Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (31 page)
Well, as you can see, I have very little trouble writing and writing and writing and passing the entire week in this manner—and perhaps that isn’t such a bad idea.
A moment before I fly: I just made a little arrangement with the post office: they will transfer any letters in my mailbox to my hotel in exile (just don’t write your name on the envelope).
So please, don’t abandon the one who was sent away!
So please, don’t abandon the one who was sent away!
(Four in the afternoon, already on the boardwalk!)
But …
Even before going to the hotel, I went to the boardwalk, sat down on a white chair, and closed my eyes to the sun in front of me—and began to wonder what a person in my situation should do with such a week, such an ultimate week.
To whom will he say goodbye with a gloomy moan of mourning—and whom will he meet, in the sore howl of heat?
Should he jump on a fast airplane and fly to Frankfurt?
Yes, yes, corrupt Frankfurt, above all!
And no one will ever know he disappeared—who will know?
A marvelous week—a secret niche in time.
At the Frankfurt Airport is a huge hotel for travelers wishing to stay the night in the middle of long flights.
It is there that a person in my situation could live, incognito, as a sexual exile for a whole week: each night he will come down to the crowded bar and will entertain one female passenger according to his predetermined game plan, as follows: On the first day, it will be a lady intending to depart for America the next morning; on the second day, let’s say a shapely lecturer from Melbourne University; on the third, he will celebrate with an Israeli who is returning to her country and homeland the next day; the night after, with a curvy black woman from the Ivory Coast.
And he will continue in this manner, night after night—and if possible, in the mornings as well, because we mustn’t neglect, for example, the Indian subcontinent, Latin America (and Atlantis)—your-servant travels the face of the globe’s soft curves with his rough stick until he
spreads his sperm throughout all the continents, among all races—and will then be able to lie peacefully with his ancestors.
To whom will he say goodbye with a gloomy moan of mourning—and whom will he meet, in the sore howl of heat?
Should he jump on a fast airplane and fly to Frankfurt?
Yes, yes, corrupt Frankfurt, above all!
And no one will ever know he disappeared—who will know?
A marvelous week—a secret niche in time.
At the Frankfurt Airport is a huge hotel for travelers wishing to stay the night in the middle of long flights.
It is there that a person in my situation could live, incognito, as a sexual exile for a whole week: each night he will come down to the crowded bar and will entertain one female passenger according to his predetermined game plan, as follows: On the first day, it will be a lady intending to depart for America the next morning; on the second day, let’s say a shapely lecturer from Melbourne University; on the third, he will celebrate with an Israeli who is returning to her country and homeland the next day; the night after, with a curvy black woman from the Ivory Coast.
And he will continue in this manner, night after night—and if possible, in the mornings as well, because we mustn’t neglect, for example, the Indian subcontinent, Latin America (and Atlantis)—your-servant travels the face of the globe’s soft curves with his rough stick until he
spreads his sperm throughout all the continents, among all races—and will then be able to lie peacefully with his ancestors.
And while I was deep in thought, a herd of shameless women rose up from the waves and knocked on my closed eyelids with their knuckles—Open up for us, open up!
And I laughed at them from underneath my eyelids: What’s with this burning, I only just arrived!
Yair hasn’t started distributing himself today, you’ll have to come back …
And I laughed at them from underneath my eyelids: What’s with this burning, I only just arrived!
Yair hasn’t started distributing himself today, you’ll have to come back …
Listen, I can already tell that I’m having a hard time sitting still for even fifteen minutes—spikes, spikes.
It’s not going to be an easy week for me.
Hey, what do you say—perhaps instead of heading off to the hotel—I really don’t feel like being trapped in four walls—I will drop this infant into the mailbox over there on which someone spray-painted in huge letters SIVAN, WRITE ME ALREADY!
And if you promise to join me without interfering, I will make a short cut from here straight to—
It’s not going to be an easy week for me.
Hey, what do you say—perhaps instead of heading off to the hotel—I really don’t feel like being trapped in four walls—I will drop this infant into the mailbox over there on which someone spray-painted in huge letters SIVAN, WRITE ME ALREADY!
And if you promise to join me without interfering, I will make a short cut from here straight to—
6:30 p.m.
Dizengoff!
(Where else did you think a tourist from Jerusalem like myself would go?) Dizengoff Street—with exceptional generosity and warmth—for an hour, full of charms and the soft haze of twilight.
And you know what was so strange about it, Miriam?
There weren’t any men there.
At all!
Only me, with a thousand women.
