“Tell me,” Xavier shouted, and squeezed Awromele’s throat even harder. “Tell me, what went on?”
The Englishmen, who had gone to bed only a couple of hours before, pounded on the wall with their shoes. They liked noise, but not when they were sleeping.
“Nothing,” Awromele said in a squeaky voice. “Nothing at all, sweetest, believe me.”
“What do you mean, nothing?” Xavier asked. “Why did that American ask you to go with him if nothing happened? If all you did was talk to him? Something more than that must have happened, and I want to know what.”
“I made out with him a little,” Awromele said. “That’s all.”
Then Xavier boxed Awromele’s ear. It was the second time he had done that to Awromele.
Awromele looked at Xavier in amazement, though he wasn’t really shocked. When Xavier had climbed on top of him and squeezed his throat, he had known that anything could happen. He thought about the tall boy again, about his own head, which had been used as a soccer ball.
Xavier himself was horrified at what he’d done. He was afraid of losing Awromele, and he started petting and caressing him, and kissing him on the ear that he had just hit.
“That was my bad ear,” Awromele said. “That wasn’t very smart of you.”
“I’m so sorry,” Xavier said. “I feel so terrible.” And he caressed the ear and the red spots on Awromele’s throat.
“I only kissed the American,” Awromele said, “after he asked me up to his room. I only did it to be polite. I didn’t want to disappoint him. My mother says we Jews already have such a bad name, that’s why we need to say yes to most things. He looked so sad. I can’t say no to someone who looks so sad.”
“Was it nice?”
“What do you mean?” Awromele asked. “Nice?”
“Did you feel anything?”
“No, of course not. I did it because I couldn’t say no.”
Xavier stopped petting him; he stopped kissing him, too. He just sat on Awromele and said, “So I’m not really that special, that’s what it comes down to.”
He climbed off of Awromele and slid from the bed.
Awromele lay quietly on the brown bedspread, rubbing his neck, which was still red from the force of Xavier’s hands.
“What you do with me you can actually do with anyone,” Xavier said.
“No,” Awromele said, “you’re something special. But loneliness is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“What do you mean, loneliness is nothing to be ashamed of? Are you lonely? I’ve come all the way to this city with you. You couldn’t wait any longer, it had to happen right away, at a moment’s notice. I give up everything — my life, my mother, my school, my city, my language, my upbringing — I give it all up for you. I’m pleased to do that, it’s not that, because I want to comfort you. Like no one has ever comforted a Jew before. But then, the very first day we arrive in this strange city, you say, Loneliness is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“But it isn’t anything to be ashamed of, is it?” Awromele said. “They told me that, and I thought, Yeah, they’re right.”
“Who told you that?”
“The boys in the park, those four boys.”
When Xavier heard that, he was so angry and so sorrowful that he tore one of his paintings into little pieces. He couldn’t understand why Awromele would listen to boys who had beaten up on him, and not to him, the comforter of the Jews.
“Why are you doing that?” Awromele asked. “What good is that going to do? Those are your paintings, you worked so hard on them. Don’t do that, please. It makes me sad.” He clung to Xavier like a little monkey, but Xavier knocked him away.
“I’m doing it,” Xavier said, “because you attach more value to boys who beat you up than you do to me. I call that sick.”
Awromele picked up the knitting needle and began scratching himself under the cast. “What are you so worked up about, anyway?” he asked. “What in the world are we talking about here? You leave me alone because you want to go to the art academy so badly, and instead of being happy that someone’s interested in me, you start ranting and raving. Don’t do that. I’m here with you. I’m here, aren’t I?”
Xavier didn’t know what to say to that. He looked at Awromele. Again he saw the hand of the American. His fantasy was more powerful than his love. He didn’t notice anything of that love now. He felt only hatred, a dull, monotonous hatred.
He no longer felt like telling Awromele what had happened during his visit to the Rietveld Academy. The strange way the receptionist had looked at him, the long talk with the professor who had recommended the preliminary course, and then added: “But think about it for a while. Not everyone belongs at this school.”
Xavier wanted to get out of the hotel room and go into town; he needed to be alone, to think.
“We agreed,” Awromele said, getting up, “that we weren’t going to feel anything. We have to stay a little independent, that was the agreement.”
Xavier didn’t know what to say to that, either. Little was left of his hopeful expectations from the day before, when they had sat together in the car. He wondered, could this be suffering?
At the same time, he sensed lust. He longed to touch Awromele, to throw him down on the bed again, not to squeeze his throat this time but to ride him like a horse, to go into him like no American would ever go into Awromele, no matter how sad he looked or how hairy his hands were.
“No, we’re not going to feel anything,” Xavier said. “I promise, I swear. Nothing, absolutely nothing.” And he kissed Awromele, pushed him down on the bed.
“Be careful of my hand,” was all Awromele said.
The Englishmen were pounding on the wall even harder.
When Awromele was down to only his shirt, and all Xavier had on were his trousers, an intense melancholy came over Xavier, insatiable, such sadness. That sadness told him, You don’t mean anything to him.
He let go of Awromele, pulled on his sweater, and walked out of the hotel. Awromele shouted after him: “We weren’t going to feel anything. That was the agreement, that’s what you promised. Not feel a thing. Never feel anything. Don’t stop in the middle of it.”
Xavier had truly intended not to feel a thing. He had been willing to swear that he, just as Awromele had said, was incapable of feeling a thing, but apparently he was feeling something now anyway.
He wandered through the city. After twenty minutes, he thought about going back to Awromele, to tell him how much he loved him, but he shoved the idea aside. A little later he thought, Maybe I should put an end to it. But instead, he bought a bicycle from a junkie.
As he cycled along, he began seeing the beauty of the city he had known till then only from Marc’s stories and from guidebooks. He started feeling better; there was nothing for him to get wound up about. Maybe Awromele was only trying to make him jealous, maybe he was testing him. Awromele was probably still a little confused from the beating he’d taken in the park. What he had taken was actually a bit worse than the beating itself. Little wonder, then, that, in his confused state, he had made out with some dirty American. Besides, he had only just started going out without his yarmulke, and that couldn’t be easy for him, either.
This line of reasoning came as a reassurance to Xavier.
After he rode around for an hour on his new bike, he remembered the task he had assigned himself. Now that he was here, there could be no more excuses.
At a late-night shop, he bought a bunch of tulips, to surprise Awromele.
Xavier found his friend sitting cross-legged on the bed, busy translating Mein Kampf again.
He handed him the tulips and said: “I also bought a bike for us. Do you want to see it?”
“Yes,” Awromele said.