The Jewish Messiah

You-Know-Who

BECAUSE HIS PARENTS had decided that everything would turn out all right once Xavier had a girlfriend, Xavier went looking for one. His eye fell on Bettina. She was in his class at school, a senior. She had been born in the canton of Graubünden. Bettina had a button nose and an active social life. She looked like a real woman.

In her bed, where she had taken the virginity of two other boys, she took Xavier’s virginity as well.

Along with her family, Bettina had adopted a village in India. And because that had gone so well, they were planning to adopt another one, also in India.

After his deflowering, she told Xavier: “For ten francs a month you can be part of it. That’s barely two glasses of wine — less money than you’d ever miss — and it can save an entire village.”

Quid pro quo, Xavier realized. So he said: “Sure, where do I sign up?” Even though all the deflowering had left him with was the feeling of having been punched in the stomach, hard.

Still naked, she began rummaging around in a desk drawer. She pulled out a few forms in triplicate that he, also still naked, had to sign and furnish with his bank-account number. That way the ten francs could be deducted automatically from his account each month. She was a real go-getter, in more ways than one.

“Okay,” she said after he had signed the papers. “That’s another hundred liters of clean water.”

He put on his clothes. Only then did the feeling of having been punched in the stomach go away, and he asked, “So — do we have something going?”

“Of course we have something going,” Bettina said, tucking away the forms he’d signed in a file. “We’re a couple.”

“Good,” he said. “My parents will be pleased.”

Fortunately, the perforator jammed right then, so she didn’t have time to think about his remark.

Bettina was good at gymnastics, Xavier remembered as he left the house.

And so it happened that, at the age of sixteen, Xavier adopted a village in India.

XAVIER’S FATHER RETURNED from Singapore. Because he suffered lower-back pain, the architect had had himself massaged there by an Asian lady. That was so moreish that he’d had himself massaged again the very next day, by a young Asian boy. Barely thirteen years of age, yet already physically mature.

The architect noticed that his body felt like it was tied in knots — probably from all those hours at the drawing board. So, a few hours before leaving for Basel, he’d had himself massaged again, this time by two twelve-year-old gentlemen, old hands at their trade.

He could, of course, have had himself tucked and rolled in Basel, but somehow that seemed less fitting. He was a man with a highly developed moral sense. One did not do such things in one’s hometown.

Back in Basel, he called his wife during lunch hour.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Aren’t you coming home for dinner?” Whenever he called, it was to say he wouldn’t be coming home for dinner.

“No,” he said, “it’s just that I think it’s time for us to bring things out in the open.”

She knew right away what he was talking about.

That weekend, the Radeks went to the Jura. They stayed at a good hotel with a sauna, a solarium, a tanning bed, and a fitness center.

On Saturday afternoon, when it started to rain, the architect said, “Come on, let’s go to the sauna.”

They undressed in their room, put on their bathrobes, and took the elevator to the basement. It was not a big sauna, just big enough for the Radeks.

They spread out their towels on the wooden benches and lay down — Mr. Radek on the top shelf, his wife and son down one lower.

“It smells like eucalyptus in here,” the architect said. “Nice and tangy. Come on, Xavier, take off those swimming trunks.”

“I’d prefer not to,” his son said.

“You’re not supposed to wear swimming trunks in the sauna; everything has to air out. We don’t have to keep any secrets from each other.”

“Oh, leave the boy alone,” the mother said.

There was an hourglass hanging in the sauna. Xavier turned it upside down. The sand was pink.

“We need to talk to you,” the architect said. “I’m sure you know what it’s about, don’t you?”

“No,” Xavier said. That was the truth. He had no idea what his parents wanted to talk to him about. He couldn’t remember their ever having talked to him about anything.

“About your grandpa,” the architect said. “Your mother’s father. You never knew him. He died long before you were born. But I’m sure you’ve wondered at times: What kind of person was my grandfather?”

“Not really,” Xavier said after a moment’s pause. Such thoughts had never bothered him, and he had no reason to believe this would change.

