Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (23 page)
And as he passed them (dressed in his good pants that Father made him wear before going out, hair carefully combed with a side part), he thought he heard one of them, he couldn’t tell which one, whisper to the other, “What a beautiful boy.”
Oh well.
I’ve already started this, so I don’t really have a choice, do I?
I’ve already started this, so I don’t really have a choice, do I?
He continued walking, and had made it a few steps farther, when those words penetrated him and stopped him.
He was ashamed to be standing like that in the middle of the street and dragged himself into one of the apartment building entrances, and stood there in the darkness, shivering, sucking on those four words—
He was ashamed to be standing like that in the middle of the street and dragged himself into one of the apartment building entrances, and stood there in the darkness, shivering, sucking on those four words—
Within sixty seconds, of course, he started tormenting himself with doubts.
Had he heard correctly?
Was one of them actually looking at him
and still saying what he thought he heard?
And if she did say it, was it the young one or the older—and I hoped it was the young one, because he was already vaguely aware of the fact that old women have a bit more compassion for children who look like him—if it was the younger one, the pretty one, the
modern
one, then his situation might not be all that bad.
Because she was speaking purely objectively with regard to him—she doesn’t know him, never saw him in her life, but when she did see him, it was as if she
had
to say those words, before she could even think about it, thus giving an almost scientific validity to her statement.
Had he heard correctly?
Was one of them actually looking at him
and still saying what he thought he heard?
And if she did say it, was it the young one or the older—and I hoped it was the young one, because he was already vaguely aware of the fact that old women have a bit more compassion for children who look like him—if it was the younger one, the pretty one, the
modern
one, then his situation might not be all that bad.
Because she was speaking purely objectively with regard to him—she doesn’t know him, never saw him in her life, but when she did see him, it was as if she
had
to say those words, before she could even think about it, thus giving an almost scientific validity to her statement.
But did she really say it?
He wasn’t completely sure; maybe they had been discussing a film they saw, quoting lines from it—or they could have said, “What a dutiful goy,” or “Cuts are disputable joys,” or maybe they were thinking about some
other
boy that they both know who really fit that description?
He wasn’t completely sure; maybe they had been discussing a film they saw, quoting lines from it—or they could have said, “What a dutiful goy,” or “Cuts are disputable joys,” or maybe they were thinking about some
other
boy that they both know who really fit that description?
It’s a bit silly to stretch it out, don’t you think?
But that’s the thing—those words never saw light—only wave after wave of endless darkness.
But that’s the thing—those words never saw light—only wave after wave of endless darkness.
So what did he do?
He stood in that dark entrance, practically shaking from his distress and confusion—maybe he should run after them and explain, in his most weighty, measured voice, “Excuse me, but when I was passing by you before, one of you made a remark regarding some specific boy—an insignificant remark, true—but due to a rare coincidence that comment has a marked importance—fatal, actually—yes, a matter of life and death that is difficult to lay out in detail at the moment, a matter of national security, actually—so could you please, even if it sounds a bit odd, would you mind repeating what you so briefly mentioned when I passed you?”
He stood in that dark entrance, practically shaking from his distress and confusion—maybe he should run after them and explain, in his most weighty, measured voice, “Excuse me, but when I was passing by you before, one of you made a remark regarding some specific boy—an insignificant remark, true—but due to a rare coincidence that comment has a marked importance—fatal, actually—yes, a matter of life and death that is difficult to lay out in detail at the moment, a matter of national security, actually—so could you please, even if it sounds a bit odd, would you mind repeating what you so briefly mentioned when I passed you?”
So he started running after them, slowly—then sprinting; and then he stopped again, confused and defeated, immediately turned around, and returned to the dark entrance, where he stood in front of the wall, heart fluttering in his throat, and felt like prey, still half-alive.
He no longer cared if someone passed by and saw him—but those four words he might have heard, he wished he had heard, began to glide in mad joy, like four birds in a frozen garden—
He no longer cared if someone passed by and saw him—but those four words he might have heard, he wished he had heard, began to glide in mad joy, like four birds in a frozen garden—
Well, what would you have done in his place?