I staggered, drunk and dizzy, and was, in each moment, baptized into another religion with the cloud of perfume of each woman who passed me.
Certain perfumes drive me crazy, on the spot.
I can see the complete sexual histories of every woman there passing before my eyes.
And I’m also certain that each one of them could hear the drumming beat of my heart’s groin—it happens, you know, in the fraction of a second between when you glance at a woman and when her scent hits you—between the lightning and the thunder.
You should have seen me, shuttling between those women like a truck from the sperm bank.
I hope my little enthusiasms are not making you angry.
And you aren’t offended by it or taking it personally in any way—it has nothing to do with you.
It’s just a vacation for myself.
Perhaps even from us.
From the immense heaviness we have created in these few months together.
Just, please, don’t be angry (and don’t return this letter to me sealed!).
Indulge me this week.
You went to the Galilee for a week—you took a vacation, too—as I remember.
(Where else did you think a tourist from Jerusalem like myself would go?) Dizengoff Street—with exceptional generosity and warmth—for an hour, full of charms and the soft haze of twilight.
And you know what was so strange about it, Miriam?
There weren’t any men there.
At all!
Only me, with a thousand women.
I staggered, drunk and dizzy, and was, in each moment, baptized into another religion with the cloud of perfume of each woman who passed me.
Certain perfumes drive me crazy, on the spot.
I can see the complete sexual histories of every woman there passing before my eyes.
And I’m also certain that each one of them could hear the drumming beat of my heart’s groin—it happens, you know, in the fraction of a second between when you glance at a woman and when her scent hits you—between the lightning and the thunder.
You should have seen me, shuttling between those women like a truck from the sperm bank.
I hope my little enthusiasms are not making you angry.
And you aren’t offended by it or taking it personally in any way—it has nothing to do with you.
It’s just a vacation for myself.
Perhaps even from us.
From the immense heaviness we have created in these few months together.
Just, please, don’t be angry (and don’t return this letter to me sealed!).
Indulge me this week.
You went to the Galilee for a week—you took a vacation, too—as I remember.
See, I’m starting to feel murky again.
Again, the arguments I was
hoping we had already freed ourselves from.
I was enjoying myself so much (until this moment).
I’m going back to the boardwalk, to fuel up on a ray or two of the sunset, and the smells of the sea, and the burnished skin.
You can join me, if you so desire.
Again, the arguments I was
hoping we had already freed ourselves from.
I was enjoying myself so much (until this moment).
I’m going back to the boardwalk, to fuel up on a ray or two of the sunset, and the smells of the sea, and the burnished skin.
You can join me, if you so desire.
October 3
Miriam, hello.
I don’t know if you have already received the letter I’ve sent you from here.
To tell you the truth (bitter, of course), I hope you didn’t, that yesterday’s triple punch somehow evaporated en route from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.
To tell you the truth (bitter, of course), I hope you didn’t, that yesterday’s triple punch somehow evaporated en route from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.
Everything seemed a bit more delightful yesterday, somehow.
The situation is that, once a year, when Ido gets anything resembling the symptoms, I escape to a particular hotel by the sea.
As I have told you.
A small hotel, owned by two elderly Viennese who keep it neat and clean, a kind of place in the style we used to enjoy in the days of his majesty Franz Joseph.
The situation is that, once a year, when Ido gets anything resembling the symptoms, I escape to a particular hotel by the sea.
As I have told you.
A small hotel, owned by two elderly Viennese who keep it neat and clean, a kind of place in the style we used to enjoy in the days of his majesty Franz Joseph.
All right.
I’ll tell you everything in order.
The moment I entered the building last night, I could see that something had changed tremendously.
Behind the counter, instead of Mrs.
Meier, stood a skinny fellow with the eyes of a thief and oily, slicked-back hair.
One look and I realized that my oasis by the sea had changed owners.
And, apparently, destinies as well (excuse me for using that word in this context).
I’ll tell you everything in order.
The moment I entered the building last night, I could see that something had changed tremendously.
Behind the counter, instead of Mrs.
Meier, stood a skinny fellow with the eyes of a thief and oily, slicked-back hair.
One look and I realized that my oasis by the sea had changed owners.
And, apparently, destinies as well (excuse me for using that word in this context).
I already wanted to turn around, to leave without even touching the door—and suddenly I heard myself say, “Okay, I’ll have a room for a week.”
And Thief-Eyes started laughing and said, “For a week?
What are you going to do here that will take a week?”
And idiot that I am, I was offended and drew myself up and said, “What?
Do you rent only by the hour here?”
He nodded slowly, inspecting me as if, of the two of us, I was the shady character.
