The Jewish Messiah

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THE TALL BOY and his friends graduated from secondary school, but they remained friends. Danica was still under their protection. They were loyal. They gave and they took; they knew that taking brought with it responsibilities. He who has taken once must take again. He who has used a person once must continue to use them, otherwise they will get the feeling that they are useless, that you have rejected them, that they no longer have a function. A person without a function is a person lost.

In fact, they had grown tired of Danica. She had developed into a spindly woman. Out of goodness, out of a sense of duty, they continued to make use of her.

Along with their former Greek and Latin teacher, they had formed a reading circle. They talked him into making use of Danica as well. At first he had objected: he had a girlfriend, Danica had been one of his pupils, it would be inappropriate. But finally he realized that such objections were less than sporting. Then the teacher began making use of Danica as well.

“We’re doing this to make you happy,” the tall boy told Danica, when they met her in the park on their regular evening there. “We could find something better. We do this out of pity. Call it friendship. Is there anything in the world lovelier than true friendship?”

Danica shook her head. She thought about Snoopy, about her brother Awromele, whom she hadn’t seen for years, and about Rochele, whom she’d lost track of as well. She understood that there was only one thing worse than being used by your tormentors: being left behind, unused.

THE BIGGEST PROBLEM still facing ha-Radek as prime minister of the Jewish state was terrorism. All other problems arose from that, no other problems seemed to exist, just as the object of affection is all that exists for one in love. Xavier knew, on the basis of personal experience, that pain knows no progress. Pain can become more intense, or it can decrease in intensity, but the idea of progress is foreign to pain. That certainty safeguarded him from political missteps.

Via a former head of the Israeli intelligence agency, the Shin Bet, he came into contact with the leader of Hamas. Ha-Radek invited the leader of Hamas to have a bite to eat with him at a discreet location, so that they might get to know each other better. Having a bite to eat with a stranger makes conversation easier — Xavier knew that.

Although the Hamas leader had little sympathy for men who were fond of men, and although he had no truck with Jews in particular, he accepted the invitation. Xavier had sworn to him that the media would never hear about it.

They met at a remote farm in the Negev. With the exception of two interpreters, employees who had both proved their discretion in the past, and Awromele, no one else was present.

The spiritual and political leader of the Hamas movement ate heartily of the roast lamb, after ha-Radek had personally tasted it first. He took two helpings of salad. He was a serious person, but eating soothed him.

After the meal, when the peppermint tea had been served, they sat down together on comfortable cushions beneath a pair of ceiling fans.

“I’m going to level with you,” Xavier said. “Both of us have a mission. You have a mission, I have a mission. I want to comfort the Jewish people, and once we know each other better, I’ll explain why. And you want to offer comfort to your people as well. But how can we comfort a people when we have no power?”

The leader of Hamas didn’t reply, so Xavier went on. “Even if a family is all you wish to comfort, you still need power. All comforting assumes power. You know that, I know that. Once I dreamed of writing the Great Yiddish Novel, but it turned out that it had already been written. Then I considered becoming a painter, and I painted, every evening, sometimes during the day as well. But now I’m the prime minister. Now I should be able to provide comfort. Yet this is an unusual country. Everyone watches this country, everyone talks about it. This land evokes emotions, just like an exciting book. This is where monotheism was born, this is where the sacred places of almost all the great religions are located, this is where a traffic accident can become international news. Let’s not linger too much on history, though, because, to be honest, I don’t know very much about it. Politicians shouldn’t look back, anyway — they should look forward. But how can you comfort a people when your power is not abiding? How can you make decisions when you have to fear for your power with every decision you make, when you live in fear of falling out of favor? He who has power must keep it. You have power, but your power is threatened as well. Because the people are fickle, and their memory is poor. The people are weak and disoriented by nature. They need leaders to keep them from making missteps. Your power exists because you have an enemy, because you can create for your people the illusion that you are struggling heroically against that enemy. There’s nothing wrong with that — every people has its own illusions. But let me put it differently: where would you be without an enemy?”

“Where would you be without an enemy?” the aged leader of Hamas asked quietly. His voice wasn’t particularly loud; you had to listen carefully to understand him. “All things human,” he said, “exist by virtue of having enemies. Without enemies, none of it can exist; it dissolves, vanishes into thin air, becomes more invisible than ashes.”

The servants poured them some more peppermint tea.

Awromele was sitting on the other side of the low table. He looked proudly and longingly at Xavier. He would have liked to take him in his arms right then and tell him how much he loved him, but he knew this wasn’t the moment for expressions of tenderness.

