blind man like me.

The main floor was sectioned off into twelve seating areas. Each held hundreds of seats. People gathered all around, slowly filling the magnificent hall.

I also don’t understand why the Sydney Opera House would be the main building for the Australian ballet company. What was the connection?

Ballet has hot chicks prancing around, and opera is all about fat ladies singing in Italian. Yelling and crying. With me, if the lady is fat, it’s over before it begins. So, how was it that the man ended up eating the woman in the opera? I’d have to confer with the next wide set, bass-voiced man I met.

Well, the circus was about to begin. Where was the circus master? I could see all the koalas preparing for her, but where was she?

I noticed Noa turn her head a little. I had eagle eyes when it came to looking from afar.

And—finally—the woman of the hour.

Ten meters and she would pass by my princess.

I knew it. There—noa shifted in her chair. Bingo. Timothy, I’m the master. The king. You better believe it, Timothy. I told you this whole time. You wonderful devil. Bastard, son of a bitch.

Why weren’t they coming out?

This whole redundant ceremony has been going on for forty minutes already.

Right, the target was on the move. Move the bag to your other arm so you can hold her hand in the lift—I told you, she’s left-handed. Come on, Noa… she always does as she pleases. Godless woman. Probably because there is no god.

I’ve told you a thousand times to hold the bag in your left hand. A thousand times.

I suppose it doesn’t make much of a difference when the prime minister rests her hand on her ass, though, does it?

***

“Join me for a drink at the bar?”

If my mother would have heard that, she would have passed out. possibly—definitely.

Me, her daughter, with the prime minister of Australia—head to head, having a serious girl talk.

The subject on the table: the prime minister herself. If you’d like me to be more specific, so the main topic will be her head. The rest of the body doesn’t matter much, and honestly isn’t anything to write home about. If we’re already on the subject, the mind is the biggest sexual organ, and she’ll be losing it soon anyhow… trust me.

We walked into the opera house’s bar, escorted by two blind men—it sounds good, I know.

Wow, how lovely. Simply seeing this bar was worth the trip to Australia. It could have been nice sharing a beer here with Eran. He doesn’t drink alcohol; says it tastes awful. He’s right, to be honest. It’s the feeling that comes after that’s enjoyable. What does it really matter? He can drink whatever he wants. Either way, I would have needed to call up a friend of mine who lives close by to put out the flames. The friend is a fire fighter. Damn, I can’t wait to get home already. I miss Shakedi most of all. I haven’t spoken to her in a million years. She’s with my mother.

Seriously, this place is unreal. And what a vibe.

We both walked along, the music of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the Summer concerti in the background. Right as the tension started to ramp up, the violins began their jumping sounds—Vivaldi, who’d probably been busy sweating through the summer, probably wished the season was finally over. These musicians can play so fast.

The cavernous ceilings wrapped around the bar area, as if protecting it from an imminent tsunami. The glass between the beams gave way to a view of Sydney’s incredible beachfront. The lights and the ocean… what could I say, it looked good.

Vivaldi’s violins slowed again. He must have gotten an ice cream. He had to—the vendor was yelling about leaving in a minute… I’m kidding. This is hardly Ashkelon. You don’t shove people here, everything is slower.

The place’s ceiling had what seemed like ten huge golden balls, hanging from above like astronomical objects, watching what was going on, bound between themselves by physical powers. Which indicates that they were connected very well to the ceiling above. Nothing will be falling on our heads here, I can assure you—which is not something we can say about Ashkelon, where building balconies fall on people due to reckless building process.

***

Everything was in a purple light. The fireflies on the tables illuminated the wood.

We sat at a side table that faces the ocean. The two guards sat a few meters away. The third was patrolling the entrance to the restaurant. There were two additional ones around somewhere. I couldn’t see them now, but I was sure I’d counted five walking in with her to the show. I wonder where they were. They were definitely here—they were here to protect her, so they weren’t merely having a potty break. I was nervous about not being able to spot them. They were probably the same sort of masculine blond men. I could take this lady… but this whole task force…. I would show them.

“What will you have to eat?”

“Do they have anything here that’s gluten free?” I asked.

“Of course,” Her Majesty answered. “This is a vegetarian friendly restaurant,”

“That’s great. I’m vegan.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Einstein said so,” I replied.

“What did he say?” Miranda asked.

My homie, Miranda from the block.

“Well, he said a lot of things,” I said. “He said he couldn’t