Or I was underage or something.
He said, “So, do we want to pay by the hour, Doctor?”
I saw that I was already getting myself into trouble and, in a mad attempt to save my honor, bargained with him, told him I would pay only by the day.
So at least he would know that I’m no one’s sucker.
To which he responded, “Oooh, he wants to rent by the
day
,” immediately took out a calculator, and calculated and rounded up and asked for the entire bill in advance.
I said, “What, do you think I’ll sneak out in the middle of my stay?”
and he smiled and
told me there are many kinds of fish in the sea.
And I, just because of his foul smile, took out my wallet and weighed on his palm one month’s worth minimum wage, and even justified it in some wild self-persuasion: What, I’m going to go out now and look for another room?
He smiled and sniggered, and I, as I always do when I see that someone is cheating me, began to give in to it, more and more—I got swindled on purpose and derived some little stinking pleasure out of it.
You aren’t familiar with that pleasure (but people do love a clown to laugh at, don’t they?).
And Thief-Eyes started laughing and said, “For a week?
What are you going to do here that will take a week?”
And idiot that I am, I was offended and drew myself up and said, “What?
Do you rent only by the hour here?”
He nodded slowly, inspecting me as if, of the two of us, I was the shady character.
Or I was underage or something.
He said, “So, do we want to pay by the hour, Doctor?”
I saw that I was already getting myself into trouble and, in a mad attempt to save my honor, bargained with him, told him I would pay only by the day.
So at least he would know that I’m no one’s sucker.
To which he responded, “Oooh, he wants to rent by the
day
,” immediately took out a calculator, and calculated and rounded up and asked for the entire bill in advance.
I said, “What, do you think I’ll sneak out in the middle of my stay?”
and he smiled and
told me there are many kinds of fish in the sea.
And I, just because of his foul smile, took out my wallet and weighed on his palm one month’s worth minimum wage, and even justified it in some wild self-persuasion: What, I’m going to go out now and look for another room?
He smiled and sniggered, and I, as I always do when I see that someone is cheating me, began to give in to it, more and more—I got swindled on purpose and derived some little stinking pleasure out of it.
You aren’t familiar with that pleasure (but people do love a clown to laugh at, don’t they?).
Oh well.
Spilt milk, etc.
I went up to my room and found it to be tiny, stuffy—and instead of the lovely sight of the sea, my view is of the back yard of a pool bar.
There’s only a tiny dresser and a huge bed that nearly fills the whole room—and a door that doesn’t really lock, and you can see the corridor through the crack in the door.
I must have been very tired, because I crawled into bed and tucked my knees into my chest and slept for three solid hours, just the way I used to in the army when they sent me to some godforsaken base in the middle of nowhere.
The first thing I would do was find an empty bed and curl up.
It also reminds me of how Ido looked just after he was born, when we brought him home from the hospital.
He looked like a little ball of yarn, rolled around himself in an unfamiliar place.
He slept in despair, insistent and lonely—
Spilt milk, etc.
I went up to my room and found it to be tiny, stuffy—and instead of the lovely sight of the sea, my view is of the back yard of a pool bar.
There’s only a tiny dresser and a huge bed that nearly fills the whole room—and a door that doesn’t really lock, and you can see the corridor through the crack in the door.
I must have been very tired, because I crawled into bed and tucked my knees into my chest and slept for three solid hours, just the way I used to in the army when they sent me to some godforsaken base in the middle of nowhere.
The first thing I would do was find an empty bed and curl up.
It also reminds me of how Ido looked just after he was born, when we brought him home from the hospital.
He looked like a little ball of yarn, rolled around himself in an unfamiliar place.
He slept in despair, insistent and lonely—
Listen, it’s really stuffy in here and the light is terribly weak.
I’m going out to breathe.
I’m going out to breathe.
I have been walking for ten straight hours today, maybe more, since half-past five in the morning.
Just so I would not have to go back there.
I haven’t walked this much since my military training.
Through the streets by the water, on the shore, on the wave breakers, walking slowly with no direction or purpose.
Down the beach, and back up again—evaporating.
Entering a café or pizzeria for a little cold synthetic fuel and returning.
Just so I would not have to go back there.
I haven’t walked this much since my military training.
Through the streets by the water, on the shore, on the wave breakers, walking slowly with no direction or purpose.
Down the beach, and back up again—evaporating.
Entering a café or pizzeria for a little cold synthetic fuel and returning.
It’s terribly hot—those last hot days of autumn—the sun is focused on me through a magnifying glass and the wind doesn’t stop.
