The Jewish Messiah

I Take It You Have No Pets?

THE MOTHER WAS SITTING, as she often did in the late afternoon, in the chair where she’d always sat when Xavier painted her. She was sitting there with a cup of tea. She was staring into space. Occasionally she smiled, even though there was no reason for it and she wasn’t thinking about anything funny. It was a mechanical stricture of the mouth. Now that she was home alone during the day, her passion for her Italian lover was no longer banished to the middle of the night. At the strangest moments, she was overcome by intense desire. Then she would get up, walk to the kitchen, and take him out of the dish rack. Every time she picked him up, she whispered the words she had learned from Awromele: Shema Yisrael.

The phone rang. She didn’t answer it, she listened to the ringing until it died out, then went into the kitchen. There she took off her clothes. There was no one home anyway. She looked at the battlefield her left leg had become, and for their first time she failed to understand why she hadn’t started in on her right leg, or her stomach, or maybe her left arm. There was so much flesh left untouched.

That morning she had finally found the time to go into a shop that specialized in pest control. She had taken the tram. “I hear them running around at night, when I’m trying to watch television,” she’d told them at the shop. “The rats.”

“Then we should actually come by for a look,” the man in the shop had said.

“No, I want to try it myself first,” the mother said. “I’m not at home much. I wouldn’t want you to come all the way out there for nothing.”

Then the man sold her the most powerful poison he had. “I take it you have no pets?” he asked.

The mother shook her head. “I’d like a receipt, please,” she said.

Because the weather was so lovely, she decided to walk home, but halfway there she regretted it. The poison was so heavy.

Funny how she never missed anyone. Well, sometimes, in spite of everything, her late husband, because he’d been disgusted by her.

Now there was no one left to be disgusted by her. Marc lived with her, but he wasn’t disgusted by her. At most a little indifferent. You needed to have someone around who was disgusted by you; otherwise you had to do it yourself, be disgusted by yourself. She slid her finger along the blade, and murmured the prayer she had learned from Awromele.

DANICA SAT ON the floor of her room, surrounded by Snoopy things — diaries, pens, a little Snoopy, a big one, a key chain. The more she fell under the protection of the tall boy and his friends, the more Snoopys she collected.

Not long before, a biology teacher had asked her: “Don’t you think you hang around a bit too much with boys who are much older than you? I always see you with the same group out in the schoolyard.”

“No,” she’d said. Then she had walked away quickly.

IN BEATRIXPARK, they found a badly wounded North African boy. The papers didn’t give it much coverage; there was more important news that day. The police didn’t give the case high priority, either; a gas station had just been blown up.

XAVIER WAITED until Awromele had dropped off again. Then he got dressed, taped a bandage over his wound, and went outside.

He walked through the center of town, sweating, feverish, but in a strange way happy. He was pleased with the decision he’d made, convinced that in the end Awromele would follow him to the land where he belonged.

At a supermarket he bought a container of custard. Awromele liked custard; it had been his culinary discovery in the Venice of the North.

In the checkout lane, Xavier saw a woman with two shopping bags and a child. He offered to carry her bags to her bike. Always helpful, that was Xavier, always thinking of others. They struck up a conversation. She was a schoolteacher, but she was on sick leave. Calmly now, no longer shivering, Xavier told her about his painting, but avoided the parts about King David. There would be so much to explain otherwise.

He offered to walk her home — she lived close by — and when they were standing in front of her door she asked, “Would you like to come up for a cup of tea?”

Xavier looked at his watch and smiled. He shook his head, but she insisted, and finally he agreed.

He helped her carry the heavy shopping bags up the stairs.

“I’m going to put my daughter to bed,” she said. “She’s completely bushed.” She carried the little girl into the nursery — a cute little girl in a blue dress, with a vacant expression on her face.

Xavier sat down on the sofa in the living room and looked around. A neat apartment, a bit small, but it had everything: books, CDs, plants, even a little painting on the wall. After five minutes she came back. “She’s asleep,” she said. “Let’s go to the kitchen; it’s cozier there.”

She had a red teapot. She said, “Call me Rike.”

Xavier watched her make tea. The conversation grew more animated.

“So — do you have a girlfriend?” she asked. The tea was steeping.

Xavier shook his head.

