Awromele nodded. In the hospital he had already taken a good look at the testicle, but he thought the testicle that they hadn’t cut off was nicer.
“I hear them say it every time I attend a committee meeting,” the mother said. “The Middle East is a powder keg. Before long it will come to Europe. What am I saying? The powder keg is already in Europe. We’ve tried not to see it, but it’s here. It’s in our trams, the powder keg sleeps in our homes, it goes shopping in our supermarkets. You, for example, you’re part of that powder keg, which will explode in our unsuspecting faces — you’re an Israelite. I hope you don’t blame me for speaking so openly with you, I’m sure you understand. You seem to me an intelligent young man, and I haven’t spoken for so long. I’ll be honest with you, without beating around the bush: you are my misfortune. The way you sit there, at my table, the way you look at me, the things you’ve brought with you, your hair — there’s no other way I can put it. I’ve never seen my misfortune at such close range, and I’ll be honest: it fascinates me, I’d like to touch you. My misfortune, I’d like to say to you, There you are at last, it was about time, I’ve been waiting for you so long. I’d like to examine you, I’d like to study you. I’d like to sniff at you, the way animals sniff at each other.”
Her eyes filled with tears. The mother put down the testicle, rubbed her eyes, and picked up the jar again.
“I’m not saying that I approve of absolutely everything he did,” she said. “You-Know-Who — that’s who I’m referring to. He made huge mistakes, unforgivable ones, there’s no denying that. But if You-Know-Who had finished what he started, however much I disagreed with it, however much I still disagree with it, but just if, imagine that, just as an experiment in thought, then the Middle East wouldn’t be a powder keg today. Then that powder keg would not be on Europe’s doorstep. If the civilized world had let You-Know-Who finish what he started back then, wouldn’t we be better off today? I’d like to hear what you have to say about that. You’re an insider, you know those people in a way I don’t. You must have thought about it yourself. I’m sure you’ve drawn conclusions, perhaps less pleasant conclusions, but, still. I’d like to hear them.”
“Mama,” Xavier said, sounding as though he had a bad cold, “I’m almost finished; then you can go to bed. Please hold the jar up a little higher, like this, just a little higher.”
“My arm is stiff,” the mother said. She didn’t often get the chance to air her opinions. It did her good to talk to someone, especially to someone as attentive as Awromele. He devoured her words like pure poetry, like the Song of Songs, but written specially for him. The Song of Songs she had composed for her enemy, her favorite enemy, the only one, the final one. She had the feeling that he was devouring her body with his eyes, just as he devoured her words.
“Give your acquaintance a chance to answer me,” she said. “Xavier, take your time and finish your painting. I’m curious to hear what he thinks of it. I don’t mean it personally — you know that, Awromele. This is about a purely theoretical hypothesis. Would the world have been better off if you hadn’t existed?”
Now it was Xavier’s turn to have a coughing fit, which lasted for two minutes. During the fit he dropped his brush again. He was so afraid that his mother would betray him, that his secrets would be brought to light, that his relationship with Awromele would be destroyed. He was like a philanderer caught in the act who thinks, My mistress is lovely, but I wouldn’t want to lose my wife; not that; I need her; in fact, I love her very much.
Awromele didn’t know what to make of all these claims, this argumentation. Xavier had a strange mother. All Jewish mothers were strange, but this one was particularly strange. He remembered the words of the tall boy, the word that had made a great impression on him; he remembered the boy’s legs, his shoes, the spit that had dripped onto Awromele’s face.
“The world would have been better off if I hadn’t existed,” Awromele said. “That’s true. But that doesn’t make me unique. And it doesn’t bother me, either. That’s just the way it is. That’s how things go.”
“Yes,” the mother said, “yes, I understand that.” She sighed deeply. “That’s quite a relief to me. I’m glad you see it that way, too. I used to wonder: Is there something wrong with me? Have I gone mad? But apparently not. It’s also reassuring to know that it doesn’t bother you. Some things simply cannot be undone. You-Know-Who didn’t get to finish what he started; you people are here; those are facts.” She laughed once; she had been feeling rather anxious.
Awromele ran his good hand through his hair. He took off his yarmulke. The ribs the tall boy and his friends had kicked still hurt whenever he breathed deeply. The hand in the cast itched even worse.
“Loneliness is nothing to be ashamed of,” Awromele said.
He looked around, as though in search of support for this statement, but no support came. Xavier painted on, hastily and wildly. He had to get through this, he had to survive this; then he could be alone with Awromele, alone with Awromele for all time.
The mother turned her gaze on Awromele; she liked him more than she had expected. He, too, thought the world would have been better off without him. She would have to revise her ideas a bit. Honesty was something she appreciated.
“When my son is done painting,” the mother said, “I’ll offer you a cup of tea.”
To that, Awromele replied: “We communicate by the wrong means, with the help of noises we make with our tongues, our throats, and our lips. We shouldn’t communicate like that, that’s asking for problems, that’s asking for destruction. Our language is the language of the knuckle. The language of the knuckle is the language of love.”
He held out his hand, clenched it to make a fist, and showed the mother his knuckles. She was still holding the jar with the testicle in her left hand, but with her right hand she reached out and touched Awromele’s knuckles, and she couldn’t help it — she shuddered as though she’d received an electrical shock.
“Your skin is soft,” she said.
Awromele smiled; the mother’s hand was still touching his.
“I bet you haven’t done much manual labor.”
“Not yet,” Awromele said. “But that will come.”
“My husband,” the mother said, “had soft hands. He was an architect. He died. My father had soft hands, too; he worked with his hands, but they stayed soft. No matter what he did, they remained soft until his death.”
“Could I sleep here tonight?” Awromele asked.
The mother pulled back her hand.
“Where?” she asked.
“Here,” Awromele said, “in your house? I ran away from home. I couldn’t stay there anymore — they wanted to lock me up. Could I spend the night here? I have nowhere else to go.”
“What about the couch downstairs?” Xavier suggested, moving his brush enthusiastically across the canvas and addressing himself in his thoughts to King David. This was going to be his masterpiece. Masterpieces often looked pretty terrible.
If Xavier survived this evening, he could survive anything.
“I’m not sure I understand you exactly,” the mother said. “From whom did you run away? And I’m not sure I have enough food in the house for guests.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Awromele said, holding up the bag of cookies. “My mother gave me something to take along. I’m used to living on cookies. When I was younger, I would crawl under the blankets and eat chocolate bars, but those days are behind me now.”