People are bending at the waist, walking headfirst into this wind—it’s hard to swallow, and hard to breathe, and it cuts your throat going down.
Sand flies into your face like grains of glass.
People are bending at the waist, walking headfirst into this wind—it’s hard to swallow, and hard to breathe, and it cuts your throat going down.
Sand flies into your face like grains of glass.
I don’t really have any stories to tell you.
I just saw a mailbox and thought, Why not?
Last night was horrible.
I thought I was stronger than that.
I don’t know if I can pass another night like this.
The voices
were the worst (every time I succeeded in falling asleep, a scream woke me up.
As if they were waiting for me to nod off to scream).
It’s strange that there are more screams of pain than of pleasure in a place like this.
I just saw a mailbox and thought, Why not?
Last night was horrible.
I thought I was stronger than that.
I don’t know if I can pass another night like this.
The voices
were the worst (every time I succeeded in falling asleep, a scream woke me up.
As if they were waiting for me to nod off to scream).
It’s strange that there are more screams of pain than of pleasure in a place like this.
What else?
How are you?
Has the meeting with the educational administration already happened?
Did you succeed in arguing down the principal without your voice shaking?
How are you?
Has the meeting with the educational administration already happened?
Did you succeed in arguing down the principal without your voice shaking?
I really don’t know what the point is of sending you this piece of paper.
There is none.
Just staying in touch.
Perhaps tomorrow I will write again.
Take care of yourself.
There is none.
Just staying in touch.
Perhaps tomorrow I will write again.
Take care of yourself.
No exciting news.
Nothing has changed in the past two hours—except that when I stopped by the hotel to get my sunglasses, the manager jumped out from behind the counter, practically blocking my way, with the excuse “They’re cleaning in there right now.”
And I realized that while I’m out, he is doubling profits on my account!
I thought about yelling at him.
But I kept silent.
I didn’t argue.
I felt myself becoming hollow, weak, a child, in the face of such filth.
I turned around and went back to the street without saying a word.
Maybe I should look for a new hotel (but he will never give me my money back).
I don’t have too much time left here anyway.
I have decided to approach this as an adventure.
At least I’ll have a good story to tell the kids someday (if I have any more).
Nothing has changed in the past two hours—except that when I stopped by the hotel to get my sunglasses, the manager jumped out from behind the counter, practically blocking my way, with the excuse “They’re cleaning in there right now.”
And I realized that while I’m out, he is doubling profits on my account!
I thought about yelling at him.
But I kept silent.
I didn’t argue.
I felt myself becoming hollow, weak, a child, in the face of such filth.
I turned around and went back to the street without saying a word.
Maybe I should look for a new hotel (but he will never give me my money back).
I don’t have too much time left here anyway.
I have decided to approach this as an adventure.
At least I’ll have a good story to tell the kids someday (if I have any more).
It’s clear that, even at this very moment, he is renting out my bed again and I better not return until night.
I could have purchased the entire Hilton chain with what I paid him.
I could have purchased the entire Hilton chain with what I paid him.
Today is Abu-Gosh Day, isn’t it?
Have fun.
Raise a cup of coffee to me.
Have fun.
Raise a cup of coffee to me.
I finished my round.
An hour and ten minutes.
I have found one sympathetic mailbox.
In front of a little café that I like to sit in.
An hour and ten minutes.
I have found one sympathetic mailbox.
In front of a little café that I like to sit in.
Do you know what I was thinking about earlier?
For no good reason?
In the “Cleaning Lady Who Lasted One Day” letter—do you remember it?
You were describing Anna’s pregnancy in detail, all the anxieties associated with it, the fear that her delicate body couldn’t handle it—and every other moment the girl would come in to ask you where the bleach was, or the window spray—and your letter became more and
more tortured, tense—and you will
not
let her spoil this letter, you
will not
get up from the table for her—and she’s already told you she doesn’t like ironing.
Oh, really then, what does she like?
She likes to wash the floor, that’s the best—but how much floor do we have in this house?!
For no good reason?
In the “Cleaning Lady Who Lasted One Day” letter—do you remember it?
You were describing Anna’s pregnancy in detail, all the anxieties associated with it, the fear that her delicate body couldn’t handle it—and every other moment the girl would come in to ask you where the bleach was, or the window spray—and your letter became more and
more tortured, tense—and you will
not
let her spoil this letter, you
will not
get up from the table for her—and she’s already told you she doesn’t like ironing.
Oh, really then, what does she like?
She likes to wash the floor, that’s the best—but how much floor do we have in this house?!
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