Be My Knife (47 page)
Authors: David Grossman
This time my big moment was when Sonya suddenly stands up and starts delivering an enthusiastic speech about the importance of preserving the forest, because this is what her beloved is the most passionate about.
In the darkness I wrote, quickly, along the whole length of my inner arm, under my sleeve: Yair, I wanted badly to tell you about yourself, your story was even more important to me than my own.
And now I feel I have lost my story.
In the darkness I wrote, quickly, along the whole length of my inner arm, under my sleeve: Yair, I wanted badly to tell you about yourself, your story was even more important to me than my own.
And now I feel I have lost my story.
But there … I am looking at my arm, and my skin is moving underneath the letters; it is warm, the flesh is breathing, and my body is alive.
A thought that hasn’t let go of me: What was truly there in the first moment?
If I hadn’t smiled that smile and hugged myself, what then …
If I hadn’t smiled that smile and hugged myself, what then …
To think I was so very charming without making any kind of effort.
What I gave him, that thing that spoke to him from deep inside me that, without my knowledge, revived him in this way; the thing between me and myself …
I know it exists.
It existed before he looked at me, too.
It still exists, even if there is no one to look at it now.
It is the good in me, and it cannot be destroyed.
And thanks to that, I cannot be destroyed.
It existed before he looked at me, too.
It still exists, even if there is no one to look at it now.
It is the good in me, and it cannot be destroyed.
And thanks to that, I cannot be destroyed.
If only I could give that to myself as well right now.
Just like that.
To release it … watch it spring out …
To release it … watch it spring out …
This morning, at the bus stop by the junction into the village, an old, heavy, unkempt woman approached me.
She apparently works as a cleaning lady for one of the families here.
She said she has been watching me for quite some time, and that she likes my face and would like to tell me about something so as to hear my opinion about it.
She apparently works as a cleaning lady for one of the families here.
She said she has been watching me for quite some time, and that she likes my face and would like to tell me about something so as to hear my opinion about it.
Meanwhile, the bus came.
We sat together.
She opened up and told me about herself and her life, her illnesses, and her children, who are currently scattered around the world; and the entire time she kept asking me if I was sure she wasn’t a nuisance.
We sat together.
She opened up and told me about herself and her life, her illnesses, and her children, who are currently scattered around the world; and the entire time she kept asking me if I was sure she wasn’t a nuisance.
She told me she came from a religious family, and that with everything happening around her in the past few years, she is beginning to think that perhaps there is no God.
The thought frightens her very much, it has been destroying her life and her health.
But a few months ago she saw a television program about India, and it inspired her; a new thought has gripped her and isn’t letting go: how she, Rivka, with only her own strength, will force God to reveal Himself.
She will use all her savings to travel to the land of India (she isn’t scared, because she will be protected by her holy purpose as a sacred messenger).
She will go to the temple they showed on television, where there are so many thousands of idols, and she will walk between the gods, pretending to examine them, hesitating over which one of them to choose—Maybe this one?
Maybe that one?
And then our God, Elohim Ha Shem, will not be able to stand the fact that even she, who has been so loyal to Him for sixty-five years, is doubting Him; that, simply out of jealousy, He will burst out and reveal Himself in front of her, and will shout from the depths of His heart: Rivka, enough!
Enough of it!
I am here!
The thought frightens her very much, it has been destroying her life and her health.
But a few months ago she saw a television program about India, and it inspired her; a new thought has gripped her and isn’t letting go: how she, Rivka, with only her own strength, will force God to reveal Himself.
She will use all her savings to travel to the land of India (she isn’t scared, because she will be protected by her holy purpose as a sacred messenger).
She will go to the temple they showed on television, where there are so many thousands of idols, and she will walk between the gods, pretending to examine them, hesitating over which one of them to choose—Maybe this one?
Maybe that one?
And then our God, Elohim Ha Shem, will not be able to stand the fact that even she, who has been so loyal to Him for sixty-five years, is doubting Him; that, simply out of jealousy, He will burst out and reveal Himself in front of her, and will shout from the depths of His heart: Rivka, enough!
Enough of it!
I am here!
It truly delighted me so much.
Not just the story, but the fact that she chose to tell it to me.
Not just the story, but the fact that she chose to tell it to me.
