“HOW ABOUT ANOTHER PIECE?” the mother asked. “I baked it this afternoon.”
“What?” Marc asked.
“The cake,” she said. “I baked it this afternoon. For you.”
Marc nodded.
She cut him another piece of cake, put it on his plate, and added a big dollop of whipped cream. She smiled again, but this time it was for a reason: she was thinking about her lover; later on, he would be with her again. And then for all time, then it would be between her and her lover. Every step she took, every glance she took at the world, he would be with her.
Marc ate even more quickly than before. His thoughts were on his flight simulator, on Xavier, whom he couldn’t get out of his mind, on his future.
“Do you like it?” the mother asked.
Marc nodded.
“Strange,” the mother said, “that spot being empty.” She pointed at the bookcase where King David had always stood. Marc turned around. He looked at the shelf with Schiller on it and said, “Yeah, strange,” before stuffing the last piece of cake in his mouth.
“WE HAVE TO be quiet,” Rike said. “I don’t want her to wake up.”
Xavier followed her up to the bedroom. The bed was nothing but a mattress on the floor.
There was no night table, only a big plant.
“Wait a minute,” she said.
She went into the bathroom. When she came back, her hair was hanging free.
It had been a long time since she’d lain in bed with a man. Almost a year, maybe a little longer. It was about time — she didn’t want to forget how. That was the risk you took if you didn’t do it for a long time. She shouldn’t deny herself this, it was important, a little action now and then. It didn’t have to be perfect, he didn’t have to be perfect, the action was what mattered.
“There’s no need to be afraid,” she said. She sat down beside Xavier. “What we’re going to do is very natural.”
And, sitting on the bed, she pulled off her jeans. She was the older, she needed to encourage him a bit. If you waited until men got around to it, you could wait forever. Patience was her strong suit; she had plenty of it.
Xavier pushed his head into her lap. First into her pink underpants, and when those had been removed, into her bare crotch. He examined the place where evil came from. Shivering and everything, drooling, planning not to feel a thing, but still, despite everything, with the pretty terrorist from the park in his mind’s eye.
“Quiet,” she said.
“Take it easy,” she said.
The harder he pressed down between her legs, the more clearly he saw the terrorist in the park. The way he’d been lying there in the mud, beside the pond, with the jacket of his jogging suit open. Xavier saw him as though he had seen him only seconds before.
Then he bit her — not nastily, more out of helplessness; tenderly, even.
All truth is pain, but he couldn’t cause pain. He wasn’t able. He let go of her and tore the bandage from his face. That produced pain. Finally — it was about time.
The wound on his face startled her. “Jesus,” she said.
She pulled up her knees. Only now did it occur to her exactly what she was doing. She had met a boy at the supermarket, and now he was lying in her bed. A boy with an infected cheek, a boy with a cheek that looked as if it had been stuck in a garlic press. He grabbed her by the knees.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Loneliness is nothing to be ashamed of.”
She shook her head. What’s he talking about? she thought. What’s he raving about?
“I’ll cook something for you,” she said. “That’s what we were going to do, wasn’t it? My daughter will be waking up soon.”
MARC HAD MOVED to the couch; he was wearing his headphones. Benny Goodman, always Benny Goodman. The mother hated Benny Goodman.
She didn’t clear the table; she remained seated. She looked around as though this were the first time she’d ever been in this room, as though she were a visitor here.
After a few minutes, Marc bent over. His face had gone red; he was sweating.
The mother smiled. She looked at the bookcase, at the cake on the table, the delectable workaday world of her dining table. Everything was arranged so nicely — the cake, the whipped cream, her cup of tea. Almost like a museum, as though it would always stay like this. As though it would never change.
Marc got up. He groaned, he went to the bathroom. It had been a long time since the mother had heard a man groan. Her lover worked silently, and her late husband had never made much noise, either; he didn’t like noise.
When Marc came back, he was red as a beet. The sweat was dripping from his forehead. He looked around nervously, like a cornered animal. Yes, that’s what he reminded the mother of, an animal.
He remained standing like that for a few seconds. He was about to sit down, but then he suddenly doubled over, as though someone had punched him in the stomach. There was no one else in the room, though, only the mother, and she was sitting straight as a ramrod at the table, in her usual spot.
Marc was lying on the floor, like a big baby.
“Call a doctor,” he shouted. “Help me.”
The mother got up to take a better look at Marc. He was lying on the other side of the table. She couldn’t see him very well from where she was sitting.
“Help me,” he shouted. “Do something!”
She leaned down to look at him. His whole face was covered in sweat. He was gurgling; it looked like he was trying to vomit, but nothing came out. He was clutching at his stomach with both hands.
Marc looked at her. He reached his hands out to her like a child. His face was twisted in pain. Yes, he reminded her of a child, a pitiful child.
“You just ate a little too quickly,” she said. “It’ll be over in a minute.”
DANICA HAD CAREFULLY arranged her collection of Snoopy things. She had examined and re-examined each object. In a catalogue she’d ordered that had come all the way from America, she had checked off the things she didn’t have yet. And then, in a green notebook, the same kind of notebook she used for math, she had noted the order in which she would buy them.
She went and stood before the mirror above her sink and bared her teeth. She looked at her braces. She pressed her tongue against the braces and, at the same time, rested her hands on her breasts. Then she spoke the name of the man who the boys who protected her said would explain everything. The man who would clarify everything, and change her life.
“Kierkegaard,” she said, squeezing her breasts a little harder. “Kierkegaard,” she said again. “Kierkegaard. Do you hear me?”
“NO, YOU DON’T have to cook anything,” Xavier said. “You don’t have to. I’m not hungry yet.” He tried to push Rike’s knees apart, but couldn’t. She had tensed up. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “As long as you remember that all pain is truth, and all truth pain. If you remember that, the rest comes naturally.”
This boy was strange; he frightened her a little with his odd remarks, the funny way he acted. At the same time, though, she had to admit: he did have penetrating brown eyes. Eyes that wouldn’t let go.
She stopped resisting; he pushed her legs apart.
“That’s where it comes from,” he said. “That’s where it arises.”
He pushed her legs up, even farther, and farther still.
“But something else arises there, too,” he said. “Back there, behind the evil, the good arises, the lovely, the true, the beautiful.” He stuck his finger between her buttocks. He felt around between her buttocks, at first only with his finger, later with his tongue as well.