Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (12 page)
Sometimes I picture it to the very details.
How he will summon my spirit, hold me between his fingers, and examine me against the yellow
afternoon light, like a man holding some kind of unwanted, but harmless, object in his hands.
And then I will cautiously move my fingers over his body, and over mine, like passing a finger over a Möbius strip, when the finger can’t distinguish whether it is passing from the inside to the outside.
How he will summon my spirit, hold me between his fingers, and examine me against the yellow
afternoon light, like a man holding some kind of unwanted, but harmless, object in his hands.
And then I will cautiously move my fingers over his body, and over mine, like passing a finger over a Möbius strip, when the finger can’t distinguish whether it is passing from the inside to the outside.
I think it is time for a commercial break.
June 24
It delights me that you like my “City Stories” so much.
I was already thinking that, because of you, I am experiencing a lot more of those “moments” (really: the city speaks to me as it never did).
I was already thinking that, because of you, I am experiencing a lot more of those “moments” (really: the city speaks to me as it never did).
Accept a fresh, fresh one: This very morning, in Ben Yehuda Street, near Atara Café, there was a clown who was also a magician, maybe you’ve seen him: a huge man, Rasputin-like, who performs a funny show with a guillotine.
I know him, and it’s been a while since I’ve stopped to watch, but today I decided to look, maybe because you came back to the word “guillotine” in your long last letter, when you were depressed and exploded.
I know him, and it’s been a while since I’ve stopped to watch, but today I decided to look, maybe because you came back to the word “guillotine” in your long last letter, when you were depressed and exploded.
The magician asked for a volunteer, and one guy from the audience, an American tourist, came and placed his head on the block.
The magician made a fuss about measuring the hole for his neck, and cut a single hair of his on the blade, and placed a wicker basket in front of him, and everyone around was laughing.
And then, when the magician raised the blade high, the guy suddenly sent both of his hands through the holes of the stocks and, without even thinking, in a very touching and instinctual way, pulled the basket toward him so his head “would fall” exactly into it.
The magician made a fuss about measuring the hole for his neck, and cut a single hair of his on the blade, and placed a wicker basket in front of him, and everyone around was laughing.
And then, when the magician raised the blade high, the guy suddenly sent both of his hands through the holes of the stocks and, without even thinking, in a very touching and instinctual way, pulled the basket toward him so his head “would fall” exactly into it.
Everybody laughed, but I was so moved, as if you were there with me and I was showing you something of
mine
that I can’t explain in words.
mine
that I can’t explain in words.
June 28
I’m sending you a photograph that might make you happy.
I found it (and not by chance) in an old scrapbook of
The Weekly Word
, your distant cousin Alexander.
Excuse me, but I can certainly understand your parents’ hysteria—not only because he was six years older than you; there was something in his eyes, a wolfish expression …
The Weekly Word
, your distant cousin Alexander.
Excuse me, but I can certainly understand your parents’ hysteria—not only because he was six years older than you; there was something in his eyes, a wolfish expression …
Look at his figure on the winner’s stand, for example.
That smile (I
do have to admit that he seems quite impressive, even with the silly swim cap and medal—a kosher alpha male.
Those shoulders!
That chest!
Those biceps!).
That smile (I
do have to admit that he seems quite impressive, even with the silly swim cap and medal—a kosher alpha male.
Those shoulders!
That chest!
Those biceps!).
Terrible, isn’t it?
To see all this strength and arrogance, and think he doesn’t know that in five years he will be lying dead on streetcar tracks.
To see all this strength and arrogance, and think he doesn’t know that in five years he will be lying dead on streetcar tracks.
I am trying to find any similarities between the two of you—this photo was taken that very same week—and I can’t find you in his face.
So what do I find?
What does it tell me?
That your mother was right?
In any case, I think I can see the surprising tenderness around his mouth and lower lip.
So maybe even an experienced Casanova softens a little because it was your first kiss, and the only one with him?
So what do I find?
What does it tell me?
That your mother was right?
In any case, I think I can see the surprising tenderness around his mouth and lower lip.
So maybe even an experienced Casanova softens a little because it was your first kiss, and the only one with him?