IN BASEL, the mother put on her clothes. She took a bowl from the cupboard and began making a cake. She hadn’t done that for so long, it was about time she did. Even though her child had left home, there was no reason why she couldn’t bake a cake, for herself and her boyfriend.

She put all the ingredients on the counter — the butter, the sugar, the flour, the eggs, the cocoa, the vanilla extract. She looked at her list to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Occasionally she felt dizzy; then she had to lean against the counter. She smiled, but it didn’t mean anything, it was something she did automatically, something she’d learned from her husband.

“LET’S LIGHT SOME CANDLES,” said the woman whom Xavier had helped with the groceries. “I always like that. It’s so cold outside, it’s like winter.”

She found some tea-warmers and put them on the wooden table. She lit them with a disposable lighter.

“Do you smoke?” Xavier asked.

“Sometimes. My boyfriend used to.”

Xavier nodded. He stirred his tea, took a few sips.

“Are you lonely?” he asked.

She laughed. Xavier looked at the little flames. “Well, I’m alone a lot, but I’m not lonely. I have a child.”

They both looked at the flames now; there were nine tea-warmers on the table. Xavier could act terribly interested when he felt like it. And he was interested. He would surpass the expectations of his teachers at the Rietveld Academy many times over.

“Do you have the feeling that people understand you?” Xavier asked.

She looked out the window, then at the stove, laughed again, and said, “Sometimes.”

“Would you prefer to have another language at your disposal besides the language you use now?”

“What do you mean? You ask awfully complicated questions.”

She was wearing her hair in a ponytail; she took off the elastic band that was holding back her hair and rewound it. Tighter, better.

Xavier counted the tea-warmers again; there were nine of them, he hadn’t been mistaken.

“Let me put it another way,” he said. “Do you believe that all truth is pain? Do you think that the truth begins where pain begins?”

She ran her hand over the wooden table, plucked at a fingernail, and looked out the window. If you leaned out a little, you could see a neglected garden down below. “God,” she said. “Jesus. Well, I’m not sure, I’ve never thought about it, but I like talking to you.”

THE MOTHER STIRRED the batter. She had used a bit too much sugar, but the quantities didn’t matter that much. And butter, never margarine, only butter. She thought margarine was disgusting.

She poured the batter into a glass baking dish and slid it into the preheated oven. For a moment, she clutched at the counter. “Shema Yisrael,” she said. Then she began whipping the cream. She did it the old-fashioned way, by hand.

“WOULD YOU LIKE to stay for dinner?” asked the woman whom Xavier was supposed to call Rike. “I don’t have anything special, but if you don’t mind that? Something simple, something quick. I belong to a salsa club, and we’re having a meeting later.”

Xavier was still sitting at her kitchen table. She thought he was nice, a little strange and a little young, but she liked strange men. Especially when they were young.

“I don’t know,” Xavier said. “Only if it’s not too much bother.”

“No,” she said. “It’s no bother at all, cooking for two or cooking for three, it doesn’t make any difference.” She got up to see what was in the fridge.

Xavier got up now as well; he went and stood behind her. “Will you help me?” he asked.

“With what?” The refrigerator was open; she was bending over to look at what was in the vegetable tray. Xavier saw carrots, a few forgotten green beans, an eggplant.

He seized her around the waist. “You have to help me,” he said.

She turned around. The refrigerator door was still open. Xavier’s hands were on her hips now.

“Did you cut yourself?” she asked. “Shaving?” She pointed at the bandage.

Xavier shook his head.

“I think I know,” he whispered, “where it comes from.”

“Where what comes from?” she asked. It alarmed her to feel that she loved this boy. Strange as he might be, she could learn to love him. In any case, she wanted to get to know him better; that was it; she was exaggerating, she always did that. Loving, where did she get that from? It had been a long time since she’d had such a nice conversation. That’s all it was. Someone had finally gone out of his way to understand her. And that was something in itself.

“I know where it comes from,” Xavier said. “I know it. But do you know it, too?”

“What? What are you talking about?” She wanted to step back to close the refrigerator door, but there was no room.

“I’ve seen it,” he said. “I know about it. But do you want to know?”

She shook her head. “Move back a little,” she said, “so I can close the fridge.” She took a few things out of the refrigerator and closed it.

Xavier was trembling now, like a weak sapling tree in gale-force winds.

“It’s love,” Xavier said. “That’s what evil is. Only that, nothing more than that.”

