Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (44 page)
Amos asked me what was wrong as I was typing in the numbers.
I couldn’t talk, simply because I was afraid that if I started, I would burst out into the kind of tears that rivers can’t wash away.
I couldn’t talk, simply because I was afraid that if I started, I would burst out into the kind of tears that rivers can’t wash away.
My face burned.
Amos saw it, of course.
And we continued working in complete silence, and I pulled myself together in the meantime.
Amos saw it, of course.
And we continued working in complete silence, and I pulled myself together in the meantime.
We worked in silence together for almost half an hour, until we finished up; we saw how much we would have to pay them this month (it turned out to be quite a lot).
We then moved to the balcony and sat down.
It was dark; we didn’t turn on the light.
Usually, Amos’s presence calms me down immediately, but I felt that he, too, was tense, somewhat alert … his tension wrapped around my body and, to tell you the truth, worried me a bit.
It was dark; we didn’t turn on the light.
Usually, Amos’s presence calms me down immediately, but I felt that he, too, was tense, somewhat alert … his tension wrapped around my body and, to tell you the truth, worried me a bit.
And then he said, with complete simplicity, You’re in love, Miriam.
And I said yes.
Before I even knew what I was saying.
Because the moment I heard that word, I felt such a motion inside me—
Before I even knew what I was saying.
Because the moment I heard that word, I felt such a motion inside me—
That I have had no words to describe until now.
I didn’t describe it well enough in my last letter.
I’m beginning to think that I didn’t say enough; or maybe I said too much?
Because I knew that a lot would depend on the way in which I told you about the conversation.
I’m beginning to think that I didn’t say enough; or maybe I said too much?
Because I knew that a lot would depend on the way in which I told you about the conversation.
Again, my usual fear of your “selective hearing,” and more than that, your
collective
hearing.
collective
hearing.
But my chorus, too, was also constantly buzzing—Where are you living?
How long will you delude yourself?
You still can’t grasp that he meant what he wrote?
That he is truly, honestly incapable of defeating himself?
You have corresponded for seven months with a person who gave you a false name—who knows what else he made up?
No, truly, would you look at yourself: your husband had to discover for you that you had fallen in love with another man; you, yourself, couldn’t understand it on your own.
And where were you for that life lesson?
How long will you delude yourself?
You still can’t grasp that he meant what he wrote?
That he is truly, honestly incapable of defeating himself?
You have corresponded for seven months with a person who gave you a false name—who knows what else he made up?
No, truly, would you look at yourself: your husband had to discover for you that you had fallen in love with another man; you, yourself, couldn’t understand it on your own.
And where were you for that life lesson?
I’m uncomfortable.
This is not how I wanted to meet you today.
This is not how I wanted to meet you today.
Can you believe it, though?
I never, not even one time, told myself, in that way, with those simple words, that one word a savior (only now I begin to discover how binding it is?).
And I gave this emotion so many words, too many words, too many words, and a lot of names.
Mainly yours.
I never, not even one time, told myself, in that way, with those simple words, that one word a savior (only now I begin to discover how binding it is?).
And I gave this emotion so many words, too many words, too many words, and a lot of names.
Mainly yours.
So how is it possible that only when I heard it from Amos—
The great fugue.
Oh, really, how are you not even in the least bit cautious?
What did you think would happen if you abandoned your peace of mind to the hands of this fugue on such a day?
Well, it’s a bit much, even on regular days.
And why do you listen to it now, again and again?
It’s like a huge net being dropped over, twisting you up, and not allowing for any rest.
This moment of unison, for example—for a moment, you could imagine you could rest on it a little, huh?
You thought you could be happy, rejoicing, celebrating; you thought you would immediately start dancing, and here comes the cello, tearing out your guts.
Oh, really, how are you not even in the least bit cautious?
What did you think would happen if you abandoned your peace of mind to the hands of this fugue on such a day?
Well, it’s a bit much, even on regular days.
And why do you listen to it now, again and again?
It’s like a huge net being dropped over, twisting you up, and not allowing for any rest.
This moment of unison, for example—for a moment, you could imagine you could rest on it a little, huh?