But there is another matter that stands out as slightly peculiar.
I also checked the newspapers from the following Maccabiah Games three years later and found that he participated again with the Belgian contingent (but didn’t win any medals this time).
According to my calculations, you were then sixteen and a half, meaning, not exactly an age at which you could be locked up at home or forbidden to meet him, or prevented in any possible way from participating in taboo behavior (and he surely came to visit you at home to bring news from the family …).
And I’ve been wondering how it is possible that after the great storm you described experiencing over him, the burning oaths you swore, the full year of dreams about him and the perfumed letters, and all that—how could you completely give up the chance of a reunion with him?
I also checked the newspapers from the following Maccabiah Games three years later and found that he participated again with the Belgian contingent (but didn’t win any medals this time).
According to my calculations, you were then sixteen and a half, meaning, not exactly an age at which you could be locked up at home or forbidden to meet him, or prevented in any possible way from participating in taboo behavior (and he surely came to visit you at home to bring news from the family …).
And I’ve been wondering how it is possible that after the great storm you described experiencing over him, the burning oaths you swore, the full year of dreams about him and the perfumed letters, and all that—how could you completely give up the chance of a reunion with him?
I think—even though you were three years older, and must have understood by then that it had been just a momentary amusement for him, that he was not exactly the man of your dreams—but still, was there no spark of curiosity?
Or the desire to come to him and say, Look at me now, see how I’ve grown, I’m not your little cousin anymore …
Or the desire to come to him and say, Look at me now, see how I’ve grown, I’m not your little cousin anymore …
(I don’t know why the thought of his final visit makes me so sad.)
Speaking of kisses: send warm greetings to the beauty mark you said goodbye to when you started maturing … I will never forget that quickie of yours—it was overwhelming.
Maybe someday, in another incarnation, I’ll kiss it as well.
Maybe someday, in another incarnation, I’ll kiss it as well.
June 30
What beautiful weather, Louise, what a bright sun!
All my blinds are shut; I’m writing to you in the dark.
All my blinds are shut; I’m writing to you in the dark.
This is how Flaubert wrote to Louise Colet.
I stumbled upon it today, and in spite of that stinger (do I really quote other people constantly?), I saw a private sign of us in it.
I stumbled upon it today, and in spite of that stinger (do I really quote other people constantly?), I saw a private sign of us in it.
In the last two days I did a lot of thinking about your suggestion, your weird suggestion—ten years late, to my mind—to “go steady.”
You made me return to a time not particularly loved by me.
I’m not sure that I found a story to be an exact “mate” to yours, certainly not to the girl you were, the sober, clear-minded girl who assessed situations and took action, so it appears to me, decisively and without remorse … And to tell you the truth, Miriam, I am not quite convinced that that girl would have been interested in this boy as a boyfriend.
You made me return to a time not particularly loved by me.
I’m not sure that I found a story to be an exact “mate” to yours, certainly not to the girl you were, the sober, clear-minded girl who assessed situations and took action, so it appears to me, decisively and without remorse … And to tell you the truth, Miriam, I am not quite convinced that that girl would have been interested in this boy as a boyfriend.
I was around thirteen years old.
I won’t describe what I looked like to you—it will make you angry, and why should I provoke forces greater than mine?
But I guess I managed to draw some attention to myself after a retarded girl living in our neighborhood kidnapped me and performed surgery on me without anesthesia.
Now, you’ll say that I am, as usual, describing everything in a dramatic, larger-than-life way, but this is exactly what she did to me.
I don’t know how old she was, she couldn’t even speak, instead she kind of grunted, this masculine, hard, bullish girl, this miserable retarded girl I always made fun of.
I used to ambush her and her father when he took her down from the house on their daily walk (he walked with a stick to protect himself from her in case she attacked, imagine that).
And for several years I was the neighborhood leader of our organized mockery of her, I invented the most evil tortures for her and her poor father—writing slogans and drawing caricatures of her on the sidewalk—
I won’t describe what I looked like to you—it will make you angry, and why should I provoke forces greater than mine?
But I guess I managed to draw some attention to myself after a retarded girl living in our neighborhood kidnapped me and performed surgery on me without anesthesia.