“Aw, come on,” she said. And then she took the boy in her arms and kissed him, because this was more foolishness than she could bear.

“I BAKED A CAKE,” the mother said after dinner. Dinner had consisted of schnitzel, potatoes, and some mixed organic vegetables she had bought at the greengrocer’s around the corner, which was also a health-food store.

Marc only nodded; he had taken note of her remark. Since Xavier had left, he had grown silent.

She cut him a piece of cake, then fetched the bowl of whipped cream from the kitchen. “Do you want some of this?” she asked. “Freshly whipped, so it’s at its best.”

Marc nodded. He ate quickly, like a worker in a company canteen, his fork in his right hand, leaning on his left elbow. That’s how he always ate, now that Xavier had left home. He didn’t have to do his best; there was no one left to do his best for.

He didn’t notice that the mother wasn’t having any cake. He didn’t notice much lately.

She watched him eat, she was very calm. She smiled. One time Marc looked up — questioningly, it seemed. She nodded at him encouragingly. “Enjoy your cake,” she said.

“I KNOW IT,” said the woman in her kitchen. “I mean, I know what you’re saying. When my friend left me, I was seven months pregnant. I thought: What have I got now, what are my prospects? Who’s going to want me anymore? But I went on wearing pretty clothes, going to the hairdresser’s, cooking nice things. That’s what you should do, too.”

She pressed Xavier against her and held him tight. She understood him, this strange boy, and he would surely come to understand her, too.

“It’s not that,” Xavier said. “I’ve seen it, and once you’ve seen it you keep seeing it. Once you’ve seen it you can never forget it. I know where it comes from.”

“Listen to me,” she said, moving some things from the counter to the kitchen table. “You need to cook something nice for yourself. When you think, What are my prospects, who’s going to want me now? — then you have to cook something nice for yourself.”

“HOW ABOUT ANOTHER PIECE?” the mother asked. “I baked it this afternoon.”

“What?” Marc asked.

“The cake,” she said. “I baked it this afternoon. For you.”

Marc nodded.

She cut him another piece of cake, put it on his plate, and added a big dollop of whipped cream. She smiled again, but this time it was for a reason: she was thinking about her lover; later on, he would be with her again. And then for all time, then it would be between her and her lover. Every step she took, every glance she took at the world, he would be with her.

Marc ate even more quickly than before. His thoughts were on his flight simulator, on Xavier, whom he couldn’t get out of his mind, on his future.

“Do you like it?” the mother asked.

Marc nodded.

“Strange,” the mother said, “that spot being empty.” She pointed at the bookcase where King David had always stood. Marc turned around. He looked at the shelf with Schiller on it and said, “Yeah, strange,” before stuffing the last piece of cake in his mouth.

“WE HAVE TO be quiet,” Rike said. “I don’t want her to wake up.”

Xavier followed her up to the bedroom. The bed was nothing but a mattress on the floor.

There was no night table, only a big plant.

“Wait a minute,” she said.

She went into the bathroom. When she came back, her hair was hanging free.

It had been a long time since she’d lain in bed with a man. Almost a year, maybe a little longer. It was about time — she didn’t want to forget how. That was the risk you took if you didn’t do it for a long time. She shouldn’t deny herself this, it was important, a little action now and then. It didn’t have to be perfect, he didn’t have to be perfect, the action was what mattered.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” she said. She sat down beside Xavier. “What we’re going to do is very natural.”

And, sitting on the bed, she pulled off her jeans. She was the older, she needed to encourage him a bit. If you waited until men got around to it, you could wait forever. Patience was her strong suit; she had plenty of it.

Xavier pushed his head into her lap. First into her pink underpants, and when those had been removed, into her bare crotch. He examined the place where evil came from. Shivering and everything, drooling, planning not to feel a thing, but still, despite everything, with the pretty terrorist from the park in his mind’s eye.

“Quiet,” she said.

“Take it easy,” she said.

The harder he pressed down between her legs, the more clearly he saw the terrorist in the park. The way he’d been lying there in the mud, beside the pond, with the jacket of his jogging suit open. Xavier saw him as though he had seen him only seconds before.

Then he bit her — not nastily, more out of helplessness; tenderly, even.

All truth is pain, but he couldn’t cause pain. He wasn’t able. He let go of her and tore the bandage from his face. That produced pain. Finally — it was about time.

