Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (40 page)
I trip up the very same way all over again.
He ran off the school bus to me, spread his hands out by his sides, and whinnied happily … oh, he came home today in such a good mood.
And as sometimes occurs, she was in him for a second.
I saw her in him, trapped.
He ran off the school bus to me, spread his hands out by his sides, and whinnied happily … oh, he came home today in such a good mood.
And as sometimes occurs, she was in him for a second.
I saw her in him, trapped.
Why am I writing in here?
I don’t want to write in this notebook—a few words and I will rip this page out and leave it alone.
But, just the way she was in him, she was so real today you could almost touch her.
Perhaps he smiled her smile for a moment, or it was the angle of light on his face.
I don’t know.
I don’t know, I don’t know why I insist on hurting myself by writing in this notebook here when the house is full of empty pages.
I swore I would not open this notebook until an answer came from him, and could only hold myself back for two days.
Not even two days.
A day and a half.
It’s not much, but at least I know what condition I am in.
I hoped I would be stronger; what will happen now?
I think I’m a little bit scared.
As if I had opened the cover of this and all his letters were roaring and bellowing and crying out to me.
Enough, quiet.
I don’t want to write in this notebook—a few words and I will rip this page out and leave it alone.
But, just the way she was in him, she was so real today you could almost touch her.
Perhaps he smiled her smile for a moment, or it was the angle of light on his face.
I don’t know.
I don’t know, I don’t know why I insist on hurting myself by writing in this notebook here when the house is full of empty pages.
I swore I would not open this notebook until an answer came from him, and could only hold myself back for two days.
Not even two days.
A day and a half.
It’s not much, but at least I know what condition I am in.
I hoped I would be stronger; what will happen now?
I think I’m a little bit scared.
As if I had opened the cover of this and all his letters were roaring and bellowing and crying out to me.
Enough, quiet.
He is asleep.
Fell asleep, exhausted.
He will sleep until morning, and I will not be able to give him the Apenotin.
He screamed and cried and bled so much … the insult of every fall … I wish I could fall asleep like that, wake up some other time.
His forehead now has a new, large cut—
and he’ll start scratching at it tomorrow morning.
I barely made it out unhurt this time.
Except for the usual hurt—if, at some point, I was asked to return the deposit, how would I show my face with all his scars?
If I was quicker, less clumsy, I could at least dive under him and cushion his falls.
Make use of my body.
Fell asleep, exhausted.
He will sleep until morning, and I will not be able to give him the Apenotin.
He screamed and cried and bled so much … the insult of every fall … I wish I could fall asleep like that, wake up some other time.
His forehead now has a new, large cut—
and he’ll start scratching at it tomorrow morning.
I barely made it out unhurt this time.
Except for the usual hurt—if, at some point, I was asked to return the deposit, how would I show my face with all his scars?
If I was quicker, less clumsy, I could at least dive under him and cushion his falls.
Make use of my body.
I’m just scribbling so as not to think, in order to resist the temptation of flipping back and going to meet him.
You.
You you.
Where are you now?
How could you not know of the gift awaiting you here from me?
How did you not feel how I was with you for a whole week, word for word?
The tens and hundreds of pages under this page … I feel like a nutshell on stormy waves writing you here.
And now it occurs to me that maybe I should have added a foreword to the beginning of this notebook, or some kind of explanation at its end.
But what would I write?
What, of all things could I say?
Perhaps what I told you once, that to discover a person and tell him something about himself he doesn’t know—that is a great gift of love to me.
The greatest.
You.
You you.
Where are you now?
How could you not know of the gift awaiting you here from me?
How did you not feel how I was with you for a whole week, word for word?
The tens and hundreds of pages under this page … I feel like a nutshell on stormy waves writing you here.
And now it occurs to me that maybe I should have added a foreword to the beginning of this notebook, or some kind of explanation at its end.
But what would I write?
What, of all things could I say?
Perhaps what I told you once, that to discover a person and tell him something about himself he doesn’t know—that is a great gift of love to me.
The greatest.
I also was thinking of telling you that if you read your letters straight through, without mine, from first to last, you would learn many new things about yourself.
Not only the “bad” things that you’re sometimes so eager to discover about yourself.
