The Jewish Messiah: A Novel by Grunberg Arnon

Author:Grunberg, Arnon [Grunberg, Arnon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2008-01-10T00:00:00+00:00

I Decide What’s Anti-Semitic

THE WHEELBARROW was parked beside Awromele now, and Xavier was panting. It was brighter now, despite the low cloud cover. Morning had broken, people were going to work, taking children to school, but Awromele still wasn’t in the wheelbarrow.

Xavier called to him, but nothing was getting through. “We have to get out of here,” Xavier said, with no real hope of a reply. He pulled on Awromele’s legs, no longer afraid to hear the popping of bones, the scraping of chafed skin against dirt. He lifted the feet first, then one leg, then the other, and so he was able to work Awromele’s lower body into the wheelbarrow. But his torso and head were still lying on the ground.

I need help, Xavier thought, but no one’s going to help me the way I look now. I’m half naked, I’ve got a black eye, I have cuts on my hands—they’ll think I’m crazy. They’ll laugh at me and lock me up, that’s what they do to crazy people.

He tipped the wheelbarrow onto its side and tucked Awromele up into a ball as well as he could, as though the injured boy were a pile of clothes that had to be forced into an undersized suitcase. Xavier did his best not to bump against Awromele’s swollen hand. He used his hands and knees to push the rolled-up body into the wheelbarrow, and when he had done that he tried to push it upright. “Help me, King David,” he cried.

Xavier was able to raise the wheelbarrow with Awromele in it off the ground a little, but not to push it upright. He worked harder than he had ever worked before. Sometimes, in his frustration, he kicked at the wheelbarrow, but each time he apologized afterwards and said to the rolled-up body, “I’m sorry, that was my fault.” He found a big broken branch and tried to use it as a lever. He tore his hands open even more.

After a few minutes, he stopped and planted little kisses on Awromele’s forehead—the head the boys had kicked in order to express their admiration for Kierkegaard, in order to share with a stranger their esteem for that thinker. Even after a night in the park, Awromele’s head still smelled nice.

Xavier cursed, leaned against the wheelbarrow, and pushed, but it didn’t help. He went to the other side and pulled. For a moment, it looked as though Awromele was going to roll out onto the ground, but finally he was able to pull the wheelbarrow upright. Despite the cold, sweat was running down Xavier’s back. His jogging pants and his stomach were muddy. His hands were covered with smaller and larger cuts, his face was streaked with dirt. He struggled to tear his dirty T-shirt into strips, then wrapped them carefully around both hands. “Now we’re going to the doctor,” he said. “We’re going to get you some help.” He caressed the hair of the boy who was tucked up in the wheelbarrow like the remains of cannon fodder that had to be brought to a final resting place.

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