On the table, beside a candlestick and a plate full of grapes, was King David. Wherever ha-Radek went, he always took King David with him.

The leader of Hamas had already looked at the jar with interest a few times.

“So let’s talk about death,” Xavier said, putting some grapes in his mouth. “What is death? Scholars say: nothingness. And they are probably right about that. But death does spread fear. That’s why death is nothingness only to those who are already dead. For the living, death is always present, like a mother who keeps her eye on you.”

The leader of Hamas put a grape in his mouth as well; he liked grapes, he liked all kinds of fruit. He often skipped dinner completely and ate only tropical fruit. He looked at the jar again; he couldn’t see it particularly well, but, still, it intrigued him, that testicle. He was old and tired; in the course of his life, he had seen almost everything, but never a testicle in a jar. He had dedicated his entire life to a struggle in which he barely believed anymore, even though he would never admit that, not even to his closest associates, his political heir-apparent, his family. Without that struggle he was nothing, and he didn’t want to be nothing. He had been that already, and he had no desire to return to that state. To be dead was one thing, but to be alive and still not add up to anything — never again.

Xavier leaned back. After all these years in the Holy Land, he still hadn’t become accustomed to the heat. He closed his eyes tightly, opened them again, and looked at the leader of Hamas. He liked him. The leader had eaten his fill, and Xavier liked people who enjoyed eating.

“I’ll speak honestly with you, the same way I speak to my friend here, and to my advisers,” Xavier said. He wiped his forehead; the heat was tiring him out. “It’s hard for me to take,” he said, “the heat. I’m sorry. I was born and raised in Basel. Couldn’t Theodor Herzl have picked out a place with a milder climate than this?”

The leader smiled graciously. He knew Basel; he had been there once, years ago, when he was still young. To silence a helper who had turned informant. But he had taken pity on him. He hadn’t killed him. He had simply deep-fried his feet. In the end, he always took pity, that’s why he wasn’t suited for fieldwork. Directing people — that was where his abilities lay, he was better at that. Although he had his doubts about that now as well. “I know the city,” he said. “Basel. Lovely town. I was there once. We do business with Switzerland.”

“Who doesn’t?” Xavier said. “The Swiss banking system brings us all together. Yes, Basel. Have you been there often?”

“Once or twice,” the leader said. “But only on business.”

Xavier nodded. The leader thought about all the times the Zionists had tried to infiltrate his movement. If you wanted to prevent infiltration, you couldn’t show pity, you had to eradicate the informants root and branch, but he had always felt pity for them. He had fried where he should have killed. That was why he had applied himself increasingly to office work, to the logistical preparations for their operations, to finances.

“What I had started to say,” Xavier continued, “is that I have no secrets from you. I don’t want to have secrets from you. That’s the only way for us to get any further. There is a collection of meaningless pain. That collection is also referred to as mankind. But all pain begs for meaning. That is why there is religion, that’s why there is art. I used to paint, so I know what I’m talking about. I made dozens, hundreds of portraits of my mother with my testicle in her hand. But back then the world wasn’t ready for that yet.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the leader of Hamas said. He had written poems as a young man. He had been just as much a lover of beauty as Xavier was. But now he was tired. Though he longed to work on a poem again, his vision was failing. His eyes were getting worse all the time, and that made it look as though the world was going backwards, getting smaller all the time, withering away, until it became only the things he knew by heart, the bathroom in his house, his office, the path from the bed to the toilet.

“No need to be sorry,” Xavier said. “That’s how things go. Would you like some more tea?”

The leader shook his head. He’d already had four cups of peppermint tea; more than that would be bad for his stomach.

“Art lends meaning to pain,” Xavier said. “You know that. You can call God art as well, it makes no difference to me. All art is God, and God is all art. There is no Godless art. There is only bad art, and art that is far ahead of its day. Like the paintings I made of my mother with testicle, for example. They weren’t appreciated at the Rietveld Academy, because the people there were narrow-minded, locked up in something I prefer not to honor with a name.”

Xavier had risen to his feet; he shook his fist now and paced back and forth. “I know what I’m talking about,” he shouted. “I painted, I lived for art. I know how narrow-minded and prejudiced they were, the anti-Semites of the Rietveld Academy. Those homophobes, those frustrated bureaucrats who could do nothing themselves but macramé.”

