The leader of Hamas had made up his mind. This man was a clown; there was no doubt about that now. That’s what democracy gave you, clowns. He didn’t like the circus, he never had. An uncle of his had taken him to the circus in Beirut once, he had hated it. “Yes, kinetic theater,” he said. “You can call it that. If you like. I am not a philologist.”
“But effective and committed theater,” said Xavier, who had regained a bit of his former enthusiasm. “Because that kinetic theater causes pain and sorrow. It unleashes emotions. It becomes news, which is more than you can say about most theater. How many artists would like to make the news but never do? Not even an in memoriam. Do you know what they told me at the Rietveld Academy? They said I should start a flower shop.”
Xavier had risen to his feet again.
“Sit down, for God’s sake,” Awromele said.
The leader of Hamas nodded. The food had been good, but as for the rest, he had the feeling that he had come here for nothing, that he was wasting his time — and he didn’t have much time left.
Xavier sat down.
“Okay, I’ll remain seated,” he said. “I’ll remain seated, no problem. I’m an emotional person, I can’t help it. That’s why people sometimes misunderstand me. There is only one thing that can throw open our joyless wildlife sanctuary. And you’ve understood that by now. Death. Death is the only thing that can drag art out of the nature reserve where it has made itself ridiculous and superfluous.”
The leader of Hamas flicked away a piece of skin from under his eye. He wanted to go home; he’d had enough.
“Your kinetic theater causes joy for some, sorrow for others. Only a few are indifferent to it, and then only because they’ve never experienced it up close.” Xavier saw the leader glance at his watch and said: “Yes, I’ll keep this short. You want to comfort your people, I want to comfort mine. That’s why we need to perpetuate our power. Power adores the status quo, the way a habitual john adores his favorite girl. Let’s help each other out, let’s perpetuate each other’s power. That’s why I invited you here for this meal. Let’s keep things a bit under control. That is my proposal. Everything in good time, and all things in moderation. That’s the best for all concerned. My proposal is: no more than fifteen deaths a month, and not always in a pizzeria. Go for a little variety. Those people have to make a living, too.”
The leader studied his nails. He said nothing.
“I’ve talked to America about this,” Xavier said, “and to the European Union. They know about it, they back my proposal one hundred percent. I understand, you can’t always control it, there’s a lot of improvisation involved. So let it be twenty one month, but no more than ten the next.”
The leader leaned forward. He had a headache. There was a plate of figs on the table; he put one in his mouth, then picked up King David.
“May I?” he asked.
“By all means,” Xavier said.
The leader examined the jar from all angles, as well as he could with his bad eyesight. “A fine testicle,” he said with his mouth full of fig. “Blue — you don’t often see them like that. Is that right, is it blue?”
“He was infected,” Xavier said. “That’s why he’s blue. Yes, you see that very clearly.”
“So this is your Redeemer?” the leader asked. And he held the jar up to the light in order to get a better look.
“That’s what people say,” Xavier said. “Surveys show that fifty-five percent of the population believe that King David is the Redeemer. And who are we to doubt the majority? We mustn’t doubt that — that would be undemocratic.”
“More and more Christians are also starting to believe that Jesus has come back to earth as Xavier’s testicle,” Awromele stated proudly. “Almost seventy percent of the Christians in the United States, thirty percent in Italy. In Ireland, it’s still less than ten percent, but they’re working on that.”
The leader of Hamas nodded. “It is truly a fine thing to behold,” he said, putting the jar back on the table.
“Fifty,” the leader of Hamas said after he had finished his fig. “Fifty a month, and not one less.”
Xavier started laughing.
But suddenly he stopped, and his mouth twisted into a grimace. “Fifty — that’s ridiculous,” he said. “That’s a mockery. That’s more than it is now, more than last month. That won’t help to perpetuate your power, or mine, either. That won’t help anyone. The EU and America agreed to fifteen to twenty a month. I’m telling you this in complete confidence. No, that won’t get us anywhere. Have something else to drink, and try one of my chocolate cookies — I had them baked specially for you.”
Xavier had to call for them a few times, but finally a servant brought in a big plate of cookies and a fresh pot of tea.
The leader of Hamas ate four cookies, one after another, looked at Awromele, and asked, “And this is your…?”
“Yes, this is my friend,” Xavier said, and he looked at Awromele, too. It seemed as though time had left him untouched, as though everything became older and drier and balder except for Awromele. Only the little lines at the corners of his eyes showed that he was no longer twenty-three. “He can’t say no, but that’s because of his mother. She always told him: Don’t say no, the Jews have enough problems as it is. But I like you, and that’s not something I say to everyone. I believe we can help each other, and not only each other but also the United States and the EU — no, make that the world, mankind as a whole,” Xavier said. “The Palestinian Authority no longer exists; they’re a pack of corrupt animals. You are the Authority — unofficially now, but soon it will be official. I’m telling you, as a friend, as someone with your best interests in mind: he who has power must keep it, the rest is just details.”
“And how many wounded did you have in mind?” the leader of Hamas asked.
“Wounded?” Xavier asked. “Who’s talking about the wounded? What is a wounded person? Someone who couldn’t make up his mind, an in-betweener. I’m not interested in the wounded. Wounded people aren’t front-page news. You and I should concentrate on front-page news. Leave the regional news on page eight to the executive branch. We’re concerned with the dead. That’s what we’re talking about here.”
Xavier took a big gulp of tea. The tea was still hot, and it burned his mouth. After soothing the burn with ice water, he said: “I’ll tell you what. Because we understand each other so well, we’ll make it twenty-two — twenty-two deaths a month, and not one more. Twenty-two is my final offer.”
The leader laughed. It seemed as though he was only now starting to enjoy this. He said: “You’re not taking me seriously. What is twenty-two? What kind of ridiculous number is that? Let’s round it off to forty. But only because I enjoyed your lamb so much. Because I appreciate your hospitality, and that of your friend. Your nice friend — what was his name again?”
“Awromele,” Xavier said, “Awromele Michalowitz.”
“Yes,” the leader of Hamas said. “Awromele. My eyes are not so good anymore; perhaps he could come a little closer.”
“Awromele,” Xavier said, “dearest, would you be so kind as to sit next to our guest?”
Awromele got up and sat down beside the leader of Hamas, who ran his hands over Awromele’s face like a blind man. He enjoyed softness. The older he grew, the more he liked softness. In fact, softness was all that remained. The rest disappeared, dissolved. Soft flesh, nothing more, only that, each time anew.