Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (27 page)
Not just pretty—it sounds great coming out of your mouth—so generous it could make you jealous: “ … I am certain Amos would understand precisely what excites me again, every time—that a strange man saw something in me that moved him so much he had to come and put his soul in my hand …”
It’s not that I can’t imagine it.
What a joy it would be if we lived in
such a mended world, in which I could call out to Maya right now, Just a minute, My, I’m just finishing up a letter to Miriam!
And she would ask, Miriam?
Who is Miriam?
And I would finish writing you, taking my sweet time, and sit down in my home, cut into my fried egg, and say that Miriam is a woman I have been corresponding with for almost half a year.
She makes me happy.
And Maya would smile at me, pleased that I am finally showing signs of happiness (thus destroying years of my carefully constructed reputation).
And she would toss the salad with the big tongs and ask me to tell her more.
What kind of happiness is it?
How is it different from the happiness she brings me?
And I would think a little, and then tell her that when I’m writing you, I feel something in me becoming alive, returning to life, reviving—do you understand, Maya?
Even though, at times, I write her things that make me despise myself-I am living now, through her, with something that only she could manage to resurrect in me; that, if not for her, would simply be dead.
You wouldn’t want anything to die in me, would you, My?
This is what I would say while I cut thin slices of Swiss cheese and tomato and wrap them up together.
And Maya would ask me to tell her more, and I would tell her, for example, that you collect teapots, and all your friends bring you teapots from around the world.
They are all kept in the garage, however, in storage—and Maya would think about it for a moment, whether we have a unique teapot to give you.
And I would have continued to tell her about you, and Maya’s eyes would glow at me with love and innocence, the way they did in the old days.
She would lay her elbow on the table and rest her cheek in her palm, like a girl listening to a fairy tale—and I would continue to tell her—
What a joy it would be if we lived in
such a mended world, in which I could call out to Maya right now, Just a minute, My, I’m just finishing up a letter to Miriam!
And she would ask, Miriam?
Who is Miriam?
And I would finish writing you, taking my sweet time, and sit down in my home, cut into my fried egg, and say that Miriam is a woman I have been corresponding with for almost half a year.
She makes me happy.
And Maya would smile at me, pleased that I am finally showing signs of happiness (thus destroying years of my carefully constructed reputation).
And she would toss the salad with the big tongs and ask me to tell her more.
What kind of happiness is it?
How is it different from the happiness she brings me?
And I would think a little, and then tell her that when I’m writing you, I feel something in me becoming alive, returning to life, reviving—do you understand, Maya?
Even though, at times, I write her things that make me despise myself-I am living now, through her, with something that only she could manage to resurrect in me; that, if not for her, would simply be dead.
You wouldn’t want anything to die in me, would you, My?
This is what I would say while I cut thin slices of Swiss cheese and tomato and wrap them up together.
And Maya would ask me to tell her more, and I would tell her, for example, that you collect teapots, and all your friends bring you teapots from around the world.
They are all kept in the garage, however, in storage—and Maya would think about it for a moment, whether we have a unique teapot to give you.
And I would have continued to tell her about you, and Maya’s eyes would glow at me with love and innocence, the way they did in the old days.
She would lay her elbow on the table and rest her cheek in her palm, like a girl listening to a fairy tale—and I would continue to tell her—
Yair
(But then—she would have to tell me a new story about herself—something I don’t know.)
September 20
Hey, Miriam …
You have no idea what you have just given me.
Where do I begin?