“Take it easy,” Awromele said. “Xavier, calm down, now. This gentleman isn’t interested in the Rietveld Academy, this gentleman came here to talk about a truce.”

Xavier walked over to Awromele and ran his hand through his hair. As a campaign manager he had been creative, and he was still one of Xavier’s best advisers; his loyalty was unswerving. In fact, Awromele was the only person Xavier trusted. Ha-Radek discussed all important decisions with Awromele. Not that he always followed Awromele’s advice, but he talked to him about everything. In the shower, in bed, while they were walking their dogs. Xavier had bought two German shepherds — to keep himself company when Awromele couldn’t say no again. Then he would let them into the bedroom. They would hop up onto the bed, and Xavier would scratch them behind the ears until he fell asleep. By the time Awromele got home, the bed would be covered in dog hair, but that was something Awromele would just have to get used to.

“We should get to know each other a little better,” Xavier said, sitting down again. “That makes things a lot easier. How many children do you have?”

“Twenty-four,” the leader of Hamas said quietly, and he looked at Awromele again. He saw only a silhouette. That was enough. This Awromele was interesting, but the prime minister annoyed him. His own movement was full of young men with more ambition than effectiveness, and they were lazy, that above all, simply lazy. Spoiled, loudmouthed, without creativity, without real idealism. Even those who were prepared to die did so often out of laziness.

“Twenty-four,” Xavier said. “That’s a fine number. But what I wanted to say to you is this: politics is an extension of art. Politics is art that doesn’t withdraw to some protected nature reserve. Politics is art that doesn’t run away from responsibility.”

Xavier took a big gulp of water. He leaned back on the cushions for a moment, then sat up straight again. He looked at Awromele. It was for him that he was sitting in this farmhouse in the desert, it was for him that he had come to this country. For him. Xavier had no regrets, but sometimes he needed to remind himself of that.

“You send your boys to the supermarket,” he said, “to a hotel, a bus, a roadblock, a pizzeria. They go on their way, full of high spirits. Their parents don’t know about it, because when you’re young and adventuresome your parents never know what you’re doing. I know how that goes. My own parents didn’t know a thing, nothing. I was swimming in the Rhine with Zionists when other kids were reading Donald Duck. But, okay, they get themselves something to eat, your boys, or girls, they drink a little water, and then they explode. Some people call it terrorism, others call it a legitimate act of resistance. Let’s call it kinetic theater. Without art, there is no meaning.”

The leader of Hamas had made up his mind. This man was a clown; there was no doubt about that now. That’s what democracy gave you, clowns. He didn’t like the circus, he never had. An uncle of his had taken him to the circus in Beirut once, he had hated it. “Yes, kinetic theater,” he said. “You can call it that. If you like. I am not a philologist.”

“But effective and committed theater,” said Xavier, who had regained a bit of his former enthusiasm. “Because that kinetic theater causes pain and sorrow. It unleashes emotions. It becomes news, which is more than you can say about most theater. How many artists would like to make the news but never do? Not even an in memoriam. Do you know what they told me at the Rietveld Academy? They said I should start a flower shop.”

Xavier had risen to his feet again.

“Sit down, for God’s sake,” Awromele said.

The leader of Hamas nodded. The food had been good, but as for the rest, he had the feeling that he had come here for nothing, that he was wasting his time — and he didn’t have much time left.

Xavier sat down.

“Okay, I’ll remain seated,” he said. “I’ll remain seated, no problem. I’m an emotional person, I can’t help it. That’s why people sometimes misunderstand me. There is only one thing that can throw open our joyless wildlife sanctuary. And you’ve understood that by now. Death. Death is the only thing that can drag art out of the nature reserve where it has made itself ridiculous and superfluous.”

The leader of Hamas flicked away a piece of skin from under his eye. He wanted to go home; he’d had enough.

“Your kinetic theater causes joy for some, sorrow for others. Only a few are indifferent to it, and then only because they’ve never experienced it up close.” Xavier saw the leader glance at his watch and said: “Yes, I’ll keep this short. You want to comfort your people, I want to comfort mine. That’s why we need to perpetuate our power. Power adores the status quo, the way a habitual john adores his favorite girl. Let’s help each other out, let’s perpetuate each other’s power. That’s why I invited you here for this meal. Let’s keep things a bit under control. That is my proposal. Everything in good time, and all things in moderation. That’s the best for all concerned. My proposal is: no more than fifteen deaths a month, and not always in a pizzeria. Go for a little variety. Those people have to make a living, too.”