The sand trickled down slowly. Xavier’s cheeks tingled from the heat. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe anymore. What he had often thought was: Exactly what kind of people were the enemies of happiness? Were they all like Awromele? He had often been troubled by that, but not by his grandfather.

“Xavier, everyone wonders on occasion: What kind of man was my grandfather? Or: What did my grandmother look like? Did she bake nice pies? That’s completely normal. A person needs to know more about the blood that flows through his veins. A person needs to know where he comes from.”

“I come from Basel,” Xavier said.

“Of course, but before that. Once you were a sperm cell. And an egg. Isn’t that right? You know all of that, but it’s good to stop and think about it sometimes. Look, at a certain point you become interested in your family history, the way you used to be interested in your miniature steam engine.”

The architect rubbed his chest. He didn’t know how to go on. He rarely talked so much or for so long, especially not with his family. He thought about the masseurs he had met in Singapore. What a service they provided, what excellent knowledge of the human body they possessed! They were privy to all the special spots. The young gentlemen knew their way around the male body, without ever being arrogant about it. And, like all respectable people, they barely said a word.

“In any case, your grandfather was a hardworking man who loved his family a great deal.”

“And a patriot,” his mother said.

“And a patriot,” his father echoed. “In principle, your grandfather was a kind and sensitive person. But then, well, then You-Know-Who came along.”

“He had friendly eyes,” the mother said.

The pink sand kept trickling down. Xavier couldn’t stop looking at it. He seemed mesmerized.

“And soft hands,” the mother said. “Very soft hands.”

“You can’t judge customs, rites, and morals from the perspective of our times, from the point of view of what we know now,” the architect went on. “To give you an example: In the Middle Ages they burned witches; people thought that was completely normal. No one minded. People even thought it was a good thing.”

Sweat gushed from the architect’s pores. A sauna purifies the body.

Someone knocked on the door. “Occupied,” the architect shouted, “it’s occupied. We’ll be finished in a bit.”

Xavier thought he was going to faint. He was glad that he was already lying down: if he fainted, at least he wouldn’t hurt himself.

“Where was I?” the architect asked.

“In the Middle Ages,” his wife said, “but you don’t have to drag that into it. Otherwise we’ll be in here all day.”

“The Enlightenment. Yes, that was it. The Enlightenment is not a straight line from point A to point B, Xavier. Are you listening? Sometimes the Enlightenment takes a step back, and then, in the next decade, it takes two steps forward.”

“Lovely, that eucalyptus,” the mother said.

Xavier thought about school. Most of the boys in his class talked about girls all the time, which was not unusual for boys that age, but Xavier thought Jews were a lot more interesting. There, in the sauna, Xavier felt the need to someday cover a Jew in kisses, from head to toe. The thought caused him such anguish, or so much joy, he couldn’t quite say which, that he almost began to weep.

“I’m hot,” Xavier said. “Could we open the door?”

“It’s always hot in the sauna,” the architect said. “That’s what saunas are for. It’s the only way to get all the dirt out of your body. The heat burns the body clean.”

“I feel like my eyebrows are getting scorched,” Xavier said.

“Don’t forget,” the architect said, pulling the towel a little straighter beneath him, “that it wasn’t your grandfather’s first choice. He would much rather have done something else with his life.”

“He would much rather have worked on the land, with cows,” the mother said. “But back in those days, normal, everyday people didn’t run the show.”

“Normal, everyday people still don’t run the show,” her husband chimed in.

“Can’t we talk about this some other time?” Xavier asked. “I feel like my head’s on fire.”

“Your grandpa had to watch over the Jews,” the architect said. “That was all he had to do, watch over them, to make sure they didn’t run away or do crazy things. But because he had so much energy, sometimes he hit one of them.”

“He had a lot of energy,” the mother said. “He was hyperactive. He didn’t need much sleep, either. All he had to do was close his eyes for two or three hours and he was fit as a fiddle. These days, people take pills for that.”

Xavier said nothing. He couldn’t look at the pink sand anymore. He was starting to see things.

“Jogging, for example, didn’t exist back then,” the architect said. “What were people supposed to do with their energy?”