So many emotions are fighting inside me to be the first … When I was very young, I vowed to read all the books in the
school library that no one else read; and truly, for one year I read only books whose checkout cards were empty (I became acquainted with some hidden treasures that way); or the time I wanted to teach myself how to control my dreams, so I could receive orders and requests from people to meet all their dear ones who had died and wish them well as I slept; or the time I wanted to train a dog who would, each night, accompany one lonely man who wants to wander the streets for no reason—
So many emotions are fighting inside me to be the first … When I was very young, I vowed to read all the books in the
school library that no one else read; and truly, for one year I read only books whose checkout cards were empty (I became acquainted with some hidden treasures that way); or the time I wanted to teach myself how to control my dreams, so I could receive orders and requests from people to meet all their dear ones who had died and wish them well as I slept; or the time I wanted to train a dog who would, each night, accompany one lonely man who wants to wander the streets for no reason—
You can’t imagine how often I am occupied with such nonsense, to this very day.
I’m telling it to you in exchange for the tale you invented for me—the fantasy of how you were kind to me on the street that night, a night you were walking with your mother in a rare moment of grace you two had—in a flash flood, it brought me back to a forgotten passion to be kind, to give without keeping count.
The desire to flood the streets with golden coins from my carriage—but have those coins made from myself, my flesh and blood—with no substitutions, right?
To feel my soul spreading out with this generosity, how I give myself away, and nourish, and win over the principle of strangeness and miserliness of the soul and everything we already decided to call the Kremlin.
I realized just how much our connection has made me be good—desire to give you only good; and even when I, here and there, get filthy in front of you, you only have to remember that it somehow still belongs to the same weird will burning my throat with the need to do you good, or just to do good.
To wipe away all the mud and resentment collecting in the tunnels, come-comecomecomecome …
I’m telling it to you in exchange for the tale you invented for me—the fantasy of how you were kind to me on the street that night, a night you were walking with your mother in a rare moment of grace you two had—in a flash flood, it brought me back to a forgotten passion to be kind, to give without keeping count.
The desire to flood the streets with golden coins from my carriage—but have those coins made from myself, my flesh and blood—with no substitutions, right?
To feel my soul spreading out with this generosity, how I give myself away, and nourish, and win over the principle of strangeness and miserliness of the soul and everything we already decided to call the Kremlin.
I realized just how much our connection has made me be good—desire to give you only good; and even when I, here and there, get filthy in front of you, you only have to remember that it somehow still belongs to the same weird will burning my throat with the need to do you good, or just to do good.
To wipe away all the mud and resentment collecting in the tunnels, come-comecomecomecome …
September 21
But what if I don’t deserve such a generous gift?
What if I lied?
Those two women, and what they said—or didn’t say—on the street that night—that was undeniably true; what if I wasn’t returning from a movie or an evening out with Shai?
I mean, I told them at home that I was going out with Shai, always just with Shai.
My father despised Shai, his ironic glance—called him “faggot” and sometimes also “the Fluorescent One” (Shai did have a kind of deathlike pallor spread out on his face), and he used to do impressions of his voice and his gesture of flipping a curl off his forehead, out of his eyes.
Shai, Shai (you already know the story, but it feels so good to write his name down after all these years).
I mean, I told them at home that I was going out with Shai, always just with Shai.
My father despised Shai, his ironic glance—called him “faggot” and sometimes also “the Fluorescent One” (Shai did have a kind of deathlike pallor spread out on his face), and he used to do impressions of his voice and his gesture of flipping a curl off his forehead, out of his eyes.
Shai, Shai (you already know the story, but it feels so good to write his name down after all these years).
You should also know that I was already dating girls by this time—but I didn’t tell my parents, of course.
Why?
Just because.
Maybe I already felt the need to fight for any privacy with all my strength—maybe because I started feeling some anxiety, thin as a lace curtain around me, about myself and exactly what I am.
Nothing was ever verbalized or explained, of course, but there was some kind of nervousness fluttering about me, a doubt that used to freeze their hearts.
Perhaps you have experienced it—when every sentence out of your mouth is stretched under the light to search for traces.
Of what?
It wasn’t made terribly clear, not then, and I didn’t understand it, nor did I want to tell myself those things about myself so explicitly.
