A Cohiba With Bibi
Last night, when I got home, a motorcade was frozen, blocking the narrow street where I live. An armored procession caught in a space never meant for it. Black sedans sat bumper to bumper, their engines humming impatiently, exhaust curling up the stonewalls on either side. The lead car’s lights were still flashing, blue and white reflections ricocheting off shuttered shop fronts and balconies hung with laundry. My neighbors peered out from doorways and upper floors, curiosity mixing with annoyance. A Wolt delivery scooter was trapped behind the last car, its rider motionless, helmet tilted in disbelief.
Somewhere in the middle of the convoy, behind tinted glass, a secret agent with a suit, dark glasses, and an earpiece approached me, getting out of one of the vehicles. I thought he had the wrong person, but his voice was so low and intense that I understood his Hebrew as well as my native Portuguese.
“David Rosh Pina? National Security. Get in.”
“Me? I can’t. I have to cook tonight. It’s taco Tuesday, and my wife gets upset when I don’t do the marinara for the fajitas.”
“Get in! Yala.”
“What about the scooter?”
A second agent picked up my scooter from under my feet as if it was lite as a feather and threw it in the trunk of one of the vehicles. The first agent opened the back door, and I got in; no more questions asked.
The motorcade sped away along the highway. I wondered if wearing a patterned scarf on the bus two years ago or posting a peace dove emoji to my mother on WhatsApp could be enough to get arrested.
“You smoke cigars?” asked the agent with his broken English.
“I used to smoke cigars, but I stopped during Covid. It’s bad for my asthma.”
“Shin Bet said to us you smoke cigars.”
“Shit,” I thought. “Now they’re arresting cigar smokers.”
The motorcade glided up the tree-lined street and slowed before the Prime Minister’s official residence, a pale stone house set back behind iron gates, modest by power’s standards yet heavy with history. Jerusalem stone walls glowed softly in the late light, their rough surface both elegant and severe, like the city itself. A small balcony overlooked the entrance, flags standing stiff at attention, while security cameras and discreet guard posts betrayed the weight of decisions made inside. Cypress and olive trees frame the house, attempting serenity, but the crunch of tires on gravel and the quiet choreography of security remind everyone that this was not just a home, but a nerve center of the State.
I left the car confused. Were they thinking of getting my geopolitical advice? I had lived in five countries.
A short man in a suit and glasses appeared to greet me. He spoke in flawless English.
“My name is Tzachi Braverman. I am the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff; it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rosh Pina. The Prime Minister appreciates you accepting his invitation.”
“Invitation?”
“Yes, you are to smoke a cigar with him.”
“Why me? I mean, there are other cigar smokers in Israel.”
“Yes, but none are as pretentious as you. We have read your blog in the Times of Israel. The Prime Minister himself selected you. He believes the two of you have a lot in common.”
“I haven’t smoked a cigar in years.”
“You’ll be fine, just don’t mention the hair color.”
“The purple…”
“It’s not purple! It’s light grey. Don’t mention it.”
Tzachi Braverman led me up a quiet staircase, his pace brisk but unhurried, nodding to guards as they passed. The Prime Minister’s office opened into a high-ceilinged room lined with bookshelves, austere yet carefully ordered. A heavy wooden desk faced tall windows overlooking the garden, the light softened by sheer curtains; flags stood in the corner, and framed photographs traced decades of handshakes and summits. Bibi rose to greet me, offering a measured smile and a firm handshake, the air formal but practiced. His voice was low and his accent as American as on TV.
“David, nice to meet you. Thank you for coming.”
“Pleasure is all mine, Bibi… I mean Prime Minister, Sir, Adoni.”
Braverman moved efficiently, placing cigars from a Cohiba cigar box on the desk like punctuation marks. He offered a brief, knowing glance, then closed the door softly behind him, leaving the room to its silence and the conversation to begin.
I took a cigar, Bibi took another, pointed at the cutter. Once I cut my tip, he lit my cigar himself with a gorgeous Golden 4-Jet Torch lighter, before lighting his own. We sat across from each other.
“So, Portugal.”
“Yes, Portugal. You were there some years ago, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Yes, Costa was the guy there.”
“Yes, do you know he is President of the European Council, now?”
“Pussy. He’s a pussy.”
The room went quiet. I felt like I should try to restart the conversation.
“So… how are things, Bibi, Sir? All… all good?”
“Yup. Pretty good, war here, war there. You know how it is, Dave? Can I call you Dave? So, wars can be a bummer. You know? Going to the bunker, having to stay late. But at least I spend less time with the wife.”
Bibi laughed, I laughed too, but when he saw me laughing, he got super serious.
“Are you making fun of my wife?”
I panicked.
“I am sorry, it came out the wrong way.”
“That woman is a saint. She saved this country; she saved me from several affairs. She is the fifth matriarch of Israel, together with Sarah, Rebekah, Leah, and Rachel. Do you get that?”
“Never mind, I thought you were making a joke, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Don’t ever make fun of Sarah, or else I will tell her, and she will kick your ass!”
Bibi started laughing again, but now I was confused. Should I laugh too? Was he joking at me or with me?
“That trial you are…”
“Did you like living in LA, Dave?”
“It was… nice. I liked the weather.”
“I lived in LA too, when I was young. You know what I liked about it?”
I was afraid of answering, so I remained quiet.
“The Jewish broads.”
Broad? He was now using old words as an Italian senior from the Bronx. He continued:
“They can suck a golf ball through a garden hose. Know what I mean?”
I was beginning to think there was a mistake in my casting. I think he was looking for a Donald Trump kind’a guy to talk smack.
I nodded with my head. I thought I needed to be more butch, more macho, probably spit on the floor to show how tough I was. But now the silence settled in, a really, really long silence. I puffed on my cigar; I looked around the room.
“Have I told you how Fidel Castro gave me these Cohiba cigars?”
“No, you didn’t. How did he give you these Cohibas?”
“I am not gonna tell you, you are too boring. I thought you could get me a meeting with Cristiano Ronaldo, but this was a mistake.”
Bibi pushed a button, and Braverman walked in like an English butler. He gestured for me to rise and followed him out, which I surely did. On the way down the stairs, he turned to me.
“I think that went very well, Mr. Rosh Pina.”
“I think it went pretty badly.”
“Not at all. Last week, we had Lior Raz. He lasted two minutes.”
We go to the door.
“Uri’s giving you a ride home. I trust this meeting will remain a secret, Mr. Rosh Pina.”
“Of course, I am a tomb. Nothing comes out.”
I got in the car with Uri and thought I was still on time for my Fajita marinara and taco Tuesday.
