Later, Awromele would swear he had never known that a human being could shriek so pitifully.
As regards the sacrifice, no one had asked for it, and there was no one to receive it. Nevertheless, Xavier kept repeating it in his mind, like a mantra: “Accept, O Lord, this humble sacrifice.”
But Mr. Schwartz was there, and he did what Xavier had asked of him, to the best of his ability, peering nearsightedly through his reading glasses; and Awromele was there, keeping a tight hold on Xavier’s feet.
Xavier still had his eyes closed. He dreamed of his father, working off his excess fat in a gigantic fitness center.
By the time the dream was over, Mr. Schwartz had removed the foreskin, once and for all.
A Dying Rat
IN XAVIER’S DREAM he could smell sour cream, and it took a while for him to realize that the smell was not a dream. He heard voices he didn’t recognize, coming from the kitchen. What are they talking about? he wondered.
It was not so strange that he didn’t understand them, for the voices were speaking Yiddish. Thanks to Awromele’s lessons, Xavier was able to form simple Yiddish sentences. But he was nowhere near being able to follow the excited conversation between Awromele and Mr. Schwartz.
Right after the shameful realization that he was unable to understand Yiddish, the pain returned, inescapable and overpowering. He was still lying on Mr. Schwartz’s bed, but his feet were no longer on the stirrups. He could see a few dark-red spots on the sheets.
Mr. Schwartz had slipped.
The screaming had unnerved him. “That kid screeched like a stuck pig,” he told Awromele later. “You can’t expect anyone to work like that.”
The sex organ was wrapped in a white bandage; the testicles were bandaged, too. It looked as though that afternoon a mummy had grown between Xavier’s legs. A cute little mummy.
Xavier had no time to think about that. The pain was searing, so sharp that he couldn’t relax enough to think. He wondered what time it was; he had promised his mother he would be back in time for dinner.
And he was thirsty. “Awromele?” he cried out, but he didn’t have the strength to shout loudly.
Before long he would be dead, without having had a chance to comfort the Jewish people. There he lay, without a foreskin but with good intentions, a couple of Yiddish lessons, the deep desire to become part of the holy covenant, and despite all this his chief concern was that he might be too late for dinner with his mother.
“Awromele,” he shouted again, a little louder this time.
He tried to move. He couldn’t.
Voices came from the kitchen again; he thought one of them was Awromele’s, but he wasn’t sure. He heard someone laughing, too.
The workers out in the street had put aside their jackhammer. What time could it be? Xavier closed his eyes. He had no idea how long he had been lying there. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Mr. Schwartz and Awromele leaning over him.
“You’re awake,” Awromele said. “Finally.”
Mr. Schwartz ran his hand through Xavier’s hair. “There you are, boy,” he said. “There you are.” As though Xavier had just come crawling out of the womb.
“You’re circumcised—mazel tov,” Awromele said.
“It took longer than I expected,” Mr. Schwartz said. “I had to get the hang of it again. But then it all came back to me.”
“Could I have some water?” Xavier asked.
“Of course,” Mr. Schwartz said. He stumbled out of the room.
Awromele squeezed Xavier’s hand. “You’re looking a little pale, but that will go away,” he said.
Xavier was afraid it would never go away; he felt as if all the blood had run out of his body.
What a strange phenomenon, pain. It makes the world so small, tiny, no bigger than the point of pain itself.
Mr. Schwartz stumbled back into the room with water in a plastic cup.
“I found a straw, too,” he said. He held the straw up triumphantly.
Xavier gulped down the water. Then he said weakly, “I have to go home.” With Awromele’s help, he sat up. But when he sat up straight, it felt as though he was paralyzed from the waist down, and all he wanted to do was fall back onto Mr. Schwartz’s dirty bed and sleep for the next twenty hours. At that point, what he wanted most was never to wake again.
The only way he could remain upright was with Awromele’s help.
“There’s something wrong,” Xavier said. “Does it always hurt like this?”
“It will go away,” Awromele said. “This is part of it.” And he squeezed Xavier’s hand again.
Mr. Schwartz said, “For special occasions, I keep a special bottle.” He bent down and pulled something from under the bed. A bottle indeed. “Pure as nature itself,” he said. “Plums and alcohol, that’s all it is. This will have you back on your feet in no time.” He poured the liquor into little glasses that he kept under the bed in cardboard boxes.
“I have to go home,” Xavier said, after Awromele and Mr. Schwartz had helped him to knock back two glasses of slivovitz and he felt himself growing nauseous. “What time is it?” Xavier tried to get out of bed, but couldn’t. “I’m dizzy,” he said. “Everything’s spinning.”
“Of course,” Mr. Schwartz said. “I just circumcised you. People who have just been circumcised often feel a little dizzy.”
There were dark-red spots on the bandages now as well.
The hard liquor had relieved the pain for a moment, or, rather, had deflected it to other parts of the body, to stomach and throat. Xavier hadn’t eaten much that day. He had read that it was better to go into the operating room with an empty stomach.
Outside it was already dark. He had to hurry; he didn’t want to cause his mother unnecessary sorrow. Whenever he showed up late for dinner, she would look at him so sadly and ask, “Did you forget about me?”
His black jeans were lying on the floor. He tried to pick them up, but Awromele was too fast for him. He was still sitting on the bed. He felt he might faint any moment.
Mr. Schwartz stood there helplessly, as though he didn’t know what to do now that his work was finished.
Xavier tried to push his foot into the trouser leg, but couldn’t.
“If you like, you can sleep here tonight,” Mr. Schwartz said. “If that would make things easier for you.”
“No,” Xavier said, “I have to go.” And he eased himself slowly off the bed. Then he fell onto the floor.
His legs couldn’t support him; they were like those of an old man half consumed by death. Maybe his legs would never support him again. There was a carpet on the floor. He didn’t quite dare to look at the little mummy between his legs, but whenever he gave it a quick glance it seemed to him that the red spots were getting bigger.
He tried to crawl.
“Give him some more slivovitz,” Mr. Schwartz said. “Quick.”
Awromele poured the remains of the bottle into one of the little glasses and tossed the stuff down Xavier’s throat. Then he wiped Xavier’s mouth with his hand.
From the dresser Mr. Schwartz pulled a pair of gray trousers that probably fit him well but were a few sizes too big for Xavier. “You’ll be able to get into these,” Mr. Schwartz said. “Put them on, if you really need to go home so badly. But if you want to sleep here, that’s no problem. There’s enough food in the house.” He rummaged through his nightstand, looking for safety pins with which to fasten Xavier’s new trousers.
Awromele strained to pull Xavier off the floor. “Come on,” he said. With Mr. Schwartz’s help, he was able to roll the newly circumcised boy onto the bed, and together they wormed Xavier’s feet into the trouser legs.