Marc, who had been standing silently behind Xavier the whole time, now said: “Of course, the boy can spend the night here. We’ll put some sheets on the couch, and there are enough blankets in the cupboard. Besides, it’s not that cold. I don’t think he’ll even need blankets.”
“There we go,” Xavier said, “finished, the painting is finished, Mama. You can put down the jar now.”
She put it down and rubbed her stiff wrist and forearm. “I wake up in the middle of the night quite often,” she told Awromele. “When I have to use the toilet. I have a tendency to rummage around a lot at night. That’s unpleasant. Well, I only mention it in connection with your own good night’s sleep. In principle, of course, you’re welcome to the couch. Why not? You’re my son’s acquaintance, and although he seldom or never thinks about his mother, his mother always thinks about him. Always about only him.”
“I’m a sound sleeper,” Awromele said. “And I won’t bother anyone. And you don’t have to worry about standing in line for the bathroom tomorrow morning, because I never take a shower in the morning.”
“Oh,” the mother said, “you never shower in the morning? Then when do you shower?”
“Late in the afternoon. Sometimes I skip a day. If you stay under the blankets all the time, you don’t need a shower.”
“Aha,” the mother said. “Is that a ritual practice?”
“No,” Awromele said, “I came up with it myself.”
“I’ll get us some tea,” Xavier said. He took off his smock, put away the brushes he had used, and nodded to Awromele. They went into the kitchen together.
There was hot water in a thermos jug. Even before he had poured the water, Xavier started kissing Awromele, and Awromele kissed back, digging his nails into the palm of his hand and thinking about that time in the park.
For a moment, Xavier was happy.
“What’s with your mother?” Awromele asked after a few seconds.
“She’s a little confused,” Xavier whispered, “from all the commotion. She acts like this fairly often. Don’t worry about it, it doesn’t mean anything.”
“I think the things she says are fascinating,” Awromele whispered. “About me being her misfortune. That’s so captivating, don’t you think? No one has ever said that to me before. And it was as though she was looking right through me.”
Then the mother came into the kitchen. She was carrying two dirty cups. Xavier let go of Awromele and began toying with the lid of the thermos.
“Let me do that,” the mother said. She put down the cups and took the thermos jug from her son. As she poured the hot water into clean cups, she said to Awromele: “He made a big mistake. He should never have destroyed you people, because it only made you stronger. He should have wrapped you in a warm blanket, the way I’ll wrap you in a warm blanket later on.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mama,” Xavier said.
“Oh yes,” the mother said, “I’m going to wrap your acquaintance in a warm blanket.” And then she nodded amiably at Awromele.
Awromele looked at her in puzzlement. He thought she was a remarkable creature.
They drank their tea in the living room. The painting was drying in one corner of the room. They were silent, except for Marc, who kept talking about the future, even though no one responded to what he said.
At ten minutes to twelve, the mother said, “Marc, go find sheets for our guest.”
Marc got up and went upstairs. The mother turned on the radio. It was playing quiet music, panpipes. “We’ll just wait for the news,” she said. “Find out what state our world is in. Then we can go to sleep.”
The mother cleared the table, and when Marc came back with the sheets she said to Awromele: “The bathroom is upstairs. I’ll fetch a duvet for you.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mama,” Xavier said. “Let me do it.”
“No,” the mother said, “leave this to me. I’ll take care of the duvet.”
Awromele brushed his teeth with Xavier’s toothbrush. The idea that the toothbrush had been in Xavier’s mouth as well made him happy, it gave him the feeling he was attached to someone in this world. Truly attached. When he came back into the living room, the mother was standing beside the couch, holding the duvet.
“This belonged to my late husband,” she said. “He lay under it for almost fifteen years. I kept it, but I never wanted to lie under it myself. And of course Marc didn’t, either. Now it comes in handy. Undress — then I’ll tuck you in.”
Under the watchful eye of Xavier and his mother, Awromele undressed. First his white shirt, then his arba’ kanfot, then his pants and his gym socks, until he was down to his underpants. It took a while, because of the cast on his hand. Marc came down for a look as well.
“So lie down,” the mother said.
Awromele lay down carefully on the couch. The sheets had been neatly ironed; he didn’t want to wrinkle anything. The mother spread the duvet and tucked Awromele in. “This is what You-Know-Who should have done with you people,” she whispered. Her lips brushed Awromele’s forehead. She shuddered again.
Then she went to her bedroom.
“What’s she talking about, anyway?” Awromele asked Xavier.
“No idea,” Xavier said. “She’s confused.” He leaned over and kissed Awromele. “I love you,” Xavier whispered. “Don’t forget that. I love you, but I don’t feel a thing, and as soon as we’re in the Venice of the North I’m going to comfort you. Comfort you so hard and so long, and not just you, but your entire emaciated people.”
Awromele took off his underpants to make it easier for Xavier’s hand. He wondered what Xavier meant with that emaciated-people business, but the pleasure stopped his waking mind. The pleasure answered all questions. The pleasure was one long answer.
IN THE EARLY-MORNING hours Awromele was awakened by the sound of thumping. First he tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but because the couch was rather narrow he couldn’t turn, and going back to sleep didn’t work, either. After staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, Awromele got up to investigate; he wanted to know where the thumping came from.
He put on his underpants. Because he didn’t know his way around the house, he bumped into furniture in the dark.
At last he opened the kitchen door. He saw the mother standing there. There was a little light on above the stove, a light built into the exhaust hood.
The mother was standing at the sink. Her pajama pants were down around her ankles. She had a knife in her hand.
Awromele was about to close the door, but the mother looked up at him. She beckoned him with her finger. Awromele turned, and she said, “Come closer, Awromele Michalowitz.”
He stood there without saying a word. He didn’t dare go away — he couldn’t refuse his hostess such a simple request. The mother coughed a few times. Seconds went by. Awromele stood in the doorway, but he didn’t dare to leave the kitchen. That would be stupid, and stupidity was dangerous.
She said, “I’ve been waiting for you, Awromele, for at least fifteen minutes.”
“I was looking for the bathroom,” Awromele said, turning around again. He didn’t go out the door.
The mother put the knife back in the dish rack. “Close the door, Awromele, there’s a draft.” Awromele closed the kitchen door quietly; he didn’t want to wake the others.
The mother turned to face him now. “Come closer, would you?” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you, I knew you would come.”
Awromele turned and took a step towards the mother. Like a sleepwalker, without wanting to.
He didn’t want to go to the mother, who was standing at the sink in the middle of the night with her pajama pants around her ankles; he wanted to go with Xavier to the Venice of the North. He wanted to lie with Xavier in a big white bed, the way he had lain with him in the park. A bed: that wasn’t asking so much. A bed sounded wonderful to him. To slowly become unwashed in that bed.