Arnon Grunberg - The Jewish Messiah

She wanted so badly to be perfect. She thought about nothing else, only that, only her perfection and why it had remained undiscovered. She didn’t think about what she was doing here, in this restroom, or why she had joined the Committee of Vigilant Jews, why she had adopted villages in India; she didn’t even think about the sneezing powder, she only thought that she wanted to be perfect. She wanted to please men. That, in fact, was the same thing she had wanted back when she had stood on the bridge over the Rhine at Ilanz and thought about imperialism. It was in her last year of primary school that she had first thought about imperialism.

Of course, she wanted something in return for that pleasing. She wanted to be adored, and not by one man, but by all men. Was that asking too much, was that really asking too much? After all she had done for India and the Jews?

She felt the Egyptian’s hands running over her, the way her own hands tested fruit in the produce section at the supermarket, in search of the best of the lot. Adore me, she thought, adore me. I want to drive you crazy. I can drive you crazy — yes, I can.

“I’M COMING!” Xavier shouted to the sky, the trees, and the clouds. He had taken off his T-shirt and wrapped it around his right hand. He’d had to bandage the cut on his right palm; otherwise he couldn’t push the wheelbarrow. Now he was running bare-chested through the cold park. His jacket was still draped over Awromele. “I’m coming, Awromele,” he shouted. “I’m almost there.”

Two passersby with their pets saw Xavier limping along half naked behind the wheelbarrow. They stayed out of his way. Avoid eye contact, that’s the only way to prevent incidents. That was what they had been taught, the lesson they put into practice.

A lady out walking her two little dogs thought about calling the police, but after looking at her watch she realized that she had no time for that this morning. It would have to wait until tomorrow. She had an appointment at the swimming pool with a friend. But what if children were to see this, what would they think? She didn’t know what offended her most, the wheelbarrow or the bare chest. Energy and initiative, that was what the world lacked, in both politics and business; everywhere you went, you came across the same spinelessness.

Xavier saw no passersby. He missed Awromele; he saw Awromele before him. He missed him now truly, the boy, the handsomest boy he knew. That missing had felt different before today. Voluntary, that’s how it had felt. Now it was mandatory, he couldn’t do anything about it, the missing tormented him now.

Despite the T-shirt, the cut on his hand was bleeding more heavily and leaving spots on his clothing. Obviously, he wasn’t used to hard physical labor, but what was a cut on the hand compared with the missing like a buzzing in his ears? A buzzing that wouldn’t stop, a swarm of infuriated bees that followed him, that’s what it was like.

NINO SHUDDERED in excitement. He pressed Bettina against the wall of the restroom, put his hand on her leg, and slowly slid it upwards. Bettina pushed his hand away; she wanted to please, but strategic refusal was a part of that pleasing. She was wearing a little yellow skirt with black stripes that went well with her jacket.

The hand she had pushed away came back to her leg and crawled up it again, like a big hairy insect.

“Nino,” she said. “Nino.” She pushed the hand to one side, but she felt herself growing weaker. She had always been drawn to the exotic. The naughty. And this was naughty, even naughtier than joining the Committee of Vigilant Jews.

Nino tugged on her underpants, tried to rip them apart, pulled on the elastic band, then on the cotton, but the cloth was too sturdy, too sturdy for his old hands. Then he tried to pull down the black underpants at a single tug, but wasn’t able to do that, either. Bettina had to help him. And she did, she couldn’t bear his fumbling any longer. She took it personally. If she had been more seductive, if she had been more in control of the foreplay, he wouldn’t have to be dilly-dallying around like that, this old man with his greasy hair and his fat belly. The coitus wasn’t the problem, but everything up to that point it made her flesh crawl.

The kebab king’s hands trembled, he felt himself growing weak and dizzy, and at the same time, and this surprised him, he felt more manly than he had in a long time. He had forgotten about the money that didn’t discriminate, he had forgotten his wife who did discriminate, the restaurant in Rapperswil, Hamas and the other designated charities that he tried to support as much as he could, even though he had enough problems of his own with the Swiss police, who detested the government as much as he did. He was with Bettina, with this little Jewess. Now just a few more fantasies — sexual arousal couldn’t thrive without that. A few tender memories, cheap pictures he remembered from long ago, then he would no longer be alone, at last.

She stepped out of her underpants. She did something wrong. Whenever she undressed in the presence of a man, she thought: I’m doing something wrong. She couldn’t help it — it happened automatically.

“Bettina,” the Egyptian whispered. “Bettina, baby.” He sounded hoarse; this was the voice of a man who had forgotten everything. He was no longer the Egyptian standing in front of his refrigerator, realizing that he had lost everything, including himself. He was no longer the boy who went back to Cairo and whose mother received him mockingly with the words “Is that all you brought with you? Is that it, is that all you’re willing to give your parents, or did you bring something else? He calls himself Nino, do you hear that? Because he’s supposed to be Italian. Nino, and he waits on rich Swiss people in Rapperswil. Are there really rich people in Rapperswil? I don’t even know where that is, Rapperswil. Does it actually exist? Your brothers bring more with them when they come home, they bring substantial sums, and you, just look at that miserable little stack of bills. A dog would be ashamed to drag home something like that.” And she threw the banknotes in the air like confetti.

None of that existed anymore. He was no longer a dog, and he didn’t have to be ashamed like a dog anymore, either. He was a man, and, like a man, he pulled up Bettina’s little yellow skirt.

He stared at her crotch. The skirt slipped from his hands, and he took a step backwards.

“What’s wrong?” Bettina asked.

The Egyptian shook his head.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked. “Tell, me, please. You can tell me anything.”

There was nothing she hadn’t heard before. She was ready for anything, she was strong, a woman of the world, a man-eater. And she was bad, terribly bad. But that’s the way she wanted to be, the way she had to be.

Nino shook his head in disgust.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Bettina said.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and turned his head away.

She looked at herself, lifted up her skirt, but couldn’t see anything different. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Please, tell me.”

“You’re bald,” the Egyptian said, his head still turned away.

She looked at herself again, longer and better this time.

“I shaved myself,” Bettina said at last. “Like a little girl, don’t you think?” She laughed the most seductive laugh ever. She had practiced it in the mirror, as far back as Ilanz, laughing, looking, moving, running her hands through her hair, all of it in front of her bedroom mirror, for the men of the future.

“You like it, don’t you?” she asked when she was done laughing.

He shook his head again. His mood had crumbled, and he felt like a dog again. The dog always came back, always at the moment when he was least wanted.