I suspected myself of it (who doesn’t at that age?), but along the way I started to feel the pleasure of frightening them—and would start scattering various insinuations, demolishing their world with vague hints.
I would tell them, for instance, about a mature, mysterious friend I met at the library with whom I had long conversations about art.
Or float the idea of Shai and me renting an apartment together in Tel Aviv after the army … and Mrs.
Rubber Gloves would flash a medieval look at Mr.
Brown Belt and hum that Shai is already a big enough loser in proportion to his size—and why does he still not have a girlfriend?
And why can’t I ever hang out with someone just a little more normal, instead of spending all my time just with Shai, each of us in the other’s ass?
So she would say, and having been silenced by terror, I would bleat out with childish innocence that girls don’t interest us at all—what really interests both of us right now, actually, is quitting school and joining an amateur theater company abroad.
You should have seen the effect of those words on
their
ears—and never, ever in a million years, not under torture, would I ever tell them that I had been dating girls for a while now, normal females … because I started messing around with girls when I was very young, tiny Lolito that I was.
I remember myself at the age of twelve—I would approach the girl—any girl, I was never too choosy—and, mustering a terrified self-confidence, would ask her out.
Meaning, I would order her, in my limp way, to come with me to a movie.
And after the movie I would, using my endless wiles of flattery and begging and self-humiliation, get her to make out with me.
Why?
Just because I wanted to, because I had to.
It belonged to some bargain that she had almost no part in—in which she was only currency—or, worse yet, a receipt.
Why?
Just because.
Maybe I already felt the need to fight for any privacy with all my strength—maybe because I started feeling some anxiety, thin as a lace curtain around me, about myself and exactly what I am.
Nothing was ever verbalized or explained, of course, but there was some kind of nervousness fluttering about me, a doubt that used to freeze their hearts.
Perhaps you have experienced it—when every sentence out of your mouth is stretched under the light to search for traces.
Of what?
It wasn’t made terribly clear, not then, and I didn’t understand it, nor did I want to tell myself those things about myself so explicitly.
I suspected myself of it (who doesn’t at that age?), but along the way I started to feel the pleasure of frightening them—and would start scattering various insinuations, demolishing their world with vague hints.
I would tell them, for instance, about a mature, mysterious friend I met at the library with whom I had long conversations about art.
Or float the idea of Shai and me renting an apartment together in Tel Aviv after the army … and Mrs.
Rubber Gloves would flash a medieval look at Mr.
Brown Belt and hum that Shai is already a big enough loser in proportion to his size—and why does he still not have a girlfriend?
And why can’t I ever hang out with someone just a little more normal, instead of spending all my time just with Shai, each of us in the other’s ass?
So she would say, and having been silenced by terror, I would bleat out with childish innocence that girls don’t interest us at all—what really interests both of us right now, actually, is quitting school and joining an amateur theater company abroad.
You should have seen the effect of those words on
their
ears—and never, ever in a million years, not under torture, would I ever tell them that I had been dating girls for a while now, normal females … because I started messing around with girls when I was very young, tiny Lolito that I was.
I remember myself at the age of twelve—I would approach the girl—any girl, I was never too choosy—and, mustering a terrified self-confidence, would ask her out.
Meaning, I would order her, in my limp way, to come with me to a movie.
And after the movie I would, using my endless wiles of flattery and begging and self-humiliation, get her to make out with me.
Why?
Just because I wanted to, because I had to.
It belonged to some bargain that she had almost no part in—in which she was only currency—or, worse yet, a receipt.
You’d be surprised if you knew how many girls agreed to be the soft,
sweet-smelling cannon fodder for the frightened tyrant I was.
I have no explanation.
You can imagine for yourself what I was like then, what I looked like—but still, there was always some girl or other who agreed to participate as a walk-on in my internal, bloody drama.
Maybe they wanted to practice on me so they’d be prepared when they met the real thing.
I sometimes, to this day, wonder: maybe they felt an attraction to his strangeness, above all.
