“Later today, the same time, the same place,” the woman’s voice said, and she hung up.
The Egyptian went back to the dogs in the garden. He lay down beside them in the cold grass and looked at the sky. There were no stars to be seen. They licked his hands and his face, nibbled gently on his fingers. I have to see her, the Egyptian thought. I smell of desert and dog, I’m different from the other informants. When I see her again, I’ll explain everything.
MARC AWOKE T o the sound of loud talking in the room next to his. He went to see what was going on, and found Awromele and Xavier in a fervent embrace. “What’s going on?” he asked. “What are you two doing?”
“We’re leaving,” Awromele said, without letting go of Xavier.
“We’re going to the Venice of the North,” Xavier said. “We’ll take the train, we’ll be there in eight hours. We’re not going to wait any longer. Waiting any longer would be a waste of time. Now is the moment.” He looked around triumphantly, almost ecstatically.
Marc thought about it. He sat down beside them on the bed. He was wondering; he could always take a day off, or even two, but he wasn’t sure the mother would be very happy about that. He could just call in sick. He was never sick otherwise, they wouldn’t make any fuss about that. And the mother would understand, too. When you were the mother of an artist, you had to think big. He had to think big, too, because he was the mother’s boyfriend.
“You know what, I’ll take you to Amsterdam,” he said. “In the Alfa — that’s a lot more fun. That way we’ll be there in a few hours, and we can get a bite to eat together. I was there a long time ago with some friends. There’s a great club there, it’s called The Milky Way.”
Then he hugged both boys, as though they had been the best of friends for years. As though they’d slept in the same bed for years. Xavier, in fact, was the one he wanted to touch. Awromele was simply part of the package. It was nice to hug them. He wouldn’t mind hugging Xavier fervently more often, but the opportunity never presented itself. Sometimes he put his hand on the back of Xavier’s neck, but usually Xavier didn’t seem to appreciate that.
Marc went to his bedroom and quickly stuffed a few things into his weekend bag. Feeling cheerful, he hummed a song he’d heard on the radio a few days ago; he could only remember part of the lyrics. Yes, he had done well to stay with the mother. He had discovered his sexual identity, but he was taking it nice and easy, all in good time, no sense in rushing things.
In the room beside Marc’s, Xavier asked, “What are you taking with you, anyway?”
“A plastic bag, the one that’s downstairs,” Awromele said.
“Is that all?”
“That seemed handier to me, to take as little as possible — it seemed practical.”
“How long are we going to stay?” Xavier asked. As though he hadn’t come up with the plan, as though he weren’t the one who wanted to attend the art academy in the Venice of the North.
Awromele shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe forever. I have no idea.”
Xavier decided then and there that he would take only his paintings, or at least the paintings that were dry, and a few pairs of trousers. What else was there to take when you went away forever? When you went away forever, you had to leave a lot behind — that was how it worked.
He rolled up the paintings, folded some trousers and two T-shirts, and put them carefully in a sports bag. It all went so quickly that he had no time to say farewell to anything — his knickknacks, his bed, his mother, his easel — and that was for the best. Leaving without saying goodbye was the most pleasant way to go. Leaving as though running out of a burning house, that’s how you had to do it; otherwise it would never happen at all.
The mother was still in the kitchen. She had pulled up her pajama pants, But she was unable to move.
“I’m leaving,” Xavier told her. “I’m going to the Venice of the North; I’m going to dedicate myself seriously to my painting. It’s now or never. I can finish school some other time. Art won’t wait.”
“Oh,” the mother said. “Art.”
He laid his hand on hers. She was still holding on to the counter.
“We’ll see each other soon,” Xavier said. “I’ll call when I get there. Marc is taking us. You’re the sweetest mother I know. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I know.” Her son patted her hand, but she barely felt it; her thoughts were elsewhere, although she had no idea where.
Xavier did not find it difficult to say goodbye to the mother, yet he still felt a lump in his throat at the sight of her standing there, so fragile. She had been his model. He had painted her. That was the one thing she could do, the one thing she really liked to do, pose for him.
Now that the one who had painted her was leaving, it seemed as if her life had become drained of purpose, as if all she could do was stand in the kitchen, her hands on the counter, her gaze fixed on a lover who had always been silent and always would be.
“Well,” Xavier said, and he hugged his mother. She let him do it. She even put her arms mechanically around her son. “I’ll let you know what the admissions board thinks of the paintings I made of you,” Xavier said. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
And with those words, he left the mother behind in the kitchen.
He’d noticed that something was flowing down the inside of her pajama pants, but it was better to ignore that. You couldn’t keep confronting people with their peculiarities.
In the living room, his eyes rested on King David. He was still on the table, a remnant of the past, the remains of a still life. Xavier picked him up and held him in his hand for a moment. “King David,” he said to the testicle, “blessed King David. Of course, you’re going with me. Where I go, you go. And vice versa.”
He didn’t put him in the sports bag — that would be too risky; the jar might break. He would carry him like this, in his hand, the way you carry a little pet.
“I’m going to give the boys a lift,” Marc told the mother in the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a day or so.” He pecked her on the cheek. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
She didn’t reply. She was standing at the sink; she could feel that her left leg was wet, but she felt no pain. All she noticed was a slight dizziness. She wondered what day it was, whether she had any appointments, and if so, with whom.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Marc persisted.
“No, of course not,” she said. “Go on. Be careful.”
It was early in the morning — still night, really. The mother didn’t know whether to go back to bed or to stay in the kitchen like this. Maybe she could make some tea. But she didn’t have the strength for it.
Marc hesitated. His girlfriend was being awfully quiet, he thought, standing there so still. “You’re all right, aren’t you?” he asked. “Does it upset you, having Xavier go away like this? He’ll be back. Children always have to leave the nest. It’s good for them. The sooner the better. I stayed at home for too long myself, but, then, it was awfully easy there. And pleasant — that, too.”
She nodded, staring at the knife. It was so beautiful — of all the objects in this world, the knife was the most beautiful.
“Yes,” she said, “that’s fine.”
Then she looked at Marc. He hadn’t washed his face yet; there was still sleep in his eyes. “Did you know that I wanted to poison him?” she asked.
“Oh,” Marc said, and poured himself a glass of water. His hand bumped against the knife, lying lonely in the dish rack. But he didn’t notice. He was thinking about the drive with the boys. “Who?” he asked.
“My son,” the mother said. “When he was still a baby. I had actually bought the poison and mixed it in with his milk. It doesn’t take long for it to dissolve in warm milk, rat poison. The pellets are big, though — you have to stir well.”