Her father was a friendly rabbi who did a bit of matchmaking in his free time. Her mother had given birth to thirteen children.
The boys were disappointed with her answer. It made them sad.
“These are the days of superficiality,” the tall boy said, after consulting with his friends in a whisper. “We live in the age of sausage. The difference between life and death has been reduced to a minimum. The dead seem alive, the living seem dead. And the people seem like sausages. This is supposed to be the best school in Basel.” He pointed to the old, slightly dilapidated building. “At this school we became acquainted with Kierkegaard; others became acquainted with Kleist, and others with Plato. And with whom have you become acquainted? Your papa and mama. That hurts us to the quick. We look at you and we see that your papa and mama are of no consequence, we see that your papa and mama are ugly people. We look at you and we see a culture in decay.”
His friends chimed in. The boy who wore his father’s raincoat went up and stood right in front of the girl. “Those who look at you,” he said solemnly, “see the end of days.”
The tall boy took the calculator out of her case. It was a simple machine, Texas Instruments. It had been passed down to Danica by Awromele.
“What is this?” the tall boy asked.
A sound came from Danica’s mouth, but it was unintelligible.
“What is this?” the tall boy asked again. “What am I holding in my hand?”
Danica was frightened, but still able to say “calculator.”
“Precisely. Very good. A calculator.” He pronounced the word emphatically, as though speaking to a deaf person. “This calculator is no good to us. It won’t help us, it won’t help you. Technology that falls into the hands of the incompetent leads to catastrophes, catastrophes lead to death, one death leads to another; death is everywhere, can’t you smell it?” He took a deep breath, stepped forward, pressed his nose against hers, and asked: “Don’t you have a nose? Are you the sausage that can only smell ketchup?”
Danica shook her head with conviction. “I can smell it,” she said quietly. “I smell death.”
“She can smell it!” the tall boy said mockingly. He looked around at his friends and said again, “She can smell it.” Then he mumbled, to no one in particular, “This is how our culture dies.” As though he were a magician who had to mumble a bit of hocus-pocus before completing his trick — because the audience expected it.
He put the calculator down carefully on the ground and looked lovingly at the girl with the braces. He was so moved by his own words that he truly believed that, when looking at this child, you could see a culture going down the tubes.
“Your heroes are your papa and your mama,” he said. “My God. Jesus Christ.”
He slammed his heel down on her calculator.
It was quiet in the schoolyard; you could hear the wind blowing through the trees, the sound of a few cars in the distance. You could hear how the calculator shattered.
Then the girl could no longer contain her tears. The four boys looked at her and her tears and were moved.
She saw her pencil case dangling from the tall boy’s hand. She had to stop crying now. That would only make things worse. That’s what her mother had always said: the weak scream and weep.
“There’s so much sorrow in an individual,” the tall boy said. “It’s inexhaustible.” He put his hand on the girl’s shoulder, and the touch startled her so badly that she took a step back.
“Listen, little girl,” he said. “Don’t be frightened. Kierkegaard once said, The door to happiness opens out. There is nothing to be done about it. But you are trying to open the door to happiness from the outside. It doesn’t work that way. That makes us sad, that causes us pain.”
His friends nodded. They loved Kierkegaard; without him they would be nothing.
“We are on the other side of the door,” the tall boy said. “And that door keeps hitting us in the face. Because you keep trying to get through.”
The tears that were running down her cheeks gave the tall boy goose pimples. He was sentimental by nature, especially in the morning.
“We’re going to put you to the test,” he said. “Because we want only the best for you, we are going to test you, and if you pass that test you will enjoy our protection for the rest of your life.”
STILL UNDER SEDATION, Xavier was carried into the hospital. A nurse recognized him right away. “It’s that boy,” she told the doctor. “You know, the one who was manhandled so terribly.”
The doctor nodded and subjected Xavier to a quick examination.
In another room, a doctor and two assistants were working on Awromele. He was suffering from hypothermia and dehydration, to say nothing of his broken hand, the many wounds on his body, and the ear that had been kicked. That ear in particular worried the doctors. They had already seen the X-rays of his broken hand; they had put it in a cast.
The nurse began disinfecting Xavier’s cuts. A sense of pride came over her, pride in the fact that this boy, who was rather famous in Basel, and certainly in medical circles, was now dependent on her care. That she was now tending to his wounds, yes, that made her feel good. This was why she had become a nurse.
“Look,” she said to the doctor, “I think he’s waking up.” Xavier’s eyelids trembled. He opened his eyes, only to close them again a few seconds later.
The doctor wasn’t paying much attention to her; he had the stethoscope in his hand and wanted to listen to Xavier’s heart.
“Maybe we should call his parents,” the nurse said. “His mother — I saw her here a few times, if I remember correctly.”
The doctor shook his head impatiently. Xavier’s eyes were open wide now, and he was asking for Awromele. When no response came, he said again, a little louder this time: “Awromele, where’s Awromele? Where’s my wheelbarrow?”
He tried to sit up, but the nurse pushed him down gently and the doctor took a step back in irritation. He couldn’t work like this. Patients had to lie still — lie still and don’t get up — that was the crux of the matter. That was the mother of all recovery.
“Your wheelbarrow isn’t here,” the nurse said. “You’re in the hospital, but you’ll be better soon.”
“My wheelbarrow,” Xavier said, “Awromele,” and with more strength than she’d expected from him, he grabbed the nurse’s arm. “Where’s Awromele?” he asked. “Where is he, what have you done with him?”
She tried to pull away diplomatically, speaking soothing words and reassuring sentences all the while. “I’m sure he’s okay. Don’t worry.”
But nothing could reassure Xavier anymore. Only the sight of Awromele.
THE RABBI WANDERED around town; he was afraid to go home. He thought about his life. His sister-in-law, with whom he’d had an affair, appeared in his thoughts; the children he had made; the God he didn’t believe in but still served, because he had no choice, because his last smidgen of social standing depended on that God, there was nowhere else for him to turn, only to God. And then his thoughts turned again to Awromele. His son’s disappearance made him feel terrible, though his wife’s sorrow made him feel every bit as bad. But he had no idea where to look for him; he had looked everywhere. He wasn’t particularly good at it, at looking for children.
Then it occurred to him that there was one place in Basel where he could still go. Besides the synagogue and his home, where his wife had called him a dirty Jew, there was still one place where he could rest his weary head.
Because the sadness overpowered him, he rang the bell.
The massages were already in progress. The massages went on around the clock. In a twenty-four-hour society, one had little choice.
The transsexuals were busy this morning. They were women on top, men down below. The rabbi liked that. Somehow, in the arms of a transsexual, he didn’t feel so guilty. As though he were being kneaded by a mermaid.