The leader studied his nails. He said nothing.

“I’ve talked to America about this,” Xavier said, “and to the European Union. They know about it, they back my proposal one hundred percent. I understand, you can’t always control it, there’s a lot of improvisation involved. So let it be twenty one month, but no more than ten the next.”

The leader leaned forward. He had a headache. There was a plate of figs on the table; he put one in his mouth, then picked up King David.

“May I?” he asked.

“By all means,” Xavier said.

The leader examined the jar from all angles, as well as he could with his bad eyesight. “A fine testicle,” he said with his mouth full of fig. “Blue — you don’t often see them like that. Is that right, is it blue?”

“He was infected,” Xavier said. “That’s why he’s blue. Yes, you see that very clearly.”

“So this is your Redeemer?” the leader asked. And he held the jar up to the light in order to get a better look.

“That’s what people say,” Xavier said. “Surveys show that fifty-five percent of the population believe that King David is the Redeemer. And who are we to doubt the majority? We mustn’t doubt that — that would be undemocratic.”

“More and more Christians are also starting to believe that Jesus has come back to earth as Xavier’s testicle,” Awromele stated proudly. “Almost seventy percent of the Christians in the United States, thirty percent in Italy. In Ireland, it’s still less than ten percent, but they’re working on that.”

The leader of Hamas nodded. “It is truly a fine thing to behold,” he said, putting the jar back on the table.

“Fifty,” the leader of Hamas said after he had finished his fig. “Fifty a month, and not one less.”

Xavier started laughing.

But suddenly he stopped, and his mouth twisted into a grimace. “Fifty — that’s ridiculous,” he said. “That’s a mockery. That’s more than it is now, more than last month. That won’t help to perpetuate your power, or mine, either. That won’t help anyone. The EU and America agreed to fifteen to twenty a month. I’m telling you this in complete confidence. No, that won’t get us anywhere. Have something else to drink, and try one of my chocolate cookies — I had them baked specially for you.”

Xavier had to call for them a few times, but finally a servant brought in a big plate of cookies and a fresh pot of tea.

The leader of Hamas ate four cookies, one after another, looked at Awromele, and asked, “And this is your…?”

“Yes, this is my friend,” Xavier said, and he looked at Awromele, too. It seemed as though time had left him untouched, as though everything became older and drier and balder except for Awromele. Only the little lines at the corners of his eyes showed that he was no longer twenty-three. “He can’t say no, but that’s because of his mother. She always told him: Don’t say no, the Jews have enough problems as it is. But I like you, and that’s not something I say to everyone. I believe we can help each other, and not only each other but also the United States and the EU — no, make that the world, mankind as a whole,” Xavier said. “The Palestinian Authority no longer exists; they’re a pack of corrupt animals. You are the Authority — unofficially now, but soon it will be official. I’m telling you, as a friend, as someone with your best interests in mind: he who has power must keep it, the rest is just details.”

“And how many wounded did you have in mind?” the leader of Hamas asked.

“Wounded?” Xavier asked. “Who’s talking about the wounded? What is a wounded person? Someone who couldn’t make up his mind, an in-betweener. I’m not interested in the wounded. Wounded people aren’t front-page news. You and I should concentrate on front-page news. Leave the regional news on page eight to the executive branch. We’re concerned with the dead. That’s what we’re talking about here.”

Xavier took a big gulp of tea. The tea was still hot, and it burned his mouth. After soothing the burn with ice water, he said: “I’ll tell you what. Because we understand each other so well, we’ll make it twenty-two — twenty-two deaths a month, and not one more. Twenty-two is my final offer.”

The leader laughed. It seemed as though he was only now starting to enjoy this. He said: “You’re not taking me seriously. What is twenty-two? What kind of ridiculous number is that? Let’s round it off to forty. But only because I enjoyed your lamb so much. Because I appreciate your hospitality, and that of your friend. Your nice friend — what was his name again?”

“Awromele,” Xavier said, “Awromele Michalowitz.”

“Yes,” the leader of Hamas said. “Awromele. My eyes are not so good anymore; perhaps he could come a little closer.”

“Awromele,” Xavier said, “dearest, would you be so kind as to sit next to our guest?”

Awromele got up and sat down beside the leader of Hamas, who ran his hands over Awromele’s face like a blind man. He enjoyed softness. The older he grew, the more he liked softness. In fact, softness was all that remained. The rest disappeared, dissolved. Soft flesh, nothing more, only that, each time anew.