You thought you could be happy, rejoicing, celebrating; you thought you would immediately start dancing, and here comes the cello, tearing out your guts.
How did you come into my life, anyway?
How is it that I was so unprotected?
You didn’t even enter through a window; you found some tiny portal, barely a crack—and entered me this way, and pierced my heart.
How is it that I was so unprotected?
You didn’t even enter through a window; you found some tiny portal, barely a crack—and entered me this way, and pierced my heart.
I bought a box of Time cigarettes this morning.
I walked out of the
village and smoked three, one right after another.
I refused all through high school, even during the Ta’amon Café period, when everyone around me smoked.
And now, at the age of forty … It’s horrible, how my lungs burn upward, flame living inside me and licking up the edges.
I walked out of the
village and smoked three, one right after another.
I refused all through high school, even during the Ta’amon Café period, when everyone around me smoked.
And now, at the age of forty … It’s horrible, how my lungs burn upward, flame living inside me and licking up the edges.
Even more horrible how much the burning relieved me.
“I mainly live in what I’m not.”
When I read that, a shout almost escaped me: so do I!
But I never dared to say it to myself in the same way, because, well, my life is more or less full of what I am (and I’ve even gotten used to what I’m missing).
I am happy with my mate, and grateful for Yokhai, who time after time gives me joy and understanding I never would have come to any other way.
I am surrounded by loving friends, my house is near a little forest, and I have as much music as I need, and my work.
I love it, too.
Look at the grandness of my list of “haves.”
My have-list is full, full; you yourself once said that it is even overflowing—
When I read that, a shout almost escaped me: so do I!
But I never dared to say it to myself in the same way, because, well, my life is more or less full of what I am (and I’ve even gotten used to what I’m missing).
I am happy with my mate, and grateful for Yokhai, who time after time gives me joy and understanding I never would have come to any other way.
I am surrounded by loving friends, my house is near a little forest, and I have as much music as I need, and my work.
I love it, too.
Look at the grandness of my list of “haves.”
My have-list is full, full; you yourself once said that it is even overflowing—
But the knowledge of what I don’t have has now suddenly become so active and demanding that it is hard to contain.
It’s suddenly full of life—and what will become of it now?
What will I do with it?
It’s suddenly full of life—and what will become of it now?
What will I do with it?
How delightful it is to write when such things happen: the young couple, our neighbors to the right of us, just left.
They brought me a huge bouquet and thanked me very much, because they finally had an idea of what to name her, the little cherry-lipped girl: Miriam.
They brought me a huge bouquet and thanked me very much, because they finally had an idea of what to name her, the little cherry-lipped girl: Miriam.
It never once crossed my mind to suggest that name to them.
I am so happy.
A beautiful girl named after me will be in the world; also, of course, because of the relief; my secret bargain with the rain.
I am so happy.
A beautiful girl named after me will be in the world; also, of course, because of the relief; my secret bargain with the rain.
Nine-thirty p.m.
What a mess.
Where do I start?
The floor is covered with paper and toys, pots and forks and pillows and clothes and chairs thrown and scattered everywhere.
And hundreds of pieces of different puzzles that will take me God knows how long to sort out.
I worked all afternoon on a Winnie-the-Pooh puzzle with him.
At the age of two he could finish it in a few moments.
By the time he was four it took an hour and a half.
And today he spent the whole afternoon trying until, eventually, he worked himself into a rage.
I understood him.
One more minute,
and then I will start putting the house back together.
I need to relax, with music and writing.
Tell me, how many times a day do you feel a prick in your heart when you think, I will never write to her about this moment?
Not at this moment, either.
What a mess.
Where do I start?
The floor is covered with paper and toys, pots and forks and pillows and clothes and chairs thrown and scattered everywhere.
And hundreds of pieces of different puzzles that will take me God knows how long to sort out.
I worked all afternoon on a Winnie-the-Pooh puzzle with him.
At the age of two he could finish it in a few moments.
By the time he was four it took an hour and a half.
And today he spent the whole afternoon trying until, eventually, he worked himself into a rage.
I understood him.
