Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (34 page)
I need you so much right now, Miriam.
Come to me, sit with me on the bed, ignore all the voices, the smells—focus only on me, concentrate on me, make me concentrate on you, stroke my face quietly, not sexually—say “Yair”—
Come to me, sit with me on the bed, ignore all the voices, the smells—focus only on me, concentrate on me, make me concentrate on you, stroke my face quietly, not sexually—say “Yair”—
Open up a window, open it wide.
If you open it, the scenery will be different—if you open it, the pool club below will disappear—the towels and used sheets on the laundry lines, the trash cans, the pipes, the rats running though the alleys will disappear.
Even the Lysol will evaporate with the air you will bring from afar, from Beit Zayit.
Perhaps you will even try to make me laugh a little—why not?
I haven’t even smiled in the past few days.
Say, “Oh, Yair, Yair, where do I start?”
Scold me a little—but this time, do it gently, please.
You’re talking about Yokhai, and
asking me if I don’t want another child—and in the same breath, you’re asking me to make you laugh?
I know, I know, but still, tell me something light right now—it doesn’t matter what …
If you open it, the scenery will be different—if you open it, the pool club below will disappear—the towels and used sheets on the laundry lines, the trash cans, the pipes, the rats running though the alleys will disappear.
Even the Lysol will evaporate with the air you will bring from afar, from Beit Zayit.
Perhaps you will even try to make me laugh a little—why not?
I haven’t even smiled in the past few days.
Say, “Oh, Yair, Yair, where do I start?”
Scold me a little—but this time, do it gently, please.
You’re talking about Yokhai, and
asking me if I don’t want another child—and in the same breath, you’re asking me to make you laugh?
I know, I know, but still, tell me something light right now—it doesn’t matter what …
But you would be surprised—even Yokhai is funny sometimes.
What are you talking about?
Yes, truly he is, even though he doesn’t really have “a sense of humor” in the usual sense of the phrase.
Sometimes I even comfort myself by pretending that his humor actually belongs to another world.
But sometimes, like when he wants another piece of candy and knows we won’t give it to him.
He’ll pretend to go to his room—and then turn and run to the kitchen with this squirrely, almost mischievous expression on his face … And then we can enjoy a kind illusion that his secret, other humor has met ours for one moment.
What are you talking about?
Yes, truly he is, even though he doesn’t really have “a sense of humor” in the usual sense of the phrase.
Sometimes I even comfort myself by pretending that his humor actually belongs to another world.
But sometimes, like when he wants another piece of candy and knows we won’t give it to him.
He’ll pretend to go to his room—and then turn and run to the kitchen with this squirrely, almost mischievous expression on his face … And then we can enjoy a kind illusion that his secret, other humor has met ours for one moment.
Or his problem with shoes—
what was his problem with shoes?
Don’t you remember?
I don’t.
But I told you about it!
But you never told me about it in Tel Aviv, and never when I was on this bed with bubble gum stuck to it—tell me.
Well, he always, always goes barefoot in the house, in the summer and winter, because the moment you put shoes on his feet, he immediately leaps up, decisively, to go outside.
If Amos or I get confused and put his shoes on before he is completely dressed, then he shoots himself outside, sometimes half naked, like a programmed missile.
And that, you know, is why I always call him the boy with the thousand-league boots—
what was his problem with shoes?
Don’t you remember?
I don’t.
But I told you about it!
But you never told me about it in Tel Aviv, and never when I was on this bed with bubble gum stuck to it—tell me.
Well, he always, always goes barefoot in the house, in the summer and winter, because the moment you put shoes on his feet, he immediately leaps up, decisively, to go outside.
If Amos or I get confused and put his shoes on before he is completely dressed, then he shoots himself outside, sometimes half naked, like a programmed missile.
And that, you know, is why I always call him the boy with the thousand-league boots—
But you need a different kind of laughter right now, don’t you?
Perhaps I’ll amuse you with a little nonsense—why not?
You write such nonsense sometimes that it gives me goose bumps … But come, let us laugh together—about me.
Did you know that I have all sorts of complicated tests for the world?
For instance: if the first person in this place at this time who approaches me is a man, your next letter will disappoint me a little.
If it is a woman …
Perhaps I’ll amuse you with a little nonsense—why not?
You write such nonsense sometimes that it gives me goose bumps … But come, let us laugh together—about me.
