“And you’ll find it,” she replied, sliding her soft hand down my shoulder. “It’s all inside you, Eyal. Believe me. If you want it enough, you’ll find it.”

4.

THE FOLLOWING DAY I drove to HaBrosh Street. I couldn’t find number 26. I walked up and down the street until a black jeep pulled up beside me. A bald man in a black suit stuck his head out the rear window.

“Those goddamn Frenchies are going to kill the deal,” he yelled.

“What?”

The bald man opened the car door. “Hop in. Quick, there’s no time. The meeting is in half an hour.”

“I think you’ve got me mistaken for someone else,” I tried explaining.

“Eyal Rubinstein? From the Meaning of Life Ltd.?” he asked, holding up his smartphone. There was a photo of me on his screen.

“What? Yes, but—”

“I spoke with Yaron, don’t worry. Come on, get in, I have no intention of being late.” He pulled me into the car and the driver set off.

“Motty, the company CEO,” he introduced himself with a firm handshake. “I’ll put it all on the table—we’re running at a crazy deficit. If the French don’t buy us out, it’ll be a disaster. We’re talking two hundred people out of a job, including yours truly.”

“Wait a minute, listen. I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He pulled a newspaper out of the glove compartment and handed it to me. The headline on page four read: “French corporation Better Life reported to purchase a vitamin company from Be’er Tuvia in the next few days.”

“I’m guessing that’s your company? Great news.”

“That’s what I thought,” Motty sighed. “Until a friend in Taiwan found out they also sent a representative to a Taiwanese vitamin company, the only difference being they had already made them an official offer. Those anti-Semites are only keeping us around as their plan B, in case something goes wrong.” He leaned forward.

“Cut in front of him,” he ordered the driver, then turned his gaze to me. “So what do you propose we do?”

“Me?”

“You see another strategic advisor in the car?”

“I’m not a strategic advisor.”

“Crisis manager, negotiations expert, call yourself whatever you want. How do I get them to buy?”

“Listen, I’m really not the person to—”

“Yaron told me you’re modest,” he cut me off. “I don’t like it. Hey, pull over, we’re here,” he instructed the driver, who ground to a halt at the entrance to an upscale restaurant. Motty got out of the car, opened the trunk, and returned with a smart jacket and pants on a hanger.

“Change. They’ll be here any minute.”

Two minutes later I was decked out in the fanciest clothes I’d ever worn.

“Custom made. Yaron sent me your measurements.”