What makes me even happier is that things are happening all the time in the world, and they are not just about him and me.
An exhibition of seventh-graders’ work in the hall in front of the teachers’ lounge.
I’m walking with the other teachers, looking at the work, practically floating on my pride for their growth over the past year.
But I am well practiced … I felt the dagger flying out there in the room and started to shrink in expectation of it.
I’m walking with the other teachers, looking at the work, practically floating on my pride for their growth over the past year.
But I am well practiced … I felt the dagger flying out there in the room and started to shrink in expectation of it.
I read the following in Avishai Riklin’s biology paper: “In order for the bird to be able to fully develop its voice, it must be exposed to its kind during the first months of its life.
Otherwise, its singing ability will be permanently damaged.”
Otherwise, its singing ability will be permanently damaged.”
I am stuck there, staring at it, probably for a long time; until Ariela comes up to me and pulls me away, gently.
I’m followed by curious, worried looks.
My throat burns.
I’m followed by curious, worried looks.
My throat burns.
(Come sing with me, my kind.)
A diary is a daybook.
If this is one, it should be called a nightbook.
If this is one, it should be called a nightbook.
I got up for a drink at a quarter past three and stumbled into Yokhai in the darkness.
He was walking around half-asleep, completely confused and without pants.
He must have come back from the bathroom and started wandering, for God knows how long, until I found him.
I put on his pajamas and brought him back to bed, and he kept getting up again and again.
So I agreed to walk along his track with him—I hadn’t slept so well anyway—and there was something pleasant about it.
He walked with me in the exact same way we walk in the street, half a step behind me, holding on to the edge of my sleeve … and if I am completely aware of him, which doesn’t always happen on the street, our steps match in a perfect harmony of movement.
We succeeded tonight, not a single motion squeaked in our rhythm, and I was prepared to go on for much longer and longer; it looked as if he was getting some pleasure from it, because he showed no signs of tiring until a quarter to four—he actually seemed to be having fun, telling me something in his own way.
He was walking around half-asleep, completely confused and without pants.
He must have come back from the bathroom and started wandering, for God knows how long, until I found him.
I put on his pajamas and brought him back to bed, and he kept getting up again and again.
So I agreed to walk along his track with him—I hadn’t slept so well anyway—and there was something pleasant about it.
He walked with me in the exact same way we walk in the street, half a step behind me, holding on to the edge of my sleeve … and if I am completely aware of him, which doesn’t always happen on the street, our steps match in a perfect harmony of movement.
We succeeded tonight, not a single motion squeaked in our rhythm, and I was prepared to go on for much longer and longer; it looked as if he was getting some pleasure from it, because he showed no signs of tiring until a quarter to four—he actually seemed to be having fun, telling me something in his own way.
I then had an idea.
I walked him to the kitchen, shut the door, and turned on the heater.
I took off his pajamas and wrapped him up in a big towel, and, of course, served him burekas and a whole variety of flavored
yogurts.
It took us a little while, but he cooperated marvelously; he didn’t jump up or shout, even when I brought out the scissors.
Finally, after three months of fights and scandal, he let me cut his hair.
I walked him to the kitchen, shut the door, and turned on the heater.
I took off his pajamas and wrapped him up in a big towel, and, of course, served him burekas and a whole variety of flavored
yogurts.
It took us a little while, but he cooperated marvelously; he didn’t jump up or shout, even when I brought out the scissors.
Finally, after three months of fights and scandal, he let me cut his hair.
It’s unbelievable the way he sat, completely quiet.
He was possessed of a stoic relaxation, even a little royal, with only his slight humming and rocking, stopping only to bite into the burekas.
Every once in a while he looked up with a sassy expression, as if to say, “You see?
It simply depends on my will …”
He was possessed of a stoic relaxation, even a little royal, with only his slight humming and rocking, stopping only to bite into the burekas.
Every once in a while he looked up with a sassy expression, as if to say, “You see?
It simply depends on my will …”
Even when I cut his bangs, even when a few hairs fell into his mouth (!).
What is this?
I don’t know my own child!
You could almost think for a moment that he had made the clear-minded decision to compensate for his horrible rage that afternoon, when Amos and I tried together.
And perhaps it is truly so.
What is this?
I don’t know my own child!