Did you know that I have all sorts of complicated tests for the world?
For instance: if the first person in this place at this time who approaches me is a man, your next letter will disappoint me a little.
If it is a woman …
Look at me, playing make-believe.
But I still feel it healing me a little, I don’t understand how—just channeling your voice numbs the pain, reassures me—like medicine flowing through my body, percolating you through my blood—don’t stop, don’t ever stop.
But I still feel it healing me a little, I don’t understand how—just channeling your voice numbs the pain, reassures me—like medicine flowing through my body, percolating you through my blood—don’t stop, don’t ever stop.
I have also developed a sensitivity (a bit heightened, I think) to all kinds of events and people crossing my path—even words, the simplest words that come to me in the everyday stream, grab my attention, make me alert, ready … entirely innocent words … “light,” “sprinklers,” “there’s a hole in the fence,”
“intimate,” “camels,” “night”
…
Or the sudden hug I gave Yokhai yesterday, a bir frightened.
“intimate,” “camels,” “night”
…
Or the sudden hug I gave Yokhai yesterday, a bir frightened.
I am writing to you from that place in my brain I described—I am aiming all my energy, with all my strength, to that spot—where you spring from—for those words kept only for one particular woman, not for any other.
Or I turn on the transistor radio, trying to hear the message that’s been sent to only me: sometimes a line in a song that sounds to me as if it belongs to us—sometimes a meaningless sentence appears and I tell myself then, Here, everything between us is an empty illusion.
Listen, I am going to buy cigarettes.
I finished my carton, and this is going to be a long day.
Don’t move—you’re just right—just like that-
I finished my carton, and this is going to be a long day.
Don’t move—you’re just right—just like that-
(But I have to quote you from the wall as a farewell kiss): “ … I feel more and more that the stories you tell me are your way, the most natural and possible way for you, to somehow enter into the world, enter the earth, hit roots.”
A terrible thing happened.
I saw Maya.
I saw Maya.
Just now.
On the boardwalk.
She probably couldn’t stand my silence—or felt, perhaps, that something was wrong and came to look for me.
She didn’t see me—and I didn’t go to her, imagine that (so what do you think about me now?).
On the boardwalk.
She probably couldn’t stand my silence—or felt, perhaps, that something was wrong and came to look for me.
She didn’t see me—and I didn’t go to her, imagine that (so what do you think about me now?).
I should probably not write about that.
She traveled along my entire daily trek twice, from the square to the Dolphinarium, entered the same exact restaurants and pizzerias I went to when I was still eating—she guessed my moves with such precision—I told you she has a sixth sense, a sense for me, and you didn’t believe me.
I felt your doubt the entire time.
Don’t mistake her, Miriam, don’t mistake us: we have a bond, she and I; I don’t even have the words to describe it.
It is a wordless bond, it is all body, all touch, it lives in the senses, under the skin.
(And what the hell do you know about us anyway?) Listen, I walked behind her, only a
few steps behind her the entire time, what torture—as if something was choking me, wouldn’t let me talk to her.
What have I done?
She traveled along my entire daily trek twice, from the square to the Dolphinarium, entered the same exact restaurants and pizzerias I went to when I was still eating—she guessed my moves with such precision—I told you she has a sixth sense, a sense for me, and you didn’t believe me.
I felt your doubt the entire time.
Don’t mistake her, Miriam, don’t mistake us: we have a bond, she and I; I don’t even have the words to describe it.
It is a wordless bond, it is all body, all touch, it lives in the senses, under the skin.
(And what the hell do you know about us anyway?) Listen, I walked behind her, only a
few steps behind her the entire time, what torture—as if something was choking me, wouldn’t let me talk to her.
What have I done?
I saw her, I saw everything.
What she is when she is like any other woman on the street.
How men look at her.
The way she has matured in this last year.
That she is suddenly terribly lovely.
It is as if, without me paying any attention, her face, all her features, found the right places; still, I could also see that only I, of all the men on the street, truly knew how to discern her beauty, yes, and she keeps herself only for me.
She doesn’t have that damned thing—do you understand?
That—
hunger
—is not in her.
That thing in me and you is not in her.
She is clean, she is pure.
What will happen now?
I walked after her, watched how she became heavy, despaired of me, was defeated.
And then—she went to Mrs.
Meiers’s hotel.
I once showed it to her in its glamorous heyday.