The wound on his face startled her. “Jesus,” she said.

She pulled up her knees. Only now did it occur to her exactly what she was doing. She had met a boy at the supermarket, and now he was lying in her bed. A boy with an infected cheek, a boy with a cheek that looked as if it had been stuck in a garlic press. He grabbed her by the knees.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Loneliness is nothing to be ashamed of.”

She shook her head. What’s he talking about? she thought. What’s he raving about?

“I’ll cook something for you,” she said. “That’s what we were going to do, wasn’t it? My daughter will be waking up soon.”

MARC HAD MOVED to the couch; he was wearing his headphones. Benny Goodman, always Benny Goodman. The mother hated Benny Goodman.

She didn’t clear the table; she remained seated. She looked around as though this were the first time she’d ever been in this room, as though she were a visitor here.

After a few minutes, Marc bent over. His face had gone red; he was sweating.

The mother smiled. She looked at the bookcase, at the cake on the table, the delectable workaday world of her dining table. Everything was arranged so nicely — the cake, the whipped cream, her cup of tea. Almost like a museum, as though it would always stay like this. As though it would never change.

Marc got up. He groaned, he went to the bathroom. It had been a long time since the mother had heard a man groan. Her lover worked silently, and her late husband had never made much noise, either; he didn’t like noise.

When Marc came back, he was red as a beet. The sweat was dripping from his forehead. He looked around nervously, like a cornered animal. Yes, that’s what he reminded the mother of, an animal.

He remained standing like that for a few seconds. He was about to sit down, but then he suddenly doubled over, as though someone had punched him in the stomach. There was no one else in the room, though, only the mother, and she was sitting straight as a ramrod at the table, in her usual spot.

Marc was lying on the floor, like a big baby.

“Call a doctor,” he shouted. “Help me.”

The mother got up to take a better look at Marc. He was lying on the other side of the table. She couldn’t see him very well from where she was sitting.

“Help me,” he shouted. “Do something!”

She leaned down to look at him. His whole face was covered in sweat. He was gurgling; it looked like he was trying to vomit, but nothing came out. He was clutching at his stomach with both hands.

Marc looked at her. He reached his hands out to her like a child. His face was twisted in pain. Yes, he reminded her of a child, a pitiful child.

“You just ate a little too quickly,” she said. “It’ll be over in a minute.”

DANICA HAD CAREFULLY arranged her collection of Snoopy things. She had examined and re-examined each object. In a catalogue she’d ordered that had come all the way from America, she had checked off the things she didn’t have yet. And then, in a green notebook, the same kind of notebook she used for math, she had noted the order in which she would buy them.

She went and stood before the mirror above her sink and bared her teeth. She looked at her braces. She pressed her tongue against the braces and, at the same time, rested her hands on her breasts. Then she spoke the name of the man who the boys who protected her said would explain everything. The man who would clarify everything, and change her life.

“Kierkegaard,” she said, squeezing her breasts a little harder. “Kierkegaard,” she said again. “Kierkegaard. Do you hear me?”

“NO, YOU DON’T have to cook anything,” Xavier said. “You don’t have to. I’m not hungry yet.” He tried to push Rike’s knees apart, but couldn’t. She had tensed up. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “As long as you remember that all pain is truth, and all truth pain. If you remember that, the rest comes naturally.”

This boy was strange; he frightened her a little with his odd remarks, the funny way he acted. At the same time, though, she had to admit: he did have penetrating brown eyes. Eyes that wouldn’t let go.

She stopped resisting; he pushed her legs apart.

“That’s where it comes from,” he said. “That’s where it arises.”

He pushed her legs up, even farther, and farther still.

“But something else arises there, too,” he said. “Back there, behind the evil, the good arises, the lovely, the true, the beautiful.” He stuck his finger between her buttocks. He felt around between her buttocks, at first only with his finger, later with his tongue as well.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “I’m not clean. Let me cook for you. I’m not clean.”

From the next room came the sound of crying; it ruined Xavier’s concentration.

MARC DRAGGED HIMSELF across the floor to the chair where the mother had resumed her pose. She had been counting the books in the bookcase, just to kill time, but now that Marc was lying at her feet, she couldn’t ignore him any longer.

He grabbed her legs and shook them, which she found rather unpleasant.