Now, you’ll say that I am, as usual, describing everything in a dramatic, larger-than-life way, but this is exactly what she did to me.
I don’t know how old she was, she couldn’t even speak, instead she kind of grunted, this masculine, hard, bullish girl, this miserable retarded girl I always made fun of.
I used to ambush her and her father when he took her down from the house on their daily walk (he walked with a stick to protect himself from her in case she attacked, imagine that).
And for several years I was the neighborhood leader of our organized mockery of her, I invented the most evil tortures for her and her poor father—writing slogans and drawing caricatures of her on the sidewalk—
And you will ask, and justly so, why I made fun of her.
Why, in spite of my own cowardice, did I draw everyone’s attention to her and only to her?
The way I laughed at her—the amount of wit and poison I invested in it—don’t ask.
Well, one day she managed to escape from her house.
Her father fainted on the stairs.
All the neighbors and their kids were called together to search for her, and the police showed up, and basically, it was a complete mess.
Why, in spite of my own cowardice, did I draw everyone’s attention to her and only to her?
The way I laughed at her—the amount of wit and poison I invested in it—don’t ask.
Well, one day she managed to escape from her house.
Her father fainted on the stairs.
All the neighbors and their kids were called together to search for her, and the police showed up, and basically, it was a complete mess.
I slipped from the crowd and walked to the end of the block, to an empty lot on which now stands a big hotel.
There, in one of the most neglected corners, stood a heap of garbage, years of old mattresses and ovens piled up.
And a small broken refrigerator, and other such detritus of the neighborhood.
Behind it, by the fence, was a mess of bushes that
created a small dark hideaway.
I thought only I knew of it, and liked to go there to isolate myself from the world.
There, in one of the most neglected corners, stood a heap of garbage, years of old mattresses and ovens piled up.
And a small broken refrigerator, and other such detritus of the neighborhood.
Behind it, by the fence, was a mess of bushes that
created a small dark hideaway.
I thought only I knew of it, and liked to go there to isolate myself from the world.
I had a feeling she would be there, that her animal instincts would lead her to that place which no sane man would enter.
And, I swear, the moment I passed the line of light into the darkness, she leaped on me.
In that same moment I also realized, with some kind of strange acceptance, that she was simply waiting for me.
And, I swear, the moment I passed the line of light into the darkness, she leaped on me.
In that same moment I also realized, with some kind of strange acceptance, that she was simply waiting for me.
You know, I can’t remember when you asked me this—perhaps when you spoke of the lightning rod—if I have, ever in my life, properly cried for
HELP!
In a way that practically tears the throat apart, forces the eyes to bulge with terror and despair (hey, why did you ask me that?).
Maybe I should have yelled like that, at that time when she dragged me in—but I was silent.
This, Miriam, is what my story is about.
HELP!
In a way that practically tears the throat apart, forces the eyes to bulge with terror and despair (hey, why did you ask me that?).
Maybe I should have yelled like that, at that time when she dragged me in—but I was silent.
This, Miriam, is what my story is about.
She pushed me to the ground, lay on top of me, and, without wasting a moment, started rubbing her body on mine with a horrible strength.
We were two flints striking together, over and over.
I couldn’t move—it was as if I had lost consciousness—but I saw and heard everything.
She was serious—and also feverish with the crazy idea raging inside her, the false idea that only I, of all people, could understand her exactly—and it wasn’t even a sexual thing; I mean, not sexual in the common, passionate way.
It was a lot more complicated, dank, and dark than that.
How can I put it—it was as if she were trying to crumble and mash into dust the materials from which we both were made—
We were two flints striking together, over and over.
I couldn’t move—it was as if I had lost consciousness—but I saw and heard everything.
She was serious—and also feverish with the crazy idea raging inside her, the false idea that only I, of all people, could understand her exactly—and it wasn’t even a sexual thing; I mean, not sexual in the common, passionate way.
It was a lot more complicated, dank, and dark than that.
How can I put it—it was as if she were trying to crumble and mash into dust the materials from which we both were made—
Should I go into more detail?
I mean, all the materials, all her ores and mine.
