“I’m going to put my daughter to bed,” she said. “She’s completely bushed.” She carried the little girl into the nursery — a cute little girl in a blue dress, with a vacant expression on her face.
Xavier sat down on the sofa in the living room and looked around. A neat apartment, a bit small, but it had everything: books, CDs, plants, even a little painting on the wall. After five minutes she came back. “She’s asleep,” she said. “Let’s go to the kitchen; it’s cozier there.”
She had a red teapot. She said, “Call me Rike.”
Xavier watched her make tea. The conversation grew more animated.
“So — do you have a girlfriend?” she asked. The tea was steeping.
Xavier shook his head.
IN BASEL, the mother put on her clothes. She took a bowl from the cupboard and began making a cake. She hadn’t done that for so long, it was about time she did. Even though her child had left home, there was no reason why she couldn’t bake a cake, for herself and her boyfriend.
She put all the ingredients on the counter — the butter, the sugar, the flour, the eggs, the cocoa, the vanilla extract. She looked at her list to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Occasionally she felt dizzy; then she had to lean against the counter. She smiled, but it didn’t mean anything, it was something she did automatically, something she’d learned from her husband.
“LET’S LIGHT SOME CANDLES,” said the woman whom Xavier had helped with the groceries. “I always like that. It’s so cold outside, it’s like winter.”
She found some tea-warmers and put them on the wooden table. She lit them with a disposable lighter.
“Do you smoke?” Xavier asked.
“Sometimes. My boyfriend used to.”
Xavier nodded. He stirred his tea, took a few sips.
“Are you lonely?” he asked.
She laughed. Xavier looked at the little flames. “Well, I’m alone a lot, but I’m not lonely. I have a child.”
They both looked at the flames now; there were nine tea-warmers on the table. Xavier could act terribly interested when he felt like it. And he was interested. He would surpass the expectations of his teachers at the Rietveld Academy many times over.
“Do you have the feeling that people understand you?” Xavier asked.
She looked out the window, then at the stove, laughed again, and said, “Sometimes.”
“Would you prefer to have another language at your disposal besides the language you use now?”
“What do you mean? You ask awfully complicated questions.”
She was wearing her hair in a ponytail; she took off the elastic band that was holding back her hair and rewound it. Tighter, better.
Xavier counted the tea-warmers again; there were nine of them, he hadn’t been mistaken.
“Let me put it another way,” he said. “Do you believe that all truth is pain? Do you think that the truth begins where pain begins?”
She ran her hand over the wooden table, plucked at a fingernail, and looked out the window. If you leaned out a little, you could see a neglected garden down below. “God,” she said. “Jesus. Well, I’m not sure, I’ve never thought about it, but I like talking to you.”
THE MOTHER STIRRED the batter. She had used a bit too much sugar, but the quantities didn’t matter that much. And butter, never margarine, only butter. She thought margarine was disgusting.
She poured the batter into a glass baking dish and slid it into the preheated oven. For a moment, she clutched at the counter. “Shema Yisrael,” she said. Then she began whipping the cream. She did it the old-fashioned way, by hand.
“WOULD YOU LIKE to stay for dinner?” asked the woman whom Xavier was supposed to call Rike. “I don’t have anything special, but if you don’t mind that? Something simple, something quick. I belong to a salsa club, and we’re having a meeting later.”
Xavier was still sitting at her kitchen table. She thought he was nice, a little strange and a little young, but she liked strange men. Especially when they were young.
“I don’t know,” Xavier said. “Only if it’s not too much bother.”
“No,” she said. “It’s no bother at all, cooking for two or cooking for three, it doesn’t make any difference.” She got up to see what was in the fridge.
Xavier got up now as well; he went and stood behind her. “Will you help me?” he asked.
“With what?” The refrigerator was open; she was bending over to look at what was in the vegetable tray. Xavier saw carrots, a few forgotten green beans, an eggplant.
He seized her around the waist. “You have to help me,” he said.
She turned around. The refrigerator door was still open. Xavier’s hands were on her hips now.
“Did you cut yourself?” she asked. “Shaving?” She pointed at the bandage.
Xavier shook his head.
“I think I know,” he whispered, “where it comes from.”
“Where what comes from?” she asked. It alarmed her to feel that she loved this boy. Strange as he might be, she could learn to love him. In any case, she wanted to get to know him better; that was it; she was exaggerating, she always did that. Loving, where did she get that from? It had been a long time since she’d had such a nice conversation. That’s all it was. Someone had finally gone out of his way to understand her. And that was something in itself.
“I know where it comes from,” Xavier said. “I know it. But do you know it, too?”
“What? What are you talking about?” She wanted to step back to close the refrigerator door, but there was no room.
“I’ve seen it,” he said. “I know about it. But do you want to know?”
She shook her head. “Move back a little,” she said, “so I can close the fridge.” She took a few things out of the refrigerator and closed it.
Xavier was trembling now, like a weak sapling tree in gale-force winds.
“It’s love,” Xavier said. “That’s what evil is. Only that, nothing more than that.”
“Aw, come on,” she said. And then she took the boy in her arms and kissed him, because this was more foolishness than she could bear.
“I BAKED A CAKE,” the mother said after dinner. Dinner had consisted of schnitzel, potatoes, and some mixed organic vegetables she had bought at the greengrocer’s around the corner, which was also a health-food store.
Marc only nodded; he had taken note of her remark. Since Xavier had left, he had grown silent.
She cut him a piece of cake, then fetched the bowl of whipped cream from the kitchen. “Do you want some of this?” she asked. “Freshly whipped, so it’s at its best.”
Marc nodded. He ate quickly, like a worker in a company canteen, his fork in his right hand, leaning on his left elbow. That’s how he always ate, now that Xavier had left home. He didn’t have to do his best; there was no one left to do his best for.
He didn’t notice that the mother wasn’t having any cake. He didn’t notice much lately.
She watched him eat, she was very calm. She smiled. One time Marc looked up — questioningly, it seemed. She nodded at him encouragingly. “Enjoy your cake,” she said.
“I KNOW IT,” said the woman in her kitchen. “I mean, I know what you’re saying. When my friend left me, I was seven months pregnant. I thought: What have I got now, what are my prospects? Who’s going to want me anymore? But I went on wearing pretty clothes, going to the hairdresser’s, cooking nice things. That’s what you should do, too.”
She pressed Xavier against her and held him tight. She understood him, this strange boy, and he would surely come to understand her, too.
“It’s not that,” Xavier said. “I’ve seen it, and once you’ve seen it you keep seeing it. Once you’ve seen it you can never forget it. I know where it comes from.”
“Listen to me,” she said, moving some things from the counter to the kitchen table. “You need to cook something nice for yourself. When you think, What are my prospects, who’s going to want me now? — then you have to cook something nice for yourself.”