I wonder why it depresses me now, again, just to think about it—so many years have passed, and that boy grew and survived—but the thought that it really was my great dark secret that created a black magic gravitational pull (because who can resist the temptation to peek into another’s hell?)—
sweet-smelling cannon fodder for the frightened tyrant I was.
I have no explanation.
You can imagine for yourself what I was like then, what I looked like—but still, there was always some girl or other who agreed to participate as a walk-on in my internal, bloody drama.
Maybe they wanted to practice on me so they’d be prepared when they met the real thing.
I sometimes, to this day, wonder: maybe they felt an attraction to his strangeness, above all.
I wonder why it depresses me now, again, just to think about it—so many years have passed, and that boy grew and survived—but the thought that it really was my great dark secret that created a black magic gravitational pull (because who can resist the temptation to peek into another’s hell?)—
I went to a movie that evening, not with Shai, but with a girl whose name I don’t remember.
After we said our goodbyes, I went home.
But instead of transferring at Jaffa Street and taking the bus back to my neighborhood, I entered Bahari Alley through the closed stands of the roasted-seed sellers and through the prostitutes.
After we said our goodbyes, I went home.
But instead of transferring at Jaffa Street and taking the bus back to my neighborhood, I entered Bahari Alley through the closed stands of the roasted-seed sellers and through the prostitutes.
Miriam, Miriam, let’s see if I am capable of opening that box: I was barely twelve, I still hadn’t gone further than stolen caresses and hasty kisses on lips that always sealed themselves together in front of me.
I was holding 50 lirot in my hands, rolled up and sticky with my cold sweat, that I had spent several months dedicatedly stealing from the Holy Wallet, because for no small period of time had I planned, in cold blood, to do this.
I would sit in class, studying language and the Bible, and see myself doing it.
I would eat my Shabbat suppers with my family and see only this …
I was holding 50 lirot in my hands, rolled up and sticky with my cold sweat, that I had spent several months dedicatedly stealing from the Holy Wallet, because for no small period of time had I planned, in cold blood, to do this.
I would sit in class, studying language and the Bible, and see myself doing it.
I would eat my Shabbat suppers with my family and see only this …
Shall we take a break?
Your story excited me so much, the true parts—the nightmare of your weeklong vacation in Jerusalem (how old were you?
fifteen?
sixteen?), as well as the imaginary meeting you hallucinated for me at the end.
Little details—how ashamed you were, looking at your big shoes resting next to her tiny ones in the room at the pension; how you tried to separate the two pairs and she would constantly try to put them close together again.
I’m thinking about the fruits budding in you then, late bloomer that you were, that seemed to her a final “proof” of your true promiscuous nature …
fifteen?
sixteen?), as well as the imaginary meeting you hallucinated for me at the end.
Little details—how ashamed you were, looking at your big shoes resting next to her tiny ones in the room at the pension; how you tried to separate the two pairs and she would constantly try to put them close together again.
I’m thinking about the fruits budding in you then, late bloomer that you were, that seemed to her a final “proof” of your true promiscuous nature …
And more than anything, well, it’s clear … what she whispered to you that night before you returned home, that sentence has been gnawing at me constantly with its inner defeated music (like a line from a funeral
dirge)—when Father asks us, we’ll say we had a wonderful time; when Father asks us, we’ll say we had a wonderful time …
dirge)—when Father asks us, we’ll say we had a wonderful time; when Father asks us, we’ll say we had a wonderful time …
It allowed me to suddenly grasp something I never thought of in this way, until now: how miserable my parents were because of me.
Perhaps as miserable as I was.
It never once crossed my mind how I humiliated them, how helpless they were.
How did you put it?—raising your own orphan child is also terrible.
Perhaps as miserable as I was.
It never once crossed my mind how I humiliated them, how helpless they were.
How did you put it?—raising your own orphan child is also terrible.