“So your Redeemer lives in a jar,” the leader of Hamas whispered. He felt how warm Awromele’s face was, he felt the stubble of his beard, the sweat, the lips, the eyebrows.

“Fine,” Xavier said as the Hamas leader’s hands moved over Awromele’s features, “all right, we’ll round it off. Twenty-five a month. And then not all of them in Israel, but also the occasional synagogue in Rome, or Istanbul, or Vancouver. Scattering. Wherever art has locked itself up to languish away like a sick dog, it must be dragged from its preserve. The EU and the States know about it, and they say scattering is fine. But everything in moderation. No need for the whole thing to explode. Because then people won’t go shopping anymore. Scaring them a little, okay, that’s the task of art. Teaching the audience to shiver a little, to wipe the smile off the participant’s face, but the rest still have to be able to leave their homes and go shopping. So things can’t get out of hand. Are you listening to me?”

The leader of Hamas leaned over and kissed Awromele. First on the cheek and at the base of his neck, then on the mouth. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked between kisses. “That I kiss your friend?”

“No, of course not,” Xavier said. “Go right ahead. You are my guest. Besides, he can’t say no. And you are an artist, I admit that freely. You are my opponent, but I am not blind to creativity.”

Then Xavier fell silent and watched as the leader of Hamas kissed Awromele. He thought: Why can’t he say no? What’s the real reason why he can’t say no? I must ask him, before it’s too late.

His hands shaking, the leader of Hamas fumbled at the buttons of Awromele’s shirt, but because he was so nearsighted Awromele had to help him.

The leader of Hamas smelled Awromele, the aroma of young life, the odor of youth — yes, that was it, there was nothing but beauty and softness, that’s what life boiled down to when you started seeing less and less. And beauty and softness together, that was youth. His hand slid over Awromele’s bare stomach. He thought about Basel again for a moment. Long ago, after the operation he had not fully completed, he had visited a strange massage parlor. It had been recommended to him. But this was much better. This was lively, wistful. All true lust was bound together with wistfulness. At the massage parlor, the wistfulness had been eradicated by money. Did beauty have any greater enemy than money?

“How many deaths will that involve, then, on our side?” he whispered.

“We’re sticking to a ratio of one to three,” Xavier stated. “We’ve stuck to that for years; it’s a ratio we can work with. The United States and the EU have also let me know that they can live with that. Chaos in moderation perpetuates power, so that’s my offer: twenty-five.”

No answer came. The leader of Hamas had buried his face in Awromele’s warm torso. He kissed it, he licked off the sweat; it almost made him cry, it was so sweet. There was something about youth that made all politics futile, that made all power pale, that reduced all ambition to a tiring, almost superfluous affair.

“Thirty-five,” the leader cried, his hands running over Awromele’s trousers and thighs. “I have to take my constituency into account.” He felt Awromele’s buttocks. They were hard; he liked that. Not those flabby, gelatinous buttocks — they had to be hard.

“Twenty-eight,” Xavier shouted. “Because I’m out of my mind, because I want only the best for you.”

“Mmm,” the leader said. He murmured something Xavier couldn’t understand, and pulled with trembling fingers at Awromele’s zipper.

“Twenty-nine,” Xavier whispered, “twenty-nine a month.”

“Thirty,” said the leader, his hand in the underpants now.

There he had the sex organ. He could barely see it, but he felt it growing in his hand. How lovely it was. He was breathing heavily.

“Thirty,” Xavier cried. “Thirty, it’s a deal. Thirty a month, that’s decent, that’s respectable. And the States and the EU are behind us all the way. I tell you this in all confidence. They sent their envoys to tell me: don’t mess around with us on this one. No experiments. Chaos in moderation is good for all.”

“I want to see your ass,” the leader of Hamas whispered. And while Awromele was pulling off his gym socks, the leader said: “The interpreters can leave now. Now there’s no need for us to understand each other any longer.”

“Go away,” Xavier told the interpreters. “Go away. Can’t you see that our guest no longer needs you?”

Xavier paced the room with a bunch of grapes in his hand. “A flower shop,” he mumbled, “I bet they’re sorry about that now, and they’ll be even sorrier.” Occasionally he stopped pacing to look at Awromele and the leader of Hamas. How the leader pushed his way into Awromele and grew wild, almost youthful.

And Xavier wondered where the jealousy was, where the pain remained, the uncontrollable rage, the overpowering sense of loss.

But he understood that what was happening now was perpetuating his power. That made up for everything.