Perhaps you will begin to see yourself with another’s eyes.
Mine, for instance.
But I will tell you all this only when we meet face-to-face.
Now, please, don’t bother me, Yair, let me go—I have to write about something else here.
Not only the “bad” things that you’re sometimes so eager to discover about yourself.
Perhaps you will begin to see yourself with another’s eyes.
Mine, for instance.
But I will tell you all this only when we meet face-to-face.
Now, please, don’t bother me, Yair, let me go—I have to write about something else here.
He ran the length of the whole garden path to me, probably not understanding why I wasn’t running toward him with a “Who’s Coming to Me?”
There is that little gap in the middle of the path where a brick is missing, Amos has been promising to fix it for two months and has no time.
His leg caught in it, twisted, and—this is not an excuse.
I usually never wait for him to reach that brick, I always get there before he does.
Maybe it was because this kind of running is something that has never left him since he was two—he’s always been running, happy, free; we both would gallop toward each other, cheering.
Also because he is always taken aback by my hug, not understanding who this woman is (why am I writing about this?).
What happened today?
What happened was, I saw him; I mean, I saw him in a way I must not see him—how his body jangles
loosely, his feet and the length of his face when his glasses fell off—I truly mustn’t write about such things.
I only thought that she was trying, trying so hard, and not succeeding at taking off—and felt a moment of uncontrollable anger.
Not at him.
Not at him?
Yes, partly at him.
Whatever inside him prevents her from shining out through him.
It has been ten years and I’m still looking for codes, hints.
“Anger at him” (and I attacked you for it).
Yes.
And anger at Amos about the brick.
And anger at Anna, oh, I didn’t neglect her today.
All these angers still don’t add up to a single answer.
There is that little gap in the middle of the path where a brick is missing, Amos has been promising to fix it for two months and has no time.
His leg caught in it, twisted, and—this is not an excuse.
I usually never wait for him to reach that brick, I always get there before he does.
Maybe it was because this kind of running is something that has never left him since he was two—he’s always been running, happy, free; we both would gallop toward each other, cheering.
Also because he is always taken aback by my hug, not understanding who this woman is (why am I writing about this?).
What happened today?
What happened was, I saw him; I mean, I saw him in a way I must not see him—how his body jangles
loosely, his feet and the length of his face when his glasses fell off—I truly mustn’t write about such things.
I only thought that she was trying, trying so hard, and not succeeding at taking off—and felt a moment of uncontrollable anger.
Not at him.
Not at him?
Yes, partly at him.
Whatever inside him prevents her from shining out through him.
It has been ten years and I’m still looking for codes, hints.
“Anger at him” (and I attacked you for it).
Yes.
And anger at Amos about the brick.
And anger at Anna, oh, I didn’t neglect her today.
All these angers still don’t add up to a single answer.
I stood there, and he got out of the van and ran, and there, the missing brick, and I saw the driver looking at him from behind.
Yes.
He was about to drive away, and stopped and looked; I saw the other three boys on the van, gazing out without seeing a thing.
They’ve been riding together every day for four years and still don’t recognize Yokhai.
He doesn’t recognize them either.
And for some reason the driver lingered today for another moment and watched him run—a new driver, probably inexperienced, and his look, more than anything else—“the way the eye is drawn to a disaster.”
When he tripped where the brick was missing—by that time, I think I was so absent, not with him, not wanting to be allied with him, an enemy, I didn’t even move.
They’ve been riding together every day for four years and still don’t recognize Yokhai.
He doesn’t recognize them either.
And for some reason the driver lingered today for another moment and watched him run—a new driver, probably inexperienced, and his look, more than anything else—“the way the eye is drawn to a disaster.”
When he tripped where the brick was missing—by that time, I think I was so absent, not with him, not wanting to be allied with him, an enemy, I didn’t even move.
I will not rip out this page.
It will remain in your notebook, and you will receive it, too.
You’ve already heard harder things than this from me.
But now there is a new twist: I have never written this kind of letter to myself before.
It will remain in your notebook, and you will receive it, too.
You’ve already heard harder things than this from me.
But now there is a new twist: I have never written this kind of letter to myself before.
I should have ripped out the previous page.
