Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (13 page)
Because I noticed, a long time ago, that the children are almost always
asleep.
In London, in Berlin, in Rome.
And I have a suspicion that the women put them to sleep on purpose, drug them, because a sleeping child looks more miserable and is hence “better for business” …
asleep.
In London, in Berlin, in Rome.
And I have a suspicion that the women put them to sleep on purpose, drug them, because a sleeping child looks more miserable and is hence “better for business” …
Once, in front of my regular hotel in Paris, a Turkish woman set up shop with such a child, and the next day I simply moved to another hotel.
It isn’t only the cruelty that depresses me; mainly, it is the thought that these children are spending their lives asleep.
To think of only one child (and there are hundreds of them) who lives for years, perhaps for his entire childhood, in London, or in wonderful Florence, almost without seeing it—and only in his sleep does he hear the footsteps of people, the noise of the cars, the pulse of the big city—and when he awakes, he is, again, only in the miserable hole where he lives.
To think of only one child (and there are hundreds of them) who lives for years, perhaps for his entire childhood, in London, or in wonderful Florence, almost without seeing it—and only in his sleep does he hear the footsteps of people, the noise of the cars, the pulse of the big city—and when he awakes, he is, again, only in the miserable hole where he lives.
When I pass by such a woman in the street, I always give her something—and while doing so, I whistle a pleasant, happy tune with all my strength.
I’m back.
July 7
Good morning, two letters of yours arrived today!
I’ve been waiting so long for this moment when you couldn’t hold yourself back—and the minute you closed an envelope, ideas for another letter gathered inside you, instantly.
One arrived in the morning, and the other with the afternoon delivery (the pleasures of a mailbox owner!).
And they are both jolly and excited, one from home and the second—I guess your house got hot and stuffy—from your secret valley near Ein Karem.
It was wonderful to finally meet you in completely new words (and a new skirt!), like breathing a stream of clear air … and to hear the surprise in your voice when you said you’ve been happy lately.
That’s the first time the word has appeared in your letters—I immediately sent it to the lab for tests, and they verified its happiness (I’m just trying to figure out why it is that your happiness still seems so sad to me), and perhaps because of this word, something is happening to me as well today.
An internal tide turning, I don’t know, perhaps because I’ve finally succeeded in making you happy.
I’ve been waiting so long for this moment when you couldn’t hold yourself back—and the minute you closed an envelope, ideas for another letter gathered inside you, instantly.
One arrived in the morning, and the other with the afternoon delivery (the pleasures of a mailbox owner!).
And they are both jolly and excited, one from home and the second—I guess your house got hot and stuffy—from your secret valley near Ein Karem.
It was wonderful to finally meet you in completely new words (and a new skirt!), like breathing a stream of clear air … and to hear the surprise in your voice when you said you’ve been happy lately.
That’s the first time the word has appeared in your letters—I immediately sent it to the lab for tests, and they verified its happiness (I’m just trying to figure out why it is that your happiness still seems so sad to me), and perhaps because of this word, something is happening to me as well today.
An internal tide turning, I don’t know, perhaps because I’ve finally succeeded in making you happy.
Because summer broke open inside me as well, you see.
It’s as if only now your magic spell of words allowed me, as well, to leave the dark and
windy cave we dug out together, with all our complexity and heaviness—“happy”—and as if you permitted me something, the summer broke open inside me—it’s already July, imagine that, and I am only now waking up to summer, with its life forces and the shining, its natural roughness and the excitement of wanting so much so desperately—everything you described (how is it that you are still afraid of going back to painting in color?
A person who can write like that …).
Look at me, me as well, touch me, I am suddenly so alive, burning and sending tendrils into the body of this summer, as if I myself were one of its “beating veins” you described—and I’m also focused on you today, like a laser beam—watch out!
I’m not responsible for my actions today, don’t even know what’s happening to me—do you have any idea?
It’s as if only now your magic spell of words allowed me, as well, to leave the dark and
windy cave we dug out together, with all our complexity and heaviness—“happy”—and as if you permitted me something, the summer broke open inside me—it’s already July, imagine that, and I am only now waking up to summer, with its life forces and the shining, its natural roughness and the excitement of wanting so much so desperately—everything you described (how is it that you are still afraid of going back to painting in color?
A person who can write like that …).
Look at me, me as well, touch me, I am suddenly so alive, burning and sending tendrils into the body of this summer, as if I myself were one of its “beating veins” you described—and I’m also focused on you today, like a laser beam—watch out!
I’m not responsible for my actions today, don’t even know what’s happening to me—do you have any idea?
How about this: perhaps I will completely stop working and living in the outside world, in their so-called existence, and only write, and write, and write to you.
