3

IN THE PRIVATE TOILET adjacent to her office, Shula Amit refreshes her makeup. This is one advantage men have over women in politics—that and not having a period, which at forty-seven Shula still has, in spades, ten bloody days a month. The extra-large breasts she developed at age thirteen are gone, however. As a child of privilege—her father’s contracting firm built much of Haifa’s seaport—Shula had them reduced immediately after serving her two years in the Israel Defense Forces, where despite custom-made restrictive bras she had to have her uniforms hand-tailored by her mother’s dressmaker, and twice asked her father to intervene with the chief of staff when her superior officers went beyond leering. Even then, she had in the back of her mind the idea of a career in public service, and knew she would be judged not by her ability to make decisions or analyze policy, but by her tits. To Israeli men, anything over a B indicates bimbo. A male politician may possess a huge dick but—aside from that bizarre case involving an inane congressman in America—the public does not see it, but a woman’s breasts, especially when so prominent, are the first part of her to enter a public space. Any public space. Even the Knesset plenum. Especially, she thinks, the Knesset plenum.

Back in her office, Shula takes the usual afternoon call from her mother, whose mission in life is to oversee the nanny who oversees her two grandchildren.

“She gives them watermelon for dessert.”

“Ah, yes. Watermelon poisoning,” Shula says while reviewing her notes for the cabinet meeting that will begin in minutes—why is a caterer on the list of attendees? “People do eat watermelon from time to time and survive.”

“But the children stop eating lunch. Once she puts the watermelon on the table—”

“Mom, don’t you read the papers, listen to the radio?”

“Peace, shmeace,” her mother says. “In seventy-two years of my life, how many peace conferences have there been?” She pauses for a moment of fraudulent modesty, a family trait: her late husband carried a hard hat with him a full thirty years after he had mixed his last bag of cement. He asked to be buried with it. “But what do I know? You’re the prime minister.”

“I am indeed the prime minister, and just between you and me and the rest of the world, a happy one at the moment. Mama, this could be real.” Shula will not say more. Not even to her mother. Considering her mother’s inability to keep secrets, especially not to her mother.

“From your mouth to God’s ear.”

“Let’s hope She has one,” Shula says.

This passes over her mother’s head. For years, the leading columnist at an opposition newspaper has signed off his column with, “And Shula speaketh to God, and God answereth, because Shula speaketh only to herself.” Nevertheless, Shula has a talent for political jiu jitsu, taking criticism head on and using it against her political rivals. When accused of being a person of privilege, Shula countered that this gave her no reason to take bribes. Still, the last thing she needs is an opposition party at home.

“Mama, you’re right to worry about the watermelon. Just make sure they do their homework.”

“Why bother?” her mother answers. “They’re like you. Five minutes after they return from school, it’s done.”

A caterer. The press would have a field day with that. SHULA’S LIFE IS A CABARET! or CUTS FOR THE POOR, CUTLETS FOR SHULA! A caterer in the cabinet room? Once that is known, the whole world will know negotiations have not simply begun, but have been concluded—with festivities. The secret will be out. As agreed all around, the US president is to have the honor of making the formal announcement, and—at least domestically—taking the credit in an election year. If he is cheated of that, there will be hell to pay.

A caterer, Shula thinks. I will have someone’s head.