I see that it is leaving open a gap for others to follow, which is unwanted in my current condition.
Some stormy weather here this afternoon; at least the house is cleaner than it has been in a long time.
Then again, I’m back at this notebook, each word pulling out another after it.
I wanted the only words in it to be yours, and spent a whole week copying them out, holding myself back from adding even a single word of mine, and now, look—a flood.
But they aren’t the words I wanted you to hear, and not in my good voice.
I see that it is leaving open a gap for others to follow, which is unwanted in my current condition.
Some stormy weather here this afternoon; at least the house is cleaner than it has been in a long time.
Then again, I’m back at this notebook, each word pulling out another after it.
I wanted the only words in it to be yours, and spent a whole week copying them out, holding myself back from adding even a single word of mine, and now, look—a flood.
But they aren’t the words I wanted you to hear, and not in my good voice.
Because you haven’t sent even one line in response to what I told you in the last letter, that precious thing I told you.
Not even a short, polite rejection.
How could you?
You could.
I can’t.
It terrifies me to finally understand how much I can’t.
Not even a short, polite rejection.
How could you?
You could.
I can’t.
It terrifies me to finally understand how much I can’t.
Good morning, it’s a new day.
Don’t worry, I’m fine.
I was rescued from that little whirlpool that sucked me in for a moment yesterday.
You will read what I wrote in the previous pages, and we’ll both laugh at me together.
Don’t worry, I’m fine.
I was rescued from that little whirlpool that sucked me in for a moment yesterday.
You will read what I wrote in the previous pages, and we’ll both laugh at me together.
Quarter past five.
It will be light soon.
It will be light soon.
I finished copying out your letters three days ago, at this hour exactly.
For a few minutes I sat there, feeling nothing.
A little overwhelmed, a little drunk.
I thought that from now on I would be able to write only with your words, and that closing this notebook was hard, almost unbearable for me.
I also felt that I was waiting for my first heartbeat of sobriety, and it wasn’t coming.
In its place, I was privileged with a sunrise of a kind I haven’t seen in years.
Waves and waves of golden light streaming over Jerusalem, and I told myself it must be an omen.
For a few minutes I sat there, feeling nothing.
A little overwhelmed, a little drunk.
I thought that from now on I would be able to write only with your words, and that closing this notebook was hard, almost unbearable for me.
I also felt that I was waiting for my first heartbeat of sobriety, and it wasn’t coming.
In its place, I was privileged with a sunrise of a kind I haven’t seen in years.
Waves and waves of golden light streaming over Jerusalem, and I told myself it must be an omen.
Right now, here it is, the sun.
A little less dramatic today, but of course.
Come on, let’s go for a walk.
A little less dramatic today, but of course.
Come on, let’s go for a walk.
What perfume.
Smell it, it’s the air you can have only at this hour, full of foggy smells and so cold!
Every tree and rock is swaddled in its own cloud … and if I linger here another moment longer, I too will freeze and be swaddled, too.
I’m taking you to the dam again, this time to show you a sight that even a slave swept away by the parted seas never saw.
(Only my breath, my breath suddenly grew short, so I stopped to rest on a rock.)
Smell it, it’s the air you can have only at this hour, full of foggy smells and so cold!
Every tree and rock is swaddled in its own cloud … and if I linger here another moment longer, I too will freeze and be swaddled, too.
I’m taking you to the dam again, this time to show you a sight that even a slave swept away by the parted seas never saw.
(Only my breath, my breath suddenly grew short, so I stopped to rest on a rock.)
Your sentences and fragments of your sentences are humming in my head, like the sound of tracks after a long train ride.
I could recite them to you by heart.
I would prefer that you forget some of them, of course.
In general, I do not want words standing between us anymore, and would rather simply be with you, in our bodies, no matter how.
To be able to touch you and breathe in the scent of your sweat, to watch you do all sorts of things—making an omelet.
Anything.
I could recite them to you by heart.
I would prefer that you forget some of them, of course.
In general, I do not want words standing between us anymore, and would rather simply be with you, in our bodies, no matter how.
To be able to touch you and breathe in the scent of your sweat, to watch you do all sorts of things—making an omelet.
Anything.