I will describe how you look in every state and what it does to me when I look at you in every state, and I will sap myself of my essences, pour them into you until I am completely drained.
A hanged man ejaculates in his last moment.
I read about it once, and it has excited me ever since, a last will and testament of the body and soul together; this is exactly the kind of conversation I want between us, because we will
die
on each other in a few months—you refuse to even listen to me about this, the “guillotine” turning your guts—but, to me, it is the heart and soul of our relationship, maybe because what is happening between us would never happen during the complete life of an ordinary couple-we can have the nectar of Queen’s Honey and the blood of our rawest essence together at the same time—you are starting to feel it now, but I knew it from the beginning.
I will describe how you look in every state and what it does to me when I look at you in every state, and I will sap myself of my essences, pour them into you until I am completely drained.
A hanged man ejaculates in his last moment.
I read about it once, and it has excited me ever since, a last will and testament of the body and soul together; this is exactly the kind of conversation I want between us, because we will
die
on each other in a few months—you refuse to even listen to me about this, the “guillotine” turning your guts—but, to me, it is the heart and soul of our relationship, maybe because what is happening between us would never happen during the complete life of an ordinary couple-we can have the nectar of Queen’s Honey and the blood of our rawest essence together at the same time—you are starting to feel it now, but I knew it from the beginning.
I thought the story of the retarded girl would put you off—but you, as usual, come and touch me, without gloves.
So what, then?
You, in no way, would ever want to redeal your cards and mine, but rather the opposite?
Is that what truly attracts you to me, the fact that I don’t have a full deck?
So what, then?
You, in no way, would ever want to redeal your cards and mine, but rather the opposite?
Is that what truly attracts you to me, the fact that I don’t have a full deck?
Well, fine, good—but touch me only in writing, leave me written—and I hope we both can have the power to fight off the barbed temptations of reality a little longer.
Sex, not religion, is the opiate of the masses; and when we meet—because eventually, we will surrender—I’m feeling a bit fragile today—the heat is melting my most firm resolve.
I hope
we won’t—but perhaps in two or three weeks, if not tonight, we can—this predatory attack inflaming me here—It’s that skirt you bought.
You slipped it on, and had a body, your body, that body I almost succeeded in forgetting was resurrected in a blink, your legs moved inside your skirt, pretty and fresh—don’t say, even as a joke, that “I forgot I even had legs”—and I remembered the curves of your ankles and finally grasped the secret conspiracy between the shape of a woman’s ankles and the back of her neck …
Sex, not religion, is the opiate of the masses; and when we meet—because eventually, we will surrender—I’m feeling a bit fragile today—the heat is melting my most firm resolve.
I hope
we won’t—but perhaps in two or three weeks, if not tonight, we can—this predatory attack inflaming me here—It’s that skirt you bought.
You slipped it on, and had a body, your body, that body I almost succeeded in forgetting was resurrected in a blink, your legs moved inside your skirt, pretty and fresh—don’t say, even as a joke, that “I forgot I even had legs”—and I remembered the curves of your ankles and finally grasped the secret conspiracy between the shape of a woman’s ankles and the back of her neck …
It’s clear to you, isn’t it?
We will eventually surrender.
When the sad, thick, heavy sweetness, the nectar of autumn, falls in layers in our hearts—Yair has begun to poetize, the nectar of summer is quite active in me today as well.
Oh well, how long can you continue turning come into ink alone—and it is only your black-framed glasses that keep me from writing exactly what is going on in my head at this moment, now—and at what precise times I do picture you, and how—dressed, undressed, in the orange skirt with the side slit, the orange T-shirt that clings and caresses you when you are standing up, lying down, wildly, sweetly, in my car, your thin ankles clasped like a necklace around my back—I am dying for such a miracle to happen, for you to pop up in front of me in the street by chance—
We will eventually surrender.
When the sad, thick, heavy sweetness, the nectar of autumn, falls in layers in our hearts—Yair has begun to poetize, the nectar of summer is quite active in me today as well.
Oh well, how long can you continue turning come into ink alone—and it is only your black-framed glasses that keep me from writing exactly what is going on in my head at this moment, now—and at what precise times I do picture you, and how—dressed, undressed, in the orange skirt with the side slit, the orange T-shirt that clings and caresses you when you are standing up, lying down, wildly, sweetly, in my car, your thin ankles clasped like a necklace around my back—I am dying for such a miracle to happen, for you to pop up in front of me in the street by chance—
Where were we?
I have no idea how to get up from my desk in front of my secretary, a nice little Beit Ya’akov Orthodox School graduate.
You are probably asking yourself, What the hell does he want from me?