“Could we open the door?” Xavier asked.

“Fitness,” the architect said, “things like that. You’ve never known anything else, Xavier. Today every town, every neighborhood, every village has its own fitness center. But that’s all fairly new. Fitness didn’t exist back then. Can you imagine that? No. We can’t imagine that anymore, any more than we can imagine life without a telephone or television. Even this hotel has a fitness center, and later on we’re going to use it. Right?”

The father thought about Singapore again. Bringing things out in the open wasn’t his favorite activity, but he knew it was necessary at times.

“Sunday,” the mother said, but she choked and couldn’t finish her sentence.

Xavier thought that if he stayed in the sauna any longer he would end up with third-degree burns.

“On Sunday,” the mother said, changing her position, “Sundays, he never beat anyone to death, because he honored the Lord’s day. Even under such extreme conditions.”

“Do you hear that, Xavier?” the architect asked. “Do you hear that?’

No reply came. The son was having visions he couldn’t place, visions that he forgot immediately. All they left him with was a vague, unpleasant feeling, rather like the feeling he’d been left with when he lost his virginity.

The architect said: “If they’d had fitness back then, history would have been very different. People like your grandfather didn’t know what to do with all their excess energy.”

“And he never hit anyone without a reason,” the mother added.

Xavier got up and tried to open the door. But the father slid off his shelf, gave his son a playful punch, and said: “Not yet, buddy. Our fifteen minutes aren’t up yet. Let that sweat pour!”

Xavier sat back down on his towel. After standing up so quickly, he was afraid he was going to pass out. He was dizzy.

I have to spare my parents, Xavier thought, it’s hard enough for them as it is. He took the hand of his father, who was still standing beside the door to make sure it wasn’t opened, and said: “Papa, later on we’re going to have a great workout.” And then he kissed his father’s hand, more times than he could count.

THE FITNESS CENTER wasn’t much bigger than the sauna. Loud, monotonous music was coming from the speakers. The father settled down on a machine where you had to push weights apart. Just to please his parents, the son climbed onto a bicycle. His mother had withdrawn to the solarium. Normally she didn’t like sunlamps much, but since it was included in the price of the room, she thought it would be a waste not to use it.

The father panted. He was wearing knee-length red swimming trunks, and he was pushing the weights apart with abandon. He, too, had surplus energy.

Xavier loved his father, even though he had never been able to find the words to say so, even though he had never found access to gestures that would make that clear. But he felt it, even now, seeing his father panting away in the fitness center — even now, although Xavier had to admit that his pity for this man seemed greater than the peculiar business they called love.

The father got up from the machine and poured himself a glass of water. His body was drenched in sweat.

“If they’d had fitness fifty years ago,” he said, “the concentration camps would have been gigantic fitness centers where the Jews could have worked off their excess fat. Believe me, if fitness had been invented a little earlier, history would have looked very different.”

Xavier climbed off his bicycle, walked over to his father, and embraced his wet body. You couldn’t actually call it suffering, not yet, but he did feel something. Something to which could you could really only react with animal growling, or with a knife. Xavier discovered that it was easier to feel alive when you were in pain.

“Come on,” his father said, “let’s see how your mother’s doing.”

Her feet were sticking out from under the sunlamps.

The father lifted the lid.

His wife was lying there, naked, with a cloth covering her eyes like a corpse. She was startled. “Are you having a nice roast?” the architect asked.

“I took off my bathing suit,” she said. “Otherwise you can see the lines, and I think that’s so ugly.”

She got up and pulled her bathing suit on quickly. It was a blue one, with fish on it.

THAT EVENING, the Radeks dined in the hotel restaurant, by candlelight.

“If people would talk to each other more,” the father said, “there wouldn’t be any war. The only thing to do about it is talk to your enemy. Lay your cards on the table, the way we did today. If that would take place on a large scale, peace would have a chance. If the Jews had talked to the Germans, man-to-man, without starting to shout right away, peace would have had a chance.”

He took his wife’s hand and patted it softly. On his lap lay a pink napkin.