We got out of the car. A tall man with a mustache called out Motty’s name. Judging by his accent, he was undoubtedly one of the Frenchies. Motty shook his hand before introducing me in his heavily Israeli-accented English as a company consultant. I didn’t dare correct him. Motty opened the door and the three of us walked in and sat down at a round white table. The Frenchman immediately began to drill our waiter about the wine list, turning up his nose at every item until finally settling for a local merlot.

“Any news about the offer?” Motty asked.

The Frenchman apologized, saying their accountants were still going over the books. “We’re a thorough company, hence the thorough due diligence,” he explained, then suggested they go over the company’s business goals again.

“Gladly,” Motty said, scratched his cheek, and began to tiredly recite financial data I had no way of comprehending.

“How about we do it with the PowerPoint presentation, like last time?” the Frenchman asked while meticulously spreading a thick layer of butter on a piece of sourdough. Motty hesitated for a moment, then said it was no problem, we’d go fetch the laptop from the car.

“Say, what’s up with you?” Motty asked once we made it to the car. “Your silence is some kind of strategy I’m not getting?”

I didn’t know what to say. Having given up on getting an answer out of me, Motty lit a cigarette. A few moments later, my phone rang. It was Yaron, but I already knew it was too late to back out. I switched off the ringer.

“What brand is that?” Motty asked, pointing at my phone.

“Some sucky Chinese one. The battery lasts two hours.”

“And they insist on calling them smartphones,” he smirked. “They market them as if every single one of them is a Harvard graduate.”

“I guess it makes people buy them.”

“Yeah, huh? Too bad we don’t have smart drugs. The French would have bought us on the spot.”

“They don’t know you don’t have smart drugs,” I mentioned, not entirely sure what I meant.

“Wait, what are you saying?” Motty asked. I told him I might have an idea, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t work.

“Just tell me, it’s not like we have anything to lose.”

I tried to explain. Unlike me, Motty seemed to understand what I was talking about.

“I’m really not sure it’s a good idea,” I stressed, but Motty was already walking back into the restaurant.

The Frenchman was chewing on a slice of smoked fish, and before we even took our seats, Motty announced: “I apologize, but we’re pulling out of the deal.”

The Frenchman looked up from his plate, staring at us with puzzlement, perhaps wondering if this was some kind of Israeli joke.