Why is he driving me and himself crazy in this way—I have no idea.
I just want it so much right now that it hurts.
On the other hand, I’m so convinced that we shouldn’t dip even one toe into reality—everything will melt and evaporate into a cliché—all the delicate, transparent webs from which we have woven ourselves, all this ephemeral beauty will be ground into flesh all of a sudden, and will be lost, one-two-three!
Believe me.
You can tell that I know whereof I speak—and I’m telling you, we will exist only in limbo, the space between us—even though, in your opinion, we have nothing to hide, not even from your loving husband.
I can absolutely not understand that part.
Why hurt him?
Why the humiliation?
He has already been betrayed and cheated in every possible way by everything we have together—without his knowledge, he has already been betrayed, robbed by the law of the preservation of joy in nature—I have to stop here again.
A
shipment has arrived.
Ah, all the times life has to pass through a coffee spout.
I’ll continue this evening.
I do actually want to continue to talk about this—
You are probably asking yourself, What the hell does he want from me?
Why is he driving me and himself crazy in this way—I have no idea.
I just want it so much right now that it hurts.
On the other hand, I’m so convinced that we shouldn’t dip even one toe into reality—everything will melt and evaporate into a cliché—all the delicate, transparent webs from which we have woven ourselves, all this ephemeral beauty will be ground into flesh all of a sudden, and will be lost, one-two-three!
Believe me.
You can tell that I know whereof I speak—and I’m telling you, we will exist only in limbo, the space between us—even though, in your opinion, we have nothing to hide, not even from your loving husband.
I can absolutely not understand that part.
Why hurt him?
Why the humiliation?
He has already been betrayed and cheated in every possible way by everything we have together—without his knowledge, he has already been betrayed, robbed by the law of the preservation of joy in nature—I have to stop here again.
A
shipment has arrived.
Ah, all the times life has to pass through a coffee spout.
I’ll continue this evening.
I do actually want to continue to talk about this—
July 10
I cannot believe it.
I am sitting here simply refusing to believe what you have done to me.
I am sitting here simply refusing to believe what you have done to me.
What are you, a psychic?
Do you have X-ray vision?
What if that was the most wonderful letter I ever wrote to you?
And aren’t you curious in the slightest?
Have you no simple feminine curiosity?
How could you withstand the temptation?
(Or is it no temptation to you at all—me, that is?)
Do you have X-ray vision?
What if that was the most wonderful letter I ever wrote to you?
And aren’t you curious in the slightest?
Have you no simple feminine curiosity?
How could you withstand the temptation?
(Or is it no temptation to you at all—me, that is?)
I am trying to understand exactly what happened, how, exactly, your gears work: you received the morning letter, full of excitement over the summer and your new happiness, the one you read.
But the letter I sent you later in the evening continuing the conversation—and it was, by the way, a tremendously funny letter, hilarious, even—you decided, for some reason, to return to me closed and sealed.
Why?
Because of what?
The heat of the pages you felt through the envelope?
The angle by which I wrote your name on the outside?
And if I had sent you my soul, wrapped up in there, what then?
Would you have sent that back as well?
But the letter I sent you later in the evening continuing the conversation—and it was, by the way, a tremendously funny letter, hilarious, even—you decided, for some reason, to return to me closed and sealed.
Why?
Because of what?
The heat of the pages you felt through the envelope?
The angle by which I wrote your name on the outside?
And if I had sent you my soul, wrapped up in there, what then?
Would you have sent that back as well?
Your arrogance exasperates me.
You’re terribly tough, have I ever told you that?
Tough in a way that is unpleasant, even unfeminine!
You know, I could tell from your first letters—but at that point your totality and the extreme seriousness with which you responded to everything I said and what was going on between us—I actually liked it.
Then.
And now it is as if the water level has sunk, revealing the rock beneath.
You’re terribly tough, have I ever told you that?
Tough in a way that is unpleasant, even unfeminine!
You know, I could tell from your first letters—but at that point your totality and the extreme seriousness with which you responded to everything I said and what was going on between us—I actually liked it.
Then.
And now it is as if the water level has sunk, revealing the rock beneath.
And your inflexible clinging to principles!
“Even a whisper from that place hurts me, pains me like betrayal, and I have to protect myself from it …” Betrayal, nothing less!
One could think that we had signed some kind of mutual pact committing us to life and death, and not simply corresponded!
“Even a whisper from that place hurts me, pains me like betrayal, and I have to protect myself from it …” Betrayal, nothing less!
One could think that we had signed some kind of mutual pact committing us to life and death, and not simply corresponded!
Listen—what you’ve done is not so simple.