What for?
I don’t know (I do know, I do know).
To create us both, all over again—more precisely: to balance us out—or somehow to scrape away all her excess—and mine, too—and what was missing as well, in both of our bodies and souls, together (can you actually understand such a sentence?
Does it make sense outside of my mind?).
Simply to create us anew from the dust from which we were made.
I swear to you, this is what was pecking about in her twisted mind—and only I understood it.
Which is why I didn’t even yell for help.
It was a matter between me and her.
I can’t believe I’m even telling you about this.
What for?
I don’t know (I do know, I do know).
To create us both, all over again—more precisely: to balance us out—or somehow to scrape away all her excess—and mine, too—and what was missing as well, in both of our bodies and souls, together (can you actually understand such a sentence?
Does it make sense outside of my mind?).
Simply to create us anew from the dust from which we were made.
I swear to you, this is what was pecking about in her twisted mind—and only I understood it.
Which is why I didn’t even yell for help.
It was a matter between me and her.
I can’t believe I’m even telling you about this.
So what do you say now—could he have been, in his way, a “mate” to the girl you were?
To that philosophical, opinionated lass?
To that philosophical, opinionated lass?
I remember she took my left palm in her rough hand, and ten, and twenty, and fifty times over, she shoved her fingers between my fingers.
And then she did it with the right hand—shoulder to shoulder—chest to chest—stomach to stomach—systematically, in the most specific, meticulous manner—and her dead eyes were shining with her one grand idea.
She didn’t even notice
me
, that was the amazing thing that completely hypnotized me.
She had a score to settle with what I was, not with who.
And the enlightened world would have found nothing logical in it—but in the dark I knew and felt that she was aiming with all her strength at my well-being as well.
It was as if she was trying to shuffle the cards in our decks, hers and mine, hard, in order to—let’s say—deal them all over again, in a more just way, for
both of us
.
Do you understand?
She of all people could grasp, with some kind of genius, animal sense, how unhappy I was with what I had received from the taunting lottery of life, and that I too was desperately in need of mending.
Are you still with me, Miriam?
Just if you can give something like that to someone, and hope he will truly understand—tell me if a man can tell this to someone and hope she will truly understand, tell me if a man can tell this to a woman he is wooing, and if a husband could, one day, tell this to his wife over coffee.
She didn’t even notice
me
, that was the amazing thing that completely hypnotized me.
She had a score to settle with what I was, not with who.
And the enlightened world would have found nothing logical in it—but in the dark I knew and felt that she was aiming with all her strength at my well-being as well.
It was as if she was trying to shuffle the cards in our decks, hers and mine, hard, in order to—let’s say—deal them all over again, in a more just way, for
both of us
.
Do you understand?
She of all people could grasp, with some kind of genius, animal sense, how unhappy I was with what I had received from the taunting lottery of life, and that I too was desperately in need of mending.
Are you still with me, Miriam?
Just if you can give something like that to someone, and hope he will truly understand—tell me if a man can tell this to someone and hope she will truly understand, tell me if a man can tell this to a woman he is wooing, and if a husband could, one day, tell this to his wife over coffee.
Y.
July 5
I went.
I bought.
I returned.
I bought.
I returned.
A three-day jump, Amsterdam-Paris-Switzerland.
Business.
The successful pursuit of two rare collector’s items that were in hysterical demand in Zurich.
Man of the world, boom boom.
Business.
The successful pursuit of two rare collector’s items that were in hysterical demand in Zurich.
Man of the world, boom boom.
When the airplane took off from Lod, I felt an unexpected pang, and I discovered an umbilical cord between us that hurts when it is stretched.
And what did I bring you from sparkling Paris?
A sensational perfume?
Jewels?
Coy, tantalizing panties?
A sensational perfume?
Jewels?
Coy, tantalizing panties?
My most terrible waking nightmare when I am in large European cities is the sight of little children of beggar women.
Do you know what I’m talking about?
Those Indian or Turkish women sitting on the streets and in the underground train stations who always carry a baby or a small child on their knees.
Those Indian or Turkish women sitting on the streets and in the underground train stations who always carry a baby or a small child on their knees.
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