One more minute,
and then I will start putting the house back together.
I need to relax, with music and writing.
Tell me, how many times a day do you feel a prick in your heart when you think, I will never write to her about this moment?
Not at this moment, either.
About the child he was before the disease—this is another thing I told you very little about.
I really couldn’t speak about it to anyone in the world, not even Amos—the happy child with such a quick mind, and what a sense of humor and charm—whom we lost over the course of a few weeks and months.
He was such a verbal child, he had so many words at his disposal, and a complete library of books for kids his age.
I would read him a story in the morning, and one at noon, and two or three more in the evening (and because of that putting him to bed would sometimes take two hours).
We used to have such conversations, true heart-to-heart conversations.
You have never seen a two-year-old with such an open, illuminated spirit.
Somewhere we have a videotape taken at his two-year birthday party.
I don’t dare watch it—on it, he is dancing and laughing and acting out the children’s book
Raspberry Juice
with us.
Not three months later, his illness was unleashed on his system in full force, and his language began to disappear.
He lost word after word, and we watched it happen and couldn’t help him; we couldn’t, the doctors couldn’t.
He would search for words like a person who is certain he placed something in his pocket and it was gone.
This is the first time I have been capable of writing about it in this way; I can now remember it from this distance without dying from it.
I used to sit with him and recite words for him.
In the evening, he would remember them—and in the morning, no longer.
And once, in a fit (my own), I sat for a whole night and crossed out the damned words that had betrayed him in each and every book of his.
I really couldn’t speak about it to anyone in the world, not even Amos—the happy child with such a quick mind, and what a sense of humor and charm—whom we lost over the course of a few weeks and months.
He was such a verbal child, he had so many words at his disposal, and a complete library of books for kids his age.
I would read him a story in the morning, and one at noon, and two or three more in the evening (and because of that putting him to bed would sometimes take two hours).
We used to have such conversations, true heart-to-heart conversations.
You have never seen a two-year-old with such an open, illuminated spirit.
Somewhere we have a videotape taken at his two-year birthday party.
I don’t dare watch it—on it, he is dancing and laughing and acting out the children’s book
Raspberry Juice
with us.
Not three months later, his illness was unleashed on his system in full force, and his language began to disappear.
He lost word after word, and we watched it happen and couldn’t help him; we couldn’t, the doctors couldn’t.
He would search for words like a person who is certain he placed something in his pocket and it was gone.
This is the first time I have been capable of writing about it in this way; I can now remember it from this distance without dying from it.
I used to sit with him and recite words for him.
In the evening, he would remember them—and in the morning, no longer.
And once, in a fit (my own), I sat for a whole night and crossed out the damned words that had betrayed him in each and every book of his.
I remember that the few words remaining on the pages looked to me like people’s faces screaming in terror from their windows at night.
When the words were gone, he still had five or six songs left, for a few months anyway.
The songs were the last to go.
Eventually, there was only one song left, the Lilac Song.
Every word was erased from me as well.
I called every kind of tree just—a tree.
Every flower—flower.
And when you told me about how your heart curdled when Ido learned how to say “light,” and in this way lost all his other lights, I thought I would have to
break it off with you right then and there, because I would not be able to endure what you were awakening in me without even knowing what you were doing.
Even your most innocent mistakes.
I couldn’t break it off with you, of course: probably for the very same reason.
The songs were the last to go.
Eventually, there was only one song left, the Lilac Song.
Every word was erased from me as well.
I called every kind of tree just—a tree.
Every flower—flower.
And when you told me about how your heart curdled when Ido learned how to say “light,” and in this way lost all his other lights, I thought I would have to
break it off with you right then and there, because I would not be able to endure what you were awakening in me without even knowing what you were doing.
Even your most innocent mistakes.
I couldn’t break it off with you, of course: probably for the very same reason.
I have told you so little.
I mainly wanted to hear you, I was thirsty for you.
I have tried to understand it, solve it, with all my strength; I have refused to accept the biting insult mocking me that from the moment I began to want you to listen to me, to really, truly hear my story, a story that has nothing to do with you—you disappeared.
I mainly wanted to hear you, I was thirsty for you.