You could almost think for a moment that he had made the clear-minded decision to compensate for his horrible rage that afternoon, when Amos and I tried together.
And perhaps it is truly so.
Every time I forget, he has a way of, gently, and without words, reminding me.
What will happen when he starts growing a mustache and a beard?
How will we shave him?
Maybe while he sleeps, a particularly deep sleep, like the ones he has after a fit.
Well, I don’t exactly have to plan for this now.
How will we shave him?
Maybe while he sleeps, a particularly deep sleep, like the ones he has after a fit.
Well, I don’t exactly have to plan for this now.
In two or three years we will have to be separated from our child for a second time; in the meantime, we have the grace of childhood.
What will he look like in five years?
I can’t even imagine it, not in this moment.
Anna had a thin, sexy fuzz, but then Anna was dark; Amos is quite dark as well.
It seems as if Yokhai inherited his very soft, fair hair from me (and his clumsiness, and his lack of confidence, and we shouldn’t forget his feeling of utter strangeness in the world …).
What will he look like in five years?
I can’t even imagine it, not in this moment.
Anna had a thin, sexy fuzz, but then Anna was dark; Amos is quite dark as well.
It seems as if Yokhai inherited his very soft, fair hair from me (and his clumsiness, and his lack of confidence, and we shouldn’t forget his feeling of utter strangeness in the world …).
And what will happen in ten years?
In twenty?
Strange rooms, strange people, and itchy wool blankets.
In twenty?
Strange rooms, strange people, and itchy wool blankets.
When he ran out of patience, he stood up with his hair half-cut, but didn’t run away even then.
He continued walking, slowly, the length of the corridor and back, and didn’t once object that I continued cutting his hair as he walked.
Let it be while walking, while running, while dancing, while jumping!
Such moments of grace don’t come every day.
Amos will go crazy when he wakes up.
He continued walking, slowly, the length of the corridor and back, and didn’t once object that I continued cutting his hair as he walked.
Let it be while walking, while running, while dancing, while jumping!
Such moments of grace don’t come every day.
Amos will go crazy when he wakes up.
And just as I was finishing, he hinted at wanting to go back to bed.
He let me put a splash of Amos’s aftershave, which he likes, on the back of his neck; and a few scattered kisses.
And in this manner of sleepy reconciliation, I put him to bed.
He let me put a splash of Amos’s aftershave, which he likes, on the back of his neck; and a few scattered kisses.
And in this manner of sleepy reconciliation, I put him to bed.
I am waiting for the sunrise.
I too must sleep, for at least one more hour, before this long day begins.
The house is full of fuzzy footprints, and I can hardly hold myself back from waking Amos and telling him … to see the special smile he has for such news.
What a pity I can’t listen to music right now—the Third Quartet is certainly suitable.
Will you wait for me until morning, Ludwig van?
I don’t know why I was so angry with you a few days ago—how could I forget you are so full of life, so optimistic?
I too must sleep, for at least one more hour, before this long day begins.
The house is full of fuzzy footprints, and I can hardly hold myself back from waking Amos and telling him … to see the special smile he has for such news.
What a pity I can’t listen to music right now—the Third Quartet is certainly suitable.
Will you wait for me until morning, Ludwig van?
I don’t know why I was so angry with you a few days ago—how could I forget you are so full of life, so optimistic?
My social life is becoming suspiciously active; I met Ariela at Atara Café this morning.
It’s the first time we have ever met outside the teachers’ lounge to talk.
Poor Ariela was a bit unnerved by me and thought I was investigating her.
At one moment she said quite honestly that despite all her affection for me, she still becomes embarrassed by these intimate conversations at such an early stage of our friendship.
What could I tell her?
That I am probably already too used to this kind of talk?
That it has suddenly become unbearable to me to
not
say everything, or at least practically everything, to a person who looks as if she might be able to understand, exactly?
It’s the first time we have ever met outside the teachers’ lounge to talk.
Poor Ariela was a bit unnerved by me and thought I was investigating her.
At one moment she said quite honestly that despite all her affection for me, she still becomes embarrassed by these intimate conversations at such an early stage of our friendship.
What could I tell her?
That I am probably already too used to this kind of talk?
That it has suddenly become unbearable to me to
not
say everything, or at least practically everything, to a person who looks as if she might be able to understand, exactly?
