That calmed him.
Although he was not religious, he addressed himself with increasing frequency to God: “Let him come home soon, God. Don’t let him trade me in for someone else. Give me the strength to comfort him better.”
The Terrorist in Beatrixpark
SUMMER CAME, and the Albert Heijn store where Awromele worked threw a party. The employees were allowed to bring their partners. Sales at their store in the last quarter had risen more that at any other Albert Heijn in Amsterdam. So the drinking and dancing took place at the store’s expense.
That was how Xavier first met Awromele’s colleagues. He discovered that Awromele was popular at the Middenweg store. People knew about his Jewish origins, but didn’t make a thing of it. Checkout girls with bleach-blond hair told Xavier that Awromele was an excellent colleague, and never at a loss for a joke. They thought his accent was the loveliest they’d ever heard. They didn’t mind the fact that he was more interested in men than in women. On the contrary, that made things easier.
A little before midnight, when the party had passed its high point, Xavier saw Awromele dancing with the manager. Their dancing became increasingly intimate, until Xavier could no longer tell where Awromele stopped and the manager began. Awromele kissed the manager. Again and again, as though he couldn’t get enough of his manager’s lips.
It all became a bit too much for Xavier. Feeling a fit of rage coming on, he thought, If Awromele tries to tell me again that he does this because the Jews already have such a bad name, I’ll hit him.
Xavier walked out onto the dance floor and tapped Awromele on the shoulder. But Awromele didn’t respond. He had lost himself in the manager’s mouth. He had become one with his boss, even though Awromele had never learned to dance. Xavier had — the waltz, the lambada, the tango — he’d had to learn them all back at the Gymnasium in Basel. Xavier stopped trying to get his attention. He danced with one of the checkout girls for a while. Though he tried to dance as enthusiastically and sexily as Awromele, he couldn’t concentrate on his dance partner. He kept seeing Awromele, his movements, his mouth, his lips.
Awromele was driving him crazy. And so was his own imagination. But this was no fantasy anymore. He didn’t have to imagine it, he was seeing it. Wherever he looked, he saw Awromele pressing his body against that of his manager.
It had been a long time since Xavier had seen a man as unattractive as the manager. If only he’d been a handsome man, charming and intelligent, like Xavier’s grandfather.
At last, in the men’s room, he ran into Awromele. Still in the company of the manager. Hand in hand. Xavier whispered, “Shall we go home and translate a little Mein Kampf?” But Awromele said, “No, not now, tomorrow.”
“Awromele,” Xavier said, “let’s go home. I’m not enjoying myself anymore. I can’t take this.”
Awromele only shrugged and waved his hand dismissively. “I always come back to you,” he said. “What are you worried about?”
The manager left them for a moment, to get something to drink. They were standing in front of the lavatory door now, and Awromele said: “I don’t want to disappoint him. He likes me so much, he’s crazy about me. I can’t help it, I can’t say no.”
Just then, the manager came back, without drinks. He gave Xavier a friendly nod and dragged Awromele back onto the dance floor.
Xavier stuck around for one more number. Then, bitterly and without saying goodbye to anyone, he left the party.
He walked home along Leliegracht, speaking words of encouragement to himself in Hebrew, then in Yiddish. “I should leave Awromele,” he said. “He’s no good for me. What’s the point of this? I don’t have a friend, I’m alone. I’m all alone. The comforter of the Jews has no friends. Awromele is a beast, a Jewish beast, but where does that get me? He doesn’t want to be tied down. All he wants to do is party, he has no feeling for ideals. He’s a Godless Jew. Zionism doesn’t interest him. What am I supposed to do with someone like that?”
Sunk in thought about whether or not to leave Awromele, and having arrived at Prinsengracht, he walked on, instinctively, in the direction of his school. It was a familiar route; he enjoyed walking to the Rietveld Academy. He walked like an automaton.
“No,” he told himself half an hour later. “I mustn’t leave Awromele; I have to comfort him. I have to start comforting him even better. Then he won’t need other men’s kisses. I haven’t comforted him enough; that’s why he acts like this. It’s my fault. I’ve failed, I’ve driven him into the arms of the manager. I have to offer a sacrifice, to make up for it.”
Xavier began humming quietly and walked on, pleased with his decision.
On Diepenbrockstraat, he saw a boy leaning over a moped. Something about him struck Xavier. The boy was standing under a tree with his moped; he looked as if he’d been standing there for a while. Xavier looked at him from across the street. Then he decided to cross. It was the middle of the night.
Xavier approached slowly. He was curious. He didn’t want to spend the night walking the streets alone again, not like all those other nights, in the hope that Awromele wouldn’t come home too late.
Maybe he had been concentrating too much on Awromele; maybe that was why he’d failed. There had to be more things in the world than Awromele alone.
The boy was wearing a jogging suit. His hair was a dark brown, almost black, and curly. Not big curls — more like Awromele’s, tight curls. He probably used fashioning gel.
The boy looked up. He saw Xavier, and went on with his moped. He was squatting down now, busy tightening something.
Xavier came a few steps closer. He cleared his throat, put his hands in his pockets. He heard the manager saying to Awromele, Do you want to come to my place, or shall we go to a hotel? His imagination: gruesome and unconquerable.
“Would you like some help?” Xavier asked.
“No,” the boy said. He barely looked up. Xavier couldn’t see what he was doing. Something with the moped, that was obvious. But he couldn’t tell exactly what — a flat tire, an empty gas tank, a greasy sparkplug.
The boy looked good. At least, what you could see of him looked good. And young.
Is this how Awromele would do it? Going up to boys in a park, or while they were fixing a tire, waiting for the bus, buying popcorn in a movie theater. The rest went automatically. The rest was not saying no, never saying no. Because the Jews had such a bad name already.
“Would you like some help?” Xavier asked again.
The boy looked up at him for a moment. Xavier saw his eyes. Lovely eyes. Big, that above all, long lashes, thick eyebrows. He saw it all, even in this light. Xavier saw everything.
“Fucking moped,” the boy said without standing up. He lay down on his back and began messing with the engine. He obviously didn’t know much about engines. The moped looked new.
Xavier was standing beside him now. He could reach out and touch him. He leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder, he smiled. He knew how to smile, how to put people at ease; he squeezed the boy’s shoulder gently.
The boy got up right away. No, he didn’t get up, he jumped up, as though he’d sat on a hornet. “Fuck off,” he said. And as he said it, he took a step back.
Xavier was still squatting down. It was a Peugeot. Xavier put his hand on the front wheel. “Nice bike,” he said. “Real nice. Peugeot.”
He repeated the name a few times, like a prayer.
“Yeah, they sure know how to put them together, don’t they?” Xavier said. “Peugeot.” He felt content. His father had once owned a car of the same make.