Miriam, you once told me you have this little game with me—each day you draw one letter of mine out of a bag and read it to discover what has changed in you and in me since the last time you read it.
So, I want to send you the rest of this story in a separate letter.
Do you mind?
Do you mind?
Y.
September 21
Are you still there?
I don’t know where I got the guts to do it.
My whole body was shaking—why, courage itself was already a kind of betrayal.
How is it possible for one child to dare to escape the gravity of his particular family and go all the way
there
.
But maybe the most amazing treachery of all was that this twelve-year-old peanut stood up and allowed himself to feel such a strong emotion: lust.
It’s called lust.
Black lust of daybreak we drink it at nightfall.
My whole body was shaking—why, courage itself was already a kind of betrayal.
How is it possible for one child to dare to escape the gravity of his particular family and go all the way
there
.
But maybe the most amazing treachery of all was that this twelve-year-old peanut stood up and allowed himself to feel such a strong emotion: lust.
It’s called lust.
Black lust of daybreak we drink it at nightfall.
In that moment, who could feel true lust?
What lust?!
Perhaps the only real, true lust I have ever known (the lust of guilt eternally searching for an available sin to mate with).
I swear, I could compose a complete book of their positions, all the possible variations those two can get into.
Only a natural continuation to “The Family Cookbook”; oh, Shai, where are you?!
What lust?!
Perhaps the only real, true lust I have ever known (the lust of guilt eternally searching for an available sin to mate with).
I swear, I could compose a complete book of their positions, all the possible variations those two can get into.
Only a natural continuation to “The Family Cookbook”; oh, Shai, where are you?!
Old men and young men were standing around; they all looked like the characters in cops-and-robber movies, just like the ones they would cut out of huge sheets of cardboard and place on the roof of the Orgil Cinema.
I passed between them with my eyes to the ground, with the festive, frozen terror of a man sentenced to death.
I thought, None of them could be Ashkenazi.
I thought, This is my burial place.
Someone slapped the back of my head and laughed that he would tell my yeshiva in Mea
Shearim.
Pay attention, Miriam, this was the child you wanted to grace with your glance, to promise him he was a beautiful boy … At the end of the alley was a large back yard; men entered and left it hastily, their faces lowered.
We would fantasize with choked whispers about what must be going on in there during class.
Eli Ben Zikri was the only one who ever dared to actually run through the alley, and was considered a big hero because of it.
And I
entered
it.
The smell of urine and gutter stood thick in the air, and I felt how polluted I was with every breath.
Another boy, not much older than I, turned me with a push toward one of the walls.
By that wall stood a big square woman in a very short, very shiny black skirt, probably a leather skirt, but I only remember the shine next to her exposed, and very thick, thighs.
But not her face, because I did not dare look at her.
Can you imagine it?
Until the transaction was completed, I did not dare to raise my head, even once, to look at her.
I passed between them with my eyes to the ground, with the festive, frozen terror of a man sentenced to death.
I thought, None of them could be Ashkenazi.
I thought, This is my burial place.
Someone slapped the back of my head and laughed that he would tell my yeshiva in Mea
Shearim.
Pay attention, Miriam, this was the child you wanted to grace with your glance, to promise him he was a beautiful boy … At the end of the alley was a large back yard; men entered and left it hastily, their faces lowered.
We would fantasize with choked whispers about what must be going on in there during class.
Eli Ben Zikri was the only one who ever dared to actually run through the alley, and was considered a big hero because of it.
And I
entered
it.
The smell of urine and gutter stood thick in the air, and I felt how polluted I was with every breath.
Another boy, not much older than I, turned me with a push toward one of the walls.
By that wall stood a big square woman in a very short, very shiny black skirt, probably a leather skirt, but I only remember the shine next to her exposed, and very thick, thighs.
But not her face, because I did not dare look at her.
Can you imagine it?
Until the transaction was completed, I did not dare to raise my head, even once, to look at her.
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