“Do something,” he groaned, “help me. Please, help me. Do something. It hurts so bad.”

The rat poison hadn’t improved his looks; in fact, it had made him revolting, ugly.

“You ate too fast,” the mother said. “You were too greedy.”

He was short of breath; it looked like he couldn’t breathe anymore. He struggled to pull himself up to a sitting position. But he hadn’t grabbed hold of the table, he had seized the tablecloth. He pulled everything down onto the floor — the cups, the plates, the leftover cake, and the bowl of whipped cream.

The mother looked at him disapprovingly. What a mess he’d made of things. He couldn’t even bring this to a decent end.

Marc lay on the ground, the tablecloth draped halfway across his body.

For another minute or two, the room was filled with a strange panting sound, like the sound of a sick dog sneezing. Then, at last, it was still.

The mother stepped over the mess and went into the kitchen, where she picked up her lover. “Shema Yisrael,” she murmured.

She decided on her groin; she had never been taken there before. There was no one else at home but her. She could scream all she wanted.

RIKE TOOK HER little daughter into the living room and put her in front of the TV. Then she went back up to the bedroom, where Xavier was still lying on the bed. Although she hadn’t been planning to, she took off her jeans again. It had been so long since she’d had some action, she wanted a little action now, even if it was with a strange boy. She didn’t want to wait another year; she didn’t want to wait until she had the courage to invite someone else from the supermarket up for a cup of tea.

“Lie there, just like that,” Xavier said. He trotted down the stairs. He put the tea-warmers on a tray and brought them back to the bedroom. He’d made it all the way without having one of the little candles go out.

“Oh, how romantic,” the young woman said. “That’s so sweet of you.”

Xavier pushed his head between her legs again, and after a few minutes, he mumbled, “We have to wall it shut.”

“What are you mumbling about now?” she whispered. She was a little out of breath from moving her lower body up and down the whole time. She was the older; she wanted to make a good impression in bed. She wanted to show him how nice it could be.

Xavier picked up one of the tea-warmers, blew it out, ran his finger through the wax, which was still runny, and rubbed the wax on the spot where evil came from.

“Ow,” she cried. “What are you doing?”

“I’m the comforter of the Jews,” he said. “That’s why I’m walling shut the cunt.”

She sighed, she blushed. For a moment she thought she heard her daughter running down the hall, but she was still sitting in front of the TV. “You nut,” she said. “You’re so cute, you know you’re so nice.”

THE MOTHER WAS lying on the kitchen floor. The lover had taken her in the groin; there was a lot of blood coming from her groin.

If only they could see me now, she thought, if only they could see me.

She had her lover in her hand; she hadn’t put him back in the dish rack. She needed to catch her breath, but later he would take her again, and again, and again, until she couldn’t say “Shema Yisrael” anymore.

DANICA PUT SOME things into a shopping bag with a picture of Snoopy on it: a toothbrush, a pocket diary, a bar of soap. She didn’t miss her father; she didn’t miss Awromele, either; she didn’t miss anyone. Then she went outside, to the park where her tormentors often hung out after dinner, to talk about important matters.

She hoped she would meet her tormentors; without them she was all alone, because even when they weren’t there they were still there anyway. She thought about them all day, she saw them all day long, all day long she expected the boys to show up, she heard them wherever she went. It was better when they were really there; that was much easier to take.

She wandered through the park, but couldn’t find them. The park was almost deserted this evening. At last she saw a man walking alone, without a dog, without a wife, just someone taking a walk. He looked athletic.

First she followed him for a while; then she went and stood in front of him. She rested her hands on her breasts, pressed her hands against them, pushed her tongue up against her braces, looked the stranger straight in the eye, and said, “Kierkegaard.”

The man looked at her. He smiled. “How old are you?” he asked at last.

“Thirteen,” she said.

XAVIER LEFT the home of the single mother. Not until he got to the foot of the stairs, to the front door, did he realize that he had forgotten Awromele’s custard.

He didn’t go back; he ran through the streets on his way to the student hostel on Prinsengracht.

There he took off all his clothes and climbed into bed. He was still shivering. He didn’t know where the fever ended and reality began. All he knew was that he felt nothing, that he had succeeded in feeling nothing, that it was so much better not to feel a thing. All meaning was fiction, after all, the product of an overworked imagination.