Arnon Grunberg - The Jewish Messiah

“No, it’s fine,” Xavier said. He choked down the meat, bite by bite. He did it for the mother, who had spent all that time over a hot stove.

“Come on,” Marc said, looking at the mother again, “we’ll heat up that schnitzel, it will only take a minute.”

“It’s fine like this,” Xavier repeated. He gagged, and hoped that no one noticed.

The mother thought: I’ll smack him over the head with a frying pan. I should have done that a long time ago. Long ago. When he was still a child. That would have saved me a lot of grief. One solid blow with a frying pan, that would be enough. She looked at the wooden bowl, purchased in Pisa, that still held a few leaves of lettuce. She restrained herself.

“Buddy,” Marc said, “who did this to you?”

His mouth full of meat, Xavier said, “No one.”

Marc wanted to know everything. When you love someone well, you want to know everything. “Who hit you? You can tell me, and your mother, too. We can keep a secret.”

The mother looked at her boyfriend. Despite her self-control, she felt herself growing livid. She said: “Did you know that he broke my nose, Xavier? You didn’t know that, did you? Yes, Marc broke my nose. I don’t hold it against him. Do you think my nose looks any different?”

There was no reaction. Xavier chewed on his gristly schnitzel. Marc was blushing, but no one noticed. The mother took a deep breath before going on: “The doctor says it will heal slowly. Well, I’m in no hurry. But before we start fussing over your eye, I thought I should just let you know.”

She had said nothing about it until now, about the incident with her nose. She had found it too embarrassing, a boyfriend who broke your nose, and a boyfriend like Marc, a namby-pamby like him. But now she poured out her feelings. It didn’t make much of a difference. She felt no different from the way she had before she said it. Filthy, that was it, filthy through and through.

“I can’t see anything, Mama,” Xavier said. “Really, I can’t. You look beautiful. Much better than you did a couple of weeks ago. Don’t you think so, Marc?”

Marc smiled shyly. He played with his silverware. As a boy, he had done a lot of magic tricks. He had also been quite good at juggling. But that was all behind him now, now that he had discovered the flight simulator.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything bad by it,” Xavier said. “Did you, Marc? You didn’t mean anything bad by it?”

“No,” Marc said. “I really didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

The mother ran her fingers over her nose. Even as she did, she was ashamed of the gesture, and dished the last few leaves of lettuce onto her plate. She had made the salad dressing herself; she hated dressing from a jar or a tube, no matter how much work it was for her to make it herself.

“It has to heal slowly,” the mother said. “Well, then, we’ll just have to wait, won’t we?” She began chewing on her lettuce.

Marc rested his head on Xavier’s shoulder. He felt an overwhelming need for warmth, but not from the mother. Not all human warmth is equally welcome. “It was an accident,” he said, his head still on Xavier’s shoulder. “I would never do it again. I was confused about my sexual identity; that’s why it happened. Now I’ve found my sexual identity. Now something like that could never happen.”

Xavier gently pushed Marc’s head away. He thought about Awromele, wondering where he was now and whether Awromele would ever want to see him again. For the second time in his life, he felt suffering. It changed the world, made everything dull, reeked of death.

“I’m a sensual woman,” the mother said with a bitter little smile. “But my sensuality wasn’t appreciated. You can’t force sensuality on anyone, it’s take-it-or-leave-it. Now I’m sensual for myself, and I’m not missing a thing.” She looked triumphant. Victorious.

“You mustn’t say that, Mama,” Xavier said. “You really mustn’t say that. I’m sure there are people who appreciate your sensuality. Papa, for example — he stayed with you all those years, didn’t he? Men like sensual women. You just have to give them time.”

The mother laughed in a way that frightened Xavier.

“I gave him time,” the mother said. “And Marc, too, all the time in the world. And what did he do with it?” She looked at her boyfriend. “He played with the flight simulator.” Again she laughed. Not long, and not cheerfully, either.

Marc bowed his head. “I hadn’t found my sexual identity yet. The thing is — not just with sexual identity, with all kinds of identity — you’re not born with it, you have to find it gradually.”

Xavier was feeling increasingly ill, the headache had not gone away, and Marc’s words were only making it worse.

“I’ll paint you again real soon,” Xavier said. “Mama, are you listening? I’ll paint you again real soon. And this time I’ll paint you as a sensual woman.”

Marc went to stand behind his stepson and massaged the boy’s shoulders. One hand slid into Xavier’s shirt.

“You’re tickling me,” Xavier said, but Marc pretended not to hear. Xavier didn’t dare repeat it — he was afraid of drawing his mother’s attention to something to which she would be better off not paying attention.

“Your son,” Marc said, “is a gifted artist. Right now we’re the only ones who know it, but soon the whole world will know.” He pressed his crotch against the back of Xavier’s chair. “This boy,” Marc said to the mother, “this boy has something rare. The fire of art is burning inside him. I have an eye for that, because when you work in radio you see fire like that passing by every once in a while. Not often, it’s rare, but every once in a while you see it shuffling past, and that is also a wonderful moment. I am so grateful that you have given me the opportunity to spend my days close to this fire.” Then Marc bent over and planted two little kisses on the top of Xavier’s head, so the mother wouldn’t see how his face was twisted with desire.

That’s what happens when you find your sexual identity. You become a predator, the world becomes your hunting grounds, and when you don’t have the world you can always prey on your family.

The mother didn’t look at Marc. He left her cold. Everything left her cold.

Marc remained standing like that for at least two minutes; he kissed the top of Xavier’s head again; he was acquiring a taste for it. Then the mother finally came up with something to say: “Didn’t the two of you think the schnitzel was a little tough? Maybe I should try another butcher. This one has started looking at me so strangely, ever since he heard that I’m an honorary member of the Committee of Vigilant Parents.”

Xavier tore himself away and stood up. “You’re very sensual,” he said. “Don’t ever forget that. Of all the mothers I know, you’re the most sensual.”

“I know,” she said as she piled up the dishes. “I’m also much more sensual than the girls at your school, a lot more sensual than that Bettina. I always have been. But the world was never interested.”

In the kitchen, she put the dishes in the sink, and because she couldn’t help herself she took the bread knife from the dish rack and looked at it, the way — in a different world — she might have looked at a man: With love. With desire. With passion.

In the park, the cold was settling deeper and deeper into Awromele’s bones. He began shivering, and regretted having wanted to punish the traitor he loved so much, regretted not having replied when Xavier had called his name. That was why he shouted now, “Xavier!”

But Xavier was no longer in the park; he was in the living room, waiting for the mother to come back from the kitchen so he could say good night to her. There was a thin string of gristle between his front teeth, and he plucked at his with his nails. He was feeling dizzy. He hadn’t been able to finish his schnitzel, but fortunately the mother hadn’t said anything about it.