I don’t think my first enthusiasm was misplaced.
Ariela is charming and clever (even though I can feel how she is a few years younger, and that weighs on me).
Ariela is charming and clever (even though I can feel how she is a few years younger, and that weighs on me).
I remember especially this, from our meeting: in a moment of total honesty she confessed that if her Gideon “cheated on her once or twice” with another woman, it would cause her terrible pain, but she would eventually get over it and stay with him.
But if he fell in love with someone else, she would leave immediately (“In a moment!”).
I flew off the handle—because of the unbearable pain that every disappointment, or feeling of being at odds with someone close to me, causes now … I told her that it was exactly the other way around with me: if I knew that Amos was only playing around with someone, it would be a serious reason for me not to respect him and not to want to live with him.
But if he fell in love … to see such a living, beloved emotion in him would only make him more beautiful to my eyes.
But if he fell in love with someone else, she would leave immediately (“In a moment!”).
I flew off the handle—because of the unbearable pain that every disappointment, or feeling of being at odds with someone close to me, causes now … I told her that it was exactly the other way around with me: if I knew that Amos was only playing around with someone, it would be a serious reason for me not to respect him and not to want to live with him.
But if he fell in love … to see such a living, beloved emotion in him would only make him more beautiful to my eyes.
I saw, in her gaze, that she was distancing herself from me, her unripe eyes rose up for a moment.
It was so hard for me to see.
I grabbed her
hand in a sudden panic.
She got scared—Tell me, Miriam, are you all right?
It was so hard for me to see.
I grabbed her
hand in a sudden panic.
She got scared—Tell me, Miriam, are you all right?
I just found K.’s recipe for the possibility of perfect joy.
Believe in the eternal thing in yourself, and do not aspire to it.
Believe in the eternal thing in yourself, and do not aspire to it.
Then again, this morning I can hardly believe in that which is eternal in me.
I instead aspire, probably, to the finite thing outside myself that is quickly becoming destroyed.
I instead aspire, probably, to the finite thing outside myself that is quickly becoming destroyed.
(As I was writing this, Nilly came up to me, and I decided to ask her as well.
I said, “Nilly, do you think I will ever be happy?
If so, move your left ear.
And if not, the right.”
And what did that cat do?
She moved both of them!)
I said, “Nilly, do you think I will ever be happy?
If so, move your left ear.
And if not, the right.”
And what did that cat do?
She moved both of them!)
Maybe she understood, long before I did, that you can never return from this place in peace.
(Not just home—in general.)
(Not just home—in general.)
Amos is in Be’r Sheva.
On a two-day teachers’ workshop.
Oh, the pictures I’ve been developing in my mind over the last few hours as I’ve been circling the phone, hovering.
I could make him come here in an instant (so I delude myself).
I will make an appeal to his cheapness, pluck the one string that can always be roused to noise—I will whisper, “My husband is not home,” into the phone, as in some bad movie, and he won’t be able to resist the temptation.
On a two-day teachers’ workshop.
Oh, the pictures I’ve been developing in my mind over the last few hours as I’ve been circling the phone, hovering.
I could make him come here in an instant (so I delude myself).
I will make an appeal to his cheapness, pluck the one string that can always be roused to noise—I will whisper, “My husband is not home,” into the phone, as in some bad movie, and he won’t be able to resist the temptation.
An hour of complete insanity passed.
With all the excitement in the world, I walked through the house gathering a few bunches of paper balls that Yokhai has hidden in the corners.
I prepared a little exhibition of them on the kitchen table.
After that, I opened each and every one of them in the order I set.
I ironed them flat with my hands—and crumpled them back again into little balls.
Then I scattered them once again into the corners … There is undoubtedly something to it, squashing up paper in this way.
Reason returns to me at midnight, with the prickles of needles, like blood rushing back into a hand that fell asleep.
With all the excitement in the world, I walked through the house gathering a few bunches of paper balls that Yokhai has hidden in the corners.
I prepared a little exhibition of them on the kitchen table.
After that, I opened each and every one of them in the order I set.
I ironed them flat with my hands—and crumpled them back again into little balls.
Then I scattered them once again into the corners … There is undoubtedly something to it, squashing up paper in this way.
Reason returns to me at midnight, with the prickles of needles, like blood rushing back into a hand that fell asleep.
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