I have tried to understand it, solve it, with all my strength; I have refused to accept the biting insult mocking me that from the moment I began to want you to listen to me, to really, truly hear my story, a story that has nothing to do with you—you disappeared.
I would now write you the simplest, most elemental letter, essential and undoubtable, like a math formula or an aria by Mozart; an axiom about you and me, about the most fragile, beating, and painful places of yearning.
But it is almost ten, and soon I won’t be here alone, and I don’t want to be seen by anybody else when I am so upset.
Please, I am still trying to understand, in a reasonable fashion, what truly happened to you, how you are capable of separation after we reached such an intimacy.
I don’t know what to think anymore.
I sometimes think you are afraid or angry about my “telling” Amos something about you.
How offensive it is to think that this is truly the reason.
But maybe you think I “betrayed” you.
But it is almost ten, and soon I won’t be here alone, and I don’t want to be seen by anybody else when I am so upset.
Please, I am still trying to understand, in a reasonable fashion, what truly happened to you, how you are capable of separation after we reached such an intimacy.
I don’t know what to think anymore.
I sometimes think you are afraid or angry about my “telling” Amos something about you.
How offensive it is to think that this is truly the reason.
But maybe you think I “betrayed” you.
I hope that you at least believe me about this: that the thought of exposing the content of our relationship to him did not cross my mind for a moment.
You don’t suspect me of that, do you?
You don’t suspect me of that, do you?
But why do you think I couldn’t have told him that which excites me even now—that a man who didn’t know me saw something in me that touched his heart so deeply—
And here I am, furious, again.
I already swore to myself that I wouldn’t be.
If you can’t at least understand
this
, we will never have a chance; I mean, if there is something in me that Amos loves, it is undoubtedly the same thing that made me accept your first offer!
What Amos loves in me is what led me to write you back!
This is the whole of it, what’s not to understand?
He loves the exact same woman in me who replied to your first letter; it is that same woman who once accepted his offer as well, who accepts him again and again, and each time she discovers something in him new and even more beloved.
What is there to love about me, if not her?
And how can you even love me without wanting to see her flourish and bloom?
She is the heart of my life.
I already swore to myself that I wouldn’t be.
If you can’t at least understand
this
, we will never have a chance; I mean, if there is something in me that Amos loves, it is undoubtedly the same thing that made me accept your first offer!
What Amos loves in me is what led me to write you back!
This is the whole of it, what’s not to understand?
He loves the exact same woman in me who replied to your first letter; it is that same woman who once accepted his offer as well, who accepts him again and again, and each time she discovers something in him new and even more beloved.
What is there to love about me, if not her?
And how can you even love me without wanting to see her flourish and bloom?
She is the heart of my life.
I actually shrunk for a moment at the thought that, without even reading this, you were smiling to yourself, even chuckling.
You weren’t chuckling, were you?
It’s impossible for someone to sneer this way, somewhere in the world at the same moment that Barbara Bonney is singing this motet.
Listen, come, let’s rejoice with her, can you feel it?
Every note this man has written feels as if it is strumming a nerve tuned only for him.
You can dance it without even moving, or move as within a dream, like the two embryos in your dream.
It’s impossible for someone to sneer this way, somewhere in the world at the same moment that Barbara Bonney is singing this motet.
Listen, come, let’s rejoice with her, can you feel it?
Every note this man has written feels as if it is strumming a nerve tuned only for him.
You can dance it without even moving, or move as within a dream, like the two embryos in your dream.
Don’t think, by the way, that I am completely immune to the other voices telling stories about you and about Amos; the winks behind my back, and the moans of all of the good souls who are so concerned, with their certainty that some essential screw is loose in my head, the screw bolted in them so tightly.
My face is burning.
Even my palms are blushing.
I hope I have another moment alone, because I have to say it, finally, at least to myself (because I am also an address, can you hear me?
I am the address, I am the address to which this letter is sent!).
Even my palms are blushing.
I hope I have another moment alone, because I have to say it, finally, at least to myself (because I am also an address, can you hear me?
I am the address, I am the address to which this letter is sent!).
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