Only when we meet will I tell you what happened to me since the conversation with Amos, and my whole week with your letters.
How I argued with you as I copied those letters and how my heart went out to
you.
How many packets of Kleenex I went through, because of the painful misunderstandings and the crazy understanding—Come, let’s continue, the sun will soon evaporate the clouds completely.
How I argued with you as I copied those letters and how my heart went out to
you.
How many packets of Kleenex I went through, because of the painful misunderstandings and the crazy understanding—Come, let’s continue, the sun will soon evaporate the clouds completely.
But now I remembered—I forgot to lock the door and Yokhai sometimes grows restless at this hour.
What a shame, what a pity, I wanted to go all the way to the dam with you, because it is deep there and you can dive under the clouds and walk—but I have to return, immediately—
What a shame, what a pity, I wanted to go all the way to the dam with you, because it is deep there and you can dive under the clouds and walk—but I have to return, immediately—
Nothing to worry about, I am here and he is asleep and I hadn’t forgotten to lock the door.
I was just worried.
I worried the moment before getting there, and it infuriates me, because I so wanted you to see just how I imagine the place where they match destinies to people—and then maybe you could get lost in it with me for a time.
It also smells very special when the dry, thorny plants are moist; no other time of day smells like it.
If I had had three more minutes there, or even one, I could have taken you there.
I was just worried.
I worried the moment before getting there, and it infuriates me, because I so wanted you to see just how I imagine the place where they match destinies to people—and then maybe you could get lost in it with me for a time.
It also smells very special when the dry, thorny plants are moist; no other time of day smells like it.
If I had had three more minutes there, or even one, I could have taken you there.
At least I saw the sunrise; and so I have a secret oath with this day, someday we will go there together, when our time is more spread out.
Look at me, sitting on the steps outside, trying to catch my breath, enjoying being just a body, living tissue performing its correct functions.
Completely free from words like “pity” and “but” …
Completely free from words like “pity” and “but” …
(It’s already six, and I have to hurry inside.
They pick up Yokhai at eight.
I’ll see you later.)
They pick up Yokhai at eight.
I’ll see you later.)
On the way here, I picked an early winter lemon, green and hard.
The entire space of the classroom is already full of its scent.
Thirty-three heads bent over examination pages; every once in a while a pair of eyes rises with difficulty and stares at me (I sometimes wonder how it must affect me, that I am gazed at for so many hours during the day) …
The entire space of the classroom is already full of its scent.
Thirty-three heads bent over examination pages; every once in a while a pair of eyes rises with difficulty and stares at me (I sometimes wonder how it must affect me, that I am gazed at for so many hours during the day) …
One pupil whom I’m very fond of holds up a page on which he’s written, “Is rosemary season over?”
in big letters.
in big letters.
You already know I’m a little slow, certainly compared to you, but my mind has been getting clearer and clearer since yesterday, and I understand things that seemed so complicated in a much simpler way.
For example—under no circumstances would I like to turn my back on what is between you and me, and I am willing to wait as long as you need.
Because
“what is between us,” between you and me, is worth waiting for.
I feel as if there is time for us.
Life is long, and even a bouquet of thirty saffron flowers is a wonderful bouquet.
I also can see, Yair, that I don’t think you are the person who can heal what is wounded inside me; but perhaps, at this stage of my life, I don’t need a doctor as much as I need someone with the same sort of wound.
For example—under no circumstances would I like to turn my back on what is between you and me, and I am willing to wait as long as you need.
Because
“what is between us,” between you and me, is worth waiting for.
I feel as if there is time for us.
Life is long, and even a bouquet of thirty saffron flowers is a wonderful bouquet.
I also can see, Yair, that I don’t think you are the person who can heal what is wounded inside me; but perhaps, at this stage of my life, I don’t need a doctor as much as I need someone with the same sort of wound.
A few more moments of such thoughts and it will have turned completely ripe and yellow (when I was in eighth grade, I once received an F on an algebra test, because I wrote that a prime number can be divided only by one and itself—and for an example of such a number I wrote: the scent of a lemon.
By the way, you, in many ways, are also like the scent of a lemon).
By the way, you, in many ways, are also like the scent of a lemon).
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