He knew that even if he caught up to those women, he wouldn’t dare to ask; because whoever asks a question like that aloud condemns himself to an eternal life of disgrace; and even if, let’s say, the two of them (the young one, too) tell him that indeed, their reference to a beautiful boy was
to him, he would never be able to truly believe them, because if they are given enough time to really look at him while he explains such an odd request, they will understand everything, it’s impossible to look at him without understanding his situation, and they will pity him and lie.
Do you think that I wouldn’t run after them today, pleading with them to say it in a thousand and one ways; I am still running.
I’m running after them today—Why, not a single day has really passed since that happened.
to him, he would never be able to truly believe them, because if they are given enough time to really look at him while he explains such an odd request, they will understand everything, it’s impossible to look at him without understanding his situation, and they will pity him and lie.
Do you think that I wouldn’t run after them today, pleading with them to say it in a thousand and one ways; I am still running.
I’m running after them today—Why, not a single day has really passed since that happened.
Hey, you’re sticking around, aren’t you?
I became so tired all of a sudden.
It makes me happy that you like my private name.
I never thought of it like that—that Yair, meaning, “will shine,” is a name that faces the future, or is “almost a promise.”
I was also relieved that you are no longer worrying about whether Wind is my real surname.
As long as my name shines on you.
I never thought of it like that—that Yair, meaning, “will shine,” is a name that faces the future, or is “almost a promise.”
I was also relieved that you are no longer worrying about whether Wind is my real surname.
As long as my name shines on you.
It took me months to discern the transparent streams of your humor—it’s just like that, passing through the lines, with its hands in its pockets, whistling lightly …
Tell me—can you feel that I’ve been trying to hide a sudden, unjustifiable happiness for a whole minute now?
Tears taste the same, but it’s as if the taps were switched … This treacherous, warm wellspring of joy that has no explanation, no justification from what I’ve just told you, except for the astonishing fact that I told you: Warning!
All units at attention!
Happiness leak!
I will locate the source immediately!
No—actually, no.
All units—pay no attention.
I want it to drip into me until I am swept away by it.
And I don’t care that dogs are barking behind me, that the electric fence bears the writing “Family Will Make You Free!”
Listen to me—I will still try to escape.
I don’t think I’ll make it, but this time I have outside help—someone is waiting for me on the illuminated side.
These are the kinds of gifts you give me.
I’m not afraid of anything.
I’m ready to shout with all the strength I have that I believe in the possibility of you and me coming out, toward each other, and actually meeting in the middle of the road.
I believe in such wonders.
Tears taste the same, but it’s as if the taps were switched … This treacherous, warm wellspring of joy that has no explanation, no justification from what I’ve just told you, except for the astonishing fact that I told you: Warning!
All units at attention!
Happiness leak!
I will locate the source immediately!
No—actually, no.
All units—pay no attention.
I want it to drip into me until I am swept away by it.
And I don’t care that dogs are barking behind me, that the electric fence bears the writing “Family Will Make You Free!”
Listen to me—I will still try to escape.
I don’t think I’ll make it, but this time I have outside help—someone is waiting for me on the illuminated side.
These are the kinds of gifts you give me.
I’m not afraid of anything.
I’m ready to shout with all the strength I have that I believe in the possibility of you and me coming out, toward each other, and actually meeting in the middle of the road.
I believe in such wonders.
I need to be alone with myself.
Goodbye, Miriam.
Goodbye, Miriam.
Yair
(Now quickly—look inside yourself, see what it looks like when venom is injected in your blood, watch the live broadcast at the moment of the
crime: It’s a white room, four walls, no windows, no pictures—one tiny open eye is in each wall: four gaping eyes, no lids, no lashes, no breaks to blink—and each pair of eyes has one look, just one stable, permanent, frozen look in it; and enclosed by the walls, a blind rat runs along the floor.)
crime: It’s a white room, four walls, no windows, no pictures—one tiny open eye is in each wall: four gaping eyes, no lids, no lashes, no breaks to blink—and each pair of eyes has one look, just one stable, permanent, frozen look in it; and enclosed by the walls, a blind rat runs along the floor.)
