Arnon Grunberg - The Jewish Messiah

“That’s right,” he said, after thinking for a bit. “Günther and Heinrich. That’s what they’re called. They’re Swiss dogs, so I figured I’d give them Swiss names. You have to adapt. Which means your dogs have to adapt, too. Adapting starts with the dogs. The dogs have to speak the same language as the other dogs. You have to call them. You take them for a walk, and they run away, because they’re pigheaded, or young and frisky. Then you have to call them. Then the neighbors hear your dogs’ names. Don’t give them names that would be unwise, I always say. Don’t give them names that will give your neighbors an uneasy feeling. A bloated feeling. For Swiss dogs you have to come up with Swiss names.”

He kept talking, because as long as he talked he felt no fear. His brothers were heroes — that’s why most of them were no longer alive — but he was no hero and never had been. He had dreamed of being one. He looked at his hands again.

They didn’t seem to have any more questions, so he asked: “What can I do for you? What do you people want from me? You’re mixed up, you’ve mistaken me for someone else. In some places everybody’s Hamas, in other places everybody’s Swiss. I’m nothing.”

“There’s a lot you do for us,” the bald man said. “Enough, in any case. What seems like a little to you might be a lot to me. Every little bit helps. I collect those little bits. You love your dogs, don’t you? You’re crazy about them. That’s one way of talking to you. I can tell you about how much you love your dogs, and how unpleasant you’d find it if one day they disappeared. How you’d go to bed at night and see those two lovely dogs of yours being run through a meat grinder. About how you’d see them in your dreams, every single night; you get out of bed, again and again you hear Heinrich’s and Günther’s dying yelps wherever you go. I could talk to you like that, but I prefer not to talk to you like that. Because, actually, I find that unpleasant. I want to tell you something, and I have something to tell you. I collect, I’m a collector — that’s what I do. Some people collect pinecones, other people collect stamps, I collect information. That’s why I’m here. That’s the only reason I’m here, the two of us are here.”

The bald man stared at the Egyptian the whole time he was talking to him. The Egyptian looked him in the eye, and as he looked he thought: What can I offer this man to make him stop talking? I can’t listen to this anymore; the sound of his voice makes me sick, even sicker than that bald cunt yesterday. Maybe I’m sick, because everything makes me sick. Maybe I’ll die soon, maybe that’s not so bad, even though I’m afraid of dying, because when I die I’ll see my whole life pass by, what it was like, what it could have been like, what it should have been like, and I don’t want to see my life pass by. I can’t face it. That’s why I have to keep living, because as long as I’m alive I don’t have to look at it.

“Information, as I’m sure you know, always has something attached to it,” the bald man said. “Informants are what is attached. Maybe you’re starting to understand what I’m trying to tell you. Maybe you sensed it coming the moment we walked in here. I collect informants. I’ve collected a whole network of informants, and I take care of them, too, because you have to take care of them, the informants; otherwise they run away or forget the meaning of life. Just like women. And now that I’ve run into you, I want to add you to my collection.”

The Egyptian tried to get up, but the bald man laid his hands on his shoulders and said: “You really shouldn’t do that anymore. It’s not nice.”

The Egyptian sat down again and whispered, “I’m thirsty.”

“Get him a glass of water,” the bald man told the woman.

She went to the bar. Nino turned and watched her go. She was wearing a denim skirt. She rummaged around in the sink, rinsed a glass, and poured him some water.

He drank eagerly. When the glass was empty, the bald man said: “What do we have to offer informants? I’m sure you’d like to know. Before you can accept a proposal, of course, you have to know what it involves. What are you saying yes to? That’s the question. You’re saying yes to life, for starters; those who say yes to us are saying yes to life. One good turn deserves another. That’s our motto. I’m going to tell you everything, and I’m going to be frank — being frank is better for all of us. If you’ll be frank with me, I’ll be frank with you. And the franker we are with each other, the more useful we are to each other. We offer our informants money, respect, and women.

“Let me start with respect. I talk to you as though we’re on an equal footing — that’s respect. You’re a filthy Arab, a two-bit dealer, such a two-bit dealer that you pose no danger to the big dealers — they let you live the way other people let a fly live on a summer evening. But we act as though you’re not a filthy Arab. We act as though you weren’t some shit-fly. We forget about that — or, rather, we act as though we’ve forgotten about that — and that’s respect. Respect is a rare commodity in this day and age.”

The Egyptian looked at his hands again; in some strange way, he was glad that he’d put on a tie that morning.

“Everyone hates the Arab,” the Egyptian said slowly. “Everyone hates the Jew. Money is the only thing that doesn’t hate us.” He knew whom he was dealing with now; he had no doubt about that anymore. He wasn’t particularly quick on the uptake — he was like an elephant, slow to get rolling — but once he was rolling he moved straight ahead. He should have known. They were everywhere, even in Switzerland. He rubbed his hands together. He wanted to go home. Go to sleep. Walk his dogs. Go back to sleep.

“The second thing we offer you is money,” the bald man said. “You homed right in on that. Money isn’t everything, but it’s a lot. Money on a monthly basis, good money. Something for a rainy day, a little safety, a little security — call it whatever you want — we call it money.” For a moment, almost unnoticeably, he glanced over at the woman beside him, who was still playing with her elastic band.

“And, finally, we offer you women.”

“Women,” the Egyptian said, and he thought about his dogs again, and for a moment about his mother, too.

“One woman,” the bald man said. “The loveliest, sweetest, softest of women.”

“I’m a married man,” the Egyptian said, quietly and not very convincingly. “Are you married?”

“What do you call that?” the bald man asked. “What do you call it when a man offers another man money, women, and respect?”

The Egyptian thought about it. He scratched his cheek; he should have done a better job of shaving, this looked like hell. If his mother saw him like this, she’d laugh at him, she’d never let him enter her house again, she’d gossip about him to her friends — he would never be able to go back to Cairo, but, then, maybe he never wanted to go back, all he wanted was peace and quiet. “Friendship,” he said. “When a man offers another man money and women and respect, then those two men share a friendship. Then they’re friends.” He took a deep breath. That was it. He had spoken well. But it didn’t help.

“Exactly,” the bald man said. “Friendship. You give us information, we give you friendship.”

The bald man stuck out his hand and the Egyptian took it, but didn’t let go of it again. “Listen,” he said, “I know who you people are — you don’t have to tell me. I know already. I’ve heard about you; I’ve had friends who worked for you. They died, but that’s not the point — anyone can make a mistake. I’d be pleased to be your friend. I’m a businessman, after all, I have no opinions, I hate opinions, they get me nowhere. What’s an opinion? No idea. I don’t read the papers. I work hard, no time for the newspaper, All I know is that everyone hates us, that everyone hates me. Even the flowers, even the plants hate me — when I bring them home they die — and the trees hate me, too — when I go for a walk in the park they hit me in the face with their leaves. Everything that lives and grows and blossoms hates me. That’s why I can’t afford to have an opinion. I’d be pleased to be your friend, but you know how they are. If they find out they’ll slit my throat. They’re excitable. You people know how that is.” Then he turned to the woman, like a lawyer starting in on his final plea. “A throat is cut before you know it. And I’m a married man. I don’t want to end up like that. Not like the others. I don’t want to end up like that — believe me, I don’t deserve that. My wife doesn’t deserve it, either. She’s a good woman. In her way.”