And the more I think about it, the more I feel that it is you who have betrayed me.
You, who amused herself for a few months with the harmless clown twitching near you; my letters were nothing more than a petit bourgeois turn-on for you, the secret flirtations of a decent housewife—but when it got too close, too
hot, when you suddenly started to feel any emotion, a living, existing thump, you got scared and started screaming help!
I am reading the little spermicidal note you attached to my sealed envelope, and simply cannot believe: now, after three months, it occurs to you to accuse me of always flirting, not with you, really, but with some “permanent temptation of dishonesty” that is in me.
An “internal Don Juan complex”?!
You, in general, use such anachro-puritan expressions I could die.
I’m shocked you didn’t write “
Le
Don
du
Juan”!
And the more I think about it, the more I feel that it is you who have betrayed me.
You, who amused herself for a few months with the harmless clown twitching near you; my letters were nothing more than a petit bourgeois turn-on for you, the secret flirtations of a decent housewife—but when it got too close, too
hot, when you suddenly started to feel any emotion, a living, existing thump, you got scared and started screaming help!
I am reading the little spermicidal note you attached to my sealed envelope, and simply cannot believe: now, after three months, it occurs to you to accuse me of always flirting, not with you, really, but with some “permanent temptation of dishonesty” that is in me.
An “internal Don Juan complex”?!
You, in general, use such anachro-puritan expressions I could die.
I’m shocked you didn’t write “
Le
Don
du
Juan”!
And how!
And with what confidence you allowed yourself to determine that even if I wanted to get rid of my (
automatic!
) yielding to temptation, it probably wouldn’t let go of me, and that I take a constant mutated pleasure in mocking and making ugly everything truly precious and pure around me.
And with what confidence you allowed yourself to determine that even if I wanted to get rid of my (
automatic!
) yielding to temptation, it probably wouldn’t let go of me, and that I take a constant mutated pleasure in mocking and making ugly everything truly precious and pure around me.
Is it because of what I wrote toward the end of the first letter?
It is, isn’t it?
That remark about your husband, right?
I imagine so.
You clenched in front of me in that moment—I could feel myself stepping into your allergic regions.
Fine.
I’m sorry.
Watch me—look, I’m apologizing!
I’ll write a testimonial: your husband is not humiliated, not betrayed, robbed, or in any way hurt by the Law of the Preservation of Happiness in Nature.
There it is, there you have it, signed over to you with the print of my criminal finger.
It is, isn’t it?
That remark about your husband, right?
I imagine so.
You clenched in front of me in that moment—I could feel myself stepping into your allergic regions.
Fine.
I’m sorry.
Watch me—look, I’m apologizing!
I’ll write a testimonial: your husband is not humiliated, not betrayed, robbed, or in any way hurt by the Law of the Preservation of Happiness in Nature.
There it is, there you have it, signed over to you with the print of my criminal finger.
And it’s true—what do I really know about him?
What, in fact, do I know about the both of you and what you are to each other?
And you’re right (in general, Miriam, you are completely in the right), because what do I know about
relationships
that do not operate according to the normal laws of territorial battle and war over each millimeter of the other’s soul, to solely constantly surrender or be surrendered?
What, in fact, do I know about the both of you and what you are to each other?
And you’re right (in general, Miriam, you are completely in the right), because what do I know about
relationships
that do not operate according to the normal laws of territorial battle and war over each millimeter of the other’s soul, to solely constantly surrender or be surrendered?
And what do you know—about Pegasus and mermaids and the common unicorn?
No, I have to hear from you: can you stand the pain of meeting the amateur Don Juan that I am?
Is he not one of the “shuffled cards”?
Is he not in need of “compassion” or “mending”?
Sometimes I think, Perhaps you should have met only him.
Perhaps he was the only one who could make you tremble with laughter and pleasure and breach the hardware of your principality.
Is he not one of the “shuffled cards”?
Is he not in need of “compassion” or “mending”?
Sometimes I think, Perhaps you should have met only him.
Perhaps he was the only one who could make you tremble with laughter and pleasure and breach the hardware of your principality.
Perhaps it is this you find so hard to accept.
That I truly, innocently,
in every line I wrote you, never offered you a clichéd love affair, or a—excuse me—fuck!
Maybe this was the unforgivable insult that lit the spark and suddenly aroused that exemplary girl, the good queen of the class, who never let herself run wild and burn through all her polite fire?
That I truly, innocently,
in every line I wrote you, never offered you a clichéd love affair, or a—excuse me—fuck!
Maybe this was the unforgivable insult that lit the spark and suddenly aroused that exemplary girl, the good queen of the class, who never let herself run wild and burn through all her polite fire?
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