August 21
Don’t panic, this is not another scrawl.
Just a good-night kiss.
Just a good-night kiss.
You once teased me, told me my letters are like balls of yarn—I know, I got so knotted up in myself that by now it might be impossible to untangle me.
I’m not asking you to try: hold the ball of yarn in your hand, tucked between your two palms, just for a moment, for as long as you can, for one more month.
It’s a big request, I know—but you are now at a perfect distance from me—the perfect distance of closeness and foreignness, and between my ignominy and my pride (you’re no longer a stranger).
Don’t take that from me.
How could I look Maya in the eye if I allowed her into the blind rat’s room?
She’s my woman, I’m her
gever
.
When she and I are together, my pupils never get shifty when I say
gever
.
I’m not asking you to try: hold the ball of yarn in your hand, tucked between your two palms, just for a moment, for as long as you can, for one more month.
It’s a big request, I know—but you are now at a perfect distance from me—the perfect distance of closeness and foreignness, and between my ignominy and my pride (you’re no longer a stranger).
Don’t take that from me.
How could I look Maya in the eye if I allowed her into the blind rat’s room?
She’s my woman, I’m her
gever
.
When she and I are together, my pupils never get shifty when I say
gever
.
Yair
August 23
Thank you so much for your quick reply—you must have felt just what has been going through me since the last letter—
And today, I want only to caress you, to comfort and be comforted … You practically ran to me with your writing.
You gave me so much of yourself as a girl, of your mother, and especially your father—at last, someone in your childhood was gentle and loving (I found I completely misguessed him—I had imagined him stern and nosy and bitter, probably because I only knew of his “Why aren’t you happy, Miriam?”).
But maybe he was too gentle for the difficult job he needed to do, to protect you from her.
You gave me so much of yourself as a girl, of your mother, and especially your father—at last, someone in your childhood was gentle and loving (I found I completely misguessed him—I had imagined him stern and nosy and bitter, probably because I only knew of his “Why aren’t you happy, Miriam?”).
But maybe he was too gentle for the difficult job he needed to do, to protect you from her.
It amazes me that even though our homes were so different from each other’s, in a thousand small and large ways, both of us still “felt at home” in each other’s house.
And when you described your loneliness, and at the same time how crowded it was, how you had to struggle for any privacy, I thought of how much it pleases me that only the two of us,
out of all the millions living here in this country, know what the winner of the Chang Shui County Milking Contest looks like …
And when you described your loneliness, and at the same time how crowded it was, how you had to struggle for any privacy, I thought of how much it pleases me that only the two of us,
out of all the millions living here in this country, know what the winner of the Chang Shui County Milking Contest looks like …
Because whoever didn’t grow up in such a house might think that there is a complete contradiction between “loneliness” and “a struggle for privacy,” right?
Only the person who grew up in that kind of house can know that feeling exactly, when that contradiction tears you apart.
Only the person who grew up in that kind of house can know that feeling exactly, when that contradiction tears you apart.
Just nod.
How could you take it?
(I actually want to shout, What have you got to do with such a woman, and how is it possible that you,
you
, came out of her!) And the efforts you have made, all these years, to try to be close to her to make her like you; in my opinion, it was very noble of you that you could, in that way, at such a young age, try and calm her anxiety about you … And what about the healing that you always talk about?
Has it not happened between the two of you—not even once?
(I actually want to shout, What have you got to do with such a woman, and how is it possible that you,
you
, came out of her!) And the efforts you have made, all these years, to try to be close to her to make her like you; in my opinion, it was very noble of you that you could, in that way, at such a young age, try and calm her anxiety about you … And what about the healing that you always talk about?
