Arnon Grunberg - The Jewish Messiah

“I’m waiting for Mrs. Müller,” Xavier said. He could barely keep it up anymore, he had to pee that badly. But he didn’t dare to do it here, not with the guard standing beside him.

“Let me tell you about the procedure. When I catch the shoplifter, I keep him here till the police arrive. Sometimes that takes a while — they’re short-staffed. They don’t show up for every single shoplifter.”

Xavier nodded; he took Awromele’s good hand and squeezed it gently. His bladder was about to explode.

The guard searched for his lighter, found it after a while, and, with a satisfied look on his face, lit a cigarette.

“If the shoplifter decides not to wait for the police voluntarily, we exert a moderate form of physical duress. When we speak of physical duress, what are we talking about?” The security guard inhaled. Sometimes he’d had to wait more than an hour for the police to show up. Sometimes they only showed up when you told them they could pick out something to take home. A pair of jeans, a bottle of perfume, a nice vase. Quid pro quo . “There are a number of possibilities. This is what they teach you in class. I sit on him. I assume a seated position on top of the shoplifter. And then I keep sitting there until the police finally show up. Simple, but effective. I’ve been working here for a little over four months, and so far there have been nine occasions on which I have had to sit on a shoplifter, and let me tell you, it’s not a lot of fun. Not for the shoplifter, and not for me.” He inhaled again. The guard preferred not to — he lost sleep over it — have to sit on the shoplifter; he had nightmares about it. Sometimes they were men; occasionally they were women, children — that happened, too. He had to sit on them. It wasn’t his fault. The department store did all it could to keep this from happening. But they came back, the gangs of children, they came back, and it seemed like they had his number. As though they knew he didn’t like to do it.

Xavier nodded.

The guard looked at the smoke he had exhaled.

“First you apply pressure to the throat of the shoplifter,” he said solemnly, “and as you do that, you slowly lower his body to the ground. Then you sit on him with your full weight, on his chest, on his stomach, applying pressure to his throat the whole time, in order to discourage him from struggling. If the proper authorities are too long in coming, then they sometimes have to call an ambulance for the shoplifter. These are unpleasant incidents.” That never happened very often with him. And when it did happen, he would skip lunch afterwards. Then he would take a walk through town and ask himself: Did I deal with the situation correctly?

“In ninety percent of all cases, everything is fine,” the guard said. “No one has to call an ambulance. The percentage of shoplifters who die in custody is negligible.” He ground out his cigarette with his shoe.

Xavier nodded again. He had to pee so badly now that he really couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Look,” the security guard said, “we’re standing here, talking man to man, so I can tell you that sometimes there are customers who complain, who say: It’s Friday afternoon, we come into the department store with our children to have some fun shopping, and the first thing we see is you sitting on a shoplifter. So they send a letter to the management: ‘We come to your store with young children and see situations to which we do not wish our children to be exposed.’ I can understand that, as a private individual. I have a child myself. For a little girl of five or six, a man of my size sitting on a shoplifter, applying his full weight, is not a pretty sight. But the management covers my back. Because I do everything by the book. Don’t forget, it has a preventive effect as well. There are plenty of potential thieves walking around, and they hesitate: Are we going to buy it, or are we going to pocket it? Well, then they see me sitting on the shoplifter and they figure: Let’s take this one to the cash register. Twenty, maybe thirty percent of my work is preventive. Setting a good example, showing what happens to people who set a bad example. I wouldn’t want you to take it personally, because we’re talking here man to man, but take someone like you, for instance, standing here like this with your wheelbarrow. You’re setting a bad example.”

Xavier had stopped pounding his bare chest to keep warm. All he did was hold Awromele’s hand. “I’ll be gone in a little while,” he said, “I’m going to the doctor. We’re just waiting for Mrs. Müller. She’s coming right back with two sweaters.”

The guard took a few steps forward. He was standing right in front of Xavier now. “So what are you guys going to steal today?”

Xavier looked around; there was no one else in the alley.

“Nothing,” Xavier said. He smiled as brightly as he could, and added: “We’re on our way to the doctor.” But it was no use anymore, he couldn’t help it, he peed in his pants. It felt pleasant for a moment, warm and soothing, like a bed for which you’ve been longing all day. Then it began to cool.

The guard turned off his walkie-talkie. He didn’t seem to notice that Xavier had peed in his pants.

“We’re not part of a gang,” Xavier said. His jogging pants were completely soaked now, and the moisture was no longer warm — it was cold, ice-cold. Strange the way urine cools off so quickly. He picked up the wheelbarrow and put it down again a few yards away. He wanted to get out of this alley, he needed to find a doctor.

The guard took up a position in front of the wheelbarrow. It was not a lot of fun, but someone had to do it. And he always did his best to be reasonable. He was a human being. A human being in uniform has to put up with all kinds of prejudices. That’s why he always talked to shoplifters, to explain the procedure. So they knew what was going to happen.

“We’re not part of a gang,” Xavier said. “You have to believe me.” The more he begged, the less credible he sounded, but he didn’t want this guard to sit on him, not now, not in his condition. And definitely not on Awromele. He picked up the wheelbarrow and put it down again a few yards farther away.

“It’s your word against mine,” said the security guard, approaching Xavier slowly. “Who do you think they’ll believe? In the past, when times were different, we gave the shoplifter the benefit of the doubt. But that’s not possible anymore. We have to set examples. Soon we’re going to start checking bags — everyone who comes into the department store will have to open his bag. We’re doing battle on two fronts. On the one front, we do battle against the thief, and especially in organized form; on the other front, we do battle against the terrorist. Starting next month, we’ll look in the bags of everyone who comes in here. We guards have a serious responsibility. We have to make the customer feel safe. And in that way the strange situation can arise in which we, the adversaries of the shoplifter, are transformed into the guardian angels of the shoplifter. Because the terrorist does not distinguish between the paying customer and the customer who comes here to rip off goods.”

The guard took a deep breath. He didn’t usually talk this much. His colleagues were always staring at the TV in the canteen. His neighbors were never home. His child never said much. The only ones he could actually talk to were the shoplifters.

“You’re wondering,” the guard said, “What kind of example could he possibly be setting if he sits on me now? Who’s going to see us in this alley? There’s no one here. Don’t kid yourself. Thousands of eyes see us. Thousands of eyes are looking at us. Ten thousand people are counting on us.” The guard pointed up at the sky, and, indeed, Xavier saw two video cameras attached to the blind wall.