She walked in and asked Thief-Eyes something—I don’t know what he told her.
She walked out immediately, didn’t touch the door handle.
What she is when she is like any other woman on the street.
How men look at her.
The way she has matured in this last year.
That she is suddenly terribly lovely.
It is as if, without me paying any attention, her face, all her features, found the right places; still, I could also see that only I, of all the men on the street, truly knew how to discern her beauty, yes, and she keeps herself only for me.
She doesn’t have that damned thing—do you understand?
That—
hunger
—is not in her.
That thing in me and you is not in her.
She is clean, she is pure.
What will happen now?
I walked after her, watched how she became heavy, despaired of me, was defeated.
And then—she went to Mrs.
Meiers’s hotel.
I once showed it to her in its glamorous heyday.
She walked in and asked Thief-Eyes something—I don’t know what he told her.
She walked out immediately, didn’t touch the door handle.
Then she took one last walk along the boardwalk.
She didn’t look for me anymore.
She walked like a madwoman, half-running, stamping with rage on every step.
People were looking.
I have never seen her this way, letting herself understand it so completely—and then she sat down, fell into one of those plastic beach chairs, and closed her eyes.
I stood maybe ten steps behind her, completely exposed—if she had turned around, she would have seen me in my nakedness—up to my neck in the most putrid swamp of my ignominies.
We stayed still for almost a quarter of an hour—we didn’t move, not a hair.
I was so exhausted, I screamed to her soundlessly, and with all my strength.
If she had turned around for a moment, if she had only seen me and said my name, I would have gone home with her.
She didn’t look for me anymore.
She walked like a madwoman, half-running, stamping with rage on every step.
People were looking.
I have never seen her this way, letting herself understand it so completely—and then she sat down, fell into one of those plastic beach chairs, and closed her eyes.
I stood maybe ten steps behind her, completely exposed—if she had turned around, she would have seen me in my nakedness—up to my neck in the most putrid swamp of my ignominies.
We stayed still for almost a quarter of an hour—we didn’t move, not a hair.
I was so exhausted, I screamed to her soundlessly, and with all my strength.
If she had turned around for a moment, if she had only seen me and said my name, I would have gone home with her.
How could such a thing have happened between us?
I felt myself in the throes of some seizure after she disappeared—all my muscles, even my jaw, contracted.
But what could I have told her?
How do you start to explain in my state?—I haven’t spoken to another human being in four or five days.
I felt myself in the throes of some seizure after she disappeared—all my muscles, even my jaw, contracted.
But what could I have told her?
How do you start to explain in my state?—I haven’t spoken to another human being in four or five days.
Only with you.
I’ve spoken only with you.
Enough.
Let me sleep.
I’ve spoken only with you.
Enough.
Let me sleep.
Middle of the night.
Three sanitation workers from the health department knock on the door.
They seize Maya quickly, pull her away, and throw a net over my side of the bed.
Maya’s hand hovers over her lips as
is customary in these cases: “Please, don’t take him away!”
“We’re not taking him away,” laughs one of them.
“We’re shooting him on the spot.”
Three sanitation workers from the health department knock on the door.
They seize Maya quickly, pull her away, and throw a net over my side of the bed.
Maya’s hand hovers over her lips as
is customary in these cases: “Please, don’t take him away!”
“We’re not taking him away,” laughs one of them.
“We’re shooting him on the spot.”
Then they discover that I can’t be killed.
I’m eternal, like nothing.
I’m eternal, like nothing.
I didn’t tell you—when I was on the way back—maybe because of what happened, or because I hadn’t seen a human face in days—suddenly, all of a sudden, it all became clear to me.
Okay, hold on—slow down—okay.
I found a neglected coffeehouse.
My mind was knotted up like intestines.
I sat there for an hour and thought that somewhere in the universe there must be that other world we once talked about—a world of light.
A worthy world.
Where each person finds the one intended for him and each love is true love; and, as an added bonus, you live there for all eternity.
I (you know me) immediately wondered about who would be incapable of living even there, so unfit for such generous and bountiful goodness, these damned ones who commit suicide there.
My mind was knotted up like intestines.
I sat there for an hour and thought that somewhere in the universe there must be that other world we once talked about—a world of light.
A worthy world.
Where each person finds the one intended for him and each love is true love; and, as an added bonus, you live there for all eternity.