Has it not happened between the two of you—not even once?
I also recognized your feeling that you are betraying her by talking to me about her;
oy
, I know,
oy
, Miriam,
oy
, the
oy
-ness of life.
You always ask the hardest questions, and you’ve already seen that I have no answer except to sit and mourn together.
And to bring up that question with you again—why does it have to happen this way, that you probably never learn to mine out the ore that you need most from your own insides?
oy
, I know,
oy
, Miriam,
oy
, the
oy
-ness of life.
You always ask the hardest questions, and you’ve already seen that I have no answer except to sit and mourn together.
And to bring up that question with you again—why does it have to happen this way, that you probably never learn to mine out the ore that you need most from your own insides?
And how are you so good at giving what you never got?
I have to leave soon (a parents’ meeting for the kindergarten class!), but there is so much more to say.
You’re probably right that a meeting “in the middle of the road,” like the one I offered, would no longer be satisfying.
That a true meeting between us can happen only if both of us walk the whole way to the other.
I wish I could say that with the same certainty as you; I want to, more than I’ve ever wanted anything—but I don’t think I have ever walked such a long path.
You’re probably right that a meeting “in the middle of the road,” like the one I offered, would no longer be satisfying.
That a true meeting between us can happen only if both of us walk the whole way to the other.
I wish I could say that with the same certainty as you; I want to, more than I’ve ever wanted anything—but I don’t think I have ever walked such a long path.
Slowly, all right?
I’m reading your letter, thinking how simple and banal my story is compared to yours (though perhaps I tell it a bit more dramatically …); and afterward, I see that in the kernel of it, that bitter, crappy kernel—they are still very much alike.
Then I think how many tens or maybe hundreds of times I have sold my story to impress someone (usually a woman).
My Gloomy History.
My Tapes.
In recent years I’ve even stopped feeling nauseated when I do it.
The one thing I haven’t stopped feeling, though, is that I tell it in order to escape, in the same way a lizard abandons its tail, to keep myself from being caught.
And I want to give
you my soul, because this is our pact: a soul for a soul.
Perhaps, someday, when I finally grow up, I’ll be able to give you the gift you keep hoping to receive from me.
And I will dress your face with that story.
Then I think how many tens or maybe hundreds of times I have sold my story to impress someone (usually a woman).
My Gloomy History.
My Tapes.
In recent years I’ve even stopped feeling nauseated when I do it.
The one thing I haven’t stopped feeling, though, is that I tell it in order to escape, in the same way a lizard abandons its tail, to keep myself from being caught.
And I want to give
you my soul, because this is our pact: a soul for a soul.
Perhaps, someday, when I finally grow up, I’ll be able to give you the gift you keep hoping to receive from me.
And I will dress your face with that story.
August 26
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
You’re right, and I have nothing to say in my defense.
Crazy days.
Working and running around from morning to night.
I hardly find the time to eat.
I remember us, and I am with us (don’t worry), and I will write a real letter soon.
Actually, I don’t really exist right now—hold up the bridge on your side (you’re probably more capable of it than I am anyway), and just let me remind you, even in the great moments of my modesty, I remained egocentric.
I’m referring of course to that fantasy of yours, describing how we met on the street, you and I and your mother, that night I was returning home from the movies, remember?
You’re right, and I have nothing to say in my defense.
Crazy days.
Working and running around from morning to night.
I hardly find the time to eat.
I remember us, and I am with us (don’t worry), and I will write a real letter soon.
Actually, I don’t really exist right now—hold up the bridge on your side (you’re probably more capable of it than I am anyway), and just let me remind you, even in the great moments of my modesty, I remained egocentric.
I’m referring of course to that fantasy of yours, describing how we met on the street, you and I and your mother, that night I was returning home from the movies, remember?
Y.
By the way, regarding your question at the end, written in large letters (and why does this question occur to you now?)—there are a few answers.
First (to the public): I started with it for no real reason, but because it was convenient during my military reserve service one winter, and it has stayed ever since.
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