I (you know me) immediately wondered about who would be incapable of living even there, so unfit for such generous and bountiful goodness, these damned ones who commit suicide there.
There I sat, gazing at the people walking by, occupied by different ideas about what the sentence for suicide would be in that world.
How would I punish them?
And, Miriam, it doesn’t matter where you are right now; lift up your eyes (I guess my fantasies of you always show you deep in thought, like the one time I saw you) and say, Could that be the reason?
I mean, for the ugliness and strangeness and temporality, the cowardice and the interminable burdens, and the rest of our true Esperanto alphabet?
How would I punish them?
And, Miriam, it doesn’t matter where you are right now; lift up your eyes (I guess my fantasies of you always show you deep in thought, like the one time I saw you) and say, Could that be the reason?
I mean, for the ugliness and strangeness and temporality, the cowardice and the interminable burdens, and the rest of our true Esperanto alphabet?
What I mean is, is here, where we are—is
this
is the penal colony of that other world?—and has each person you see around you—man or woman, it doesn’t matter, old or young—at some point already committed suicide?
this
is the penal colony of that other world?—and has each person you see around you—man or woman, it doesn’t matter, old or young—at some point already committed suicide?
Look at the first man coming toward you now, right now, and tell me his face isn’t—even in one tiny single line—hiding a confession of participation in a crime.
Any crime.
(It might be hiding in the nose—in his loose, fallen lips—in his forehead—and, most of all, in his eyes.) This morning every person out there who passed me had one such line on his face—I saw it even in the most beautiful people.
Any crime.
(It might be hiding in the nose—in his loose, fallen lips—in his forehead—and, most of all, in his eyes.) This morning every person out there who passed me had one such line on his face—I saw it even in the most beautiful people.
Even in children.
There was a group of them on the shore.
I stood there gazing at these six- or seven-year-old kids—and almost every one
of them had on his face some possible first line of bitterness and complaint and guilt.
(Mainly guilt.)
There was a group of them on the shore.
I stood there gazing at these six- or seven-year-old kids—and almost every one
of them had on his face some possible first line of bitterness and complaint and guilt.
(Mainly guilt.)
Sleep.
What sleep?
Who sleeps?
You don’t come here to this shelter of ejaculation to sleep.
Half past one, the middle of the night, and this building is full of life.
A door is opening or being shut somewhere at every moment.
Shuffling in the corridors twenty-four hours a day.
Echoes of furtive laughter.
(What are they laughing so much about?) I would kill to meet one of them in the hallway and shake him until he tells me exactly where this is all happening—where are the rooms with the Jacuzzis and the mirrors on the ceilings and the round beds?!
When I left the hotel this morning, I saw a pair of these “tenants” for the first time.
They came down with me in the elevator.
We tried not to look one another in the eye.
A man and a woman.
Older tourists.
They seemed so very conservative and upstanding that I almost fell for it.
What sleep?
Who sleeps?
You don’t come here to this shelter of ejaculation to sleep.
Half past one, the middle of the night, and this building is full of life.
A door is opening or being shut somewhere at every moment.
Shuffling in the corridors twenty-four hours a day.
Echoes of furtive laughter.
(What are they laughing so much about?) I would kill to meet one of them in the hallway and shake him until he tells me exactly where this is all happening—where are the rooms with the Jacuzzis and the mirrors on the ceilings and the round beds?!
When I left the hotel this morning, I saw a pair of these “tenants” for the first time.
They came down with me in the elevator.
We tried not to look one another in the eye.
A man and a woman.
Older tourists.
They seemed so very conservative and upstanding that I almost fell for it.
How long has it been for you there, still on earth?
I will not leave this room again.
I guess I’ve already gotten used to it in here.
I noticed that I am more nervous on the outside.
I am no longer absorbed by thoughts of whatever is going on behind the closed doors (quite banal doings, I imagine).
It’s strange how it is possible to pass the time without even moving—dozing off, waking up, smoking, writing a few words to you, dozing off again—and ten hours have passed.
I guess I’ve already gotten used to it in here.
I noticed that I am more nervous on the outside.
I am no longer absorbed by thoughts of whatever is going on behind the closed doors (quite banal doings, I imagine).
It’s strange how it is possible to pass the time without even moving—dozing off, waking up, smoking, writing a few words to you, dozing off again—and ten hours have passed.
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