Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (5 page)
Afterward I thought, In my pocket I have your letter with that sentence that on the first reading seemed a little incomprehensible and abstract
to me, about the kind of sorrow that you can’t share with anybody.
It is exactly enough for one person.
to me, about the kind of sorrow that you can’t share with anybody.
It is exactly enough for one person.
May 11
Yes, of course, my dear, my marvel, with all my heart, what do you think?
…
…
There is suddenly more room between us.
I actually felt your breath coming from beyond the page—your shoulders loosened up a little.
I actually felt your breath coming from beyond the page—your shoulders loosened up a little.
Also because of the colors and the blooming and the smells that burst like a grand waterfall onto your pages.
Until now you wrote almost entirely in black and white, and the fact that there were finally two there, two pages (you’re right: with two wings, you can finally take off and fly).
And I find it wonderful that you chose to bring me to your home, not on the main road by which everybody comes, but from the distant dam of Ein Karem.
And through the valley.
And, it seems to me, past every flower and tree and brier, passing lizards and grasshoppers and stilts.
I haven’t been led this way for years, like a sheep to pasture.
But who could resist your charm, when you suddenly wake up and laugh, running in front of me, stroking every dandelion and mallow and every olive trunk.
And look at the sage, how abundantly it flowers, and how generously it gives off its scent … Not to mention all the tordylium and pearl grass—tell me, who taught you all these private names and their smells, and the texture of their leaves and how to crush them, and the gallnuts and fritillary?
Until now you wrote almost entirely in black and white, and the fact that there were finally two there, two pages (you’re right: with two wings, you can finally take off and fly).
And I find it wonderful that you chose to bring me to your home, not on the main road by which everybody comes, but from the distant dam of Ein Karem.
And through the valley.
And, it seems to me, past every flower and tree and brier, passing lizards and grasshoppers and stilts.
I haven’t been led this way for years, like a sheep to pasture.
But who could resist your charm, when you suddenly wake up and laugh, running in front of me, stroking every dandelion and mallow and every olive trunk.
And look at the sage, how abundantly it flowers, and how generously it gives off its scent … Not to mention all the tordylium and pearl grass—tell me, who taught you all these private names and their smells, and the texture of their leaves and how to crush them, and the gallnuts and fritillary?
It’s a good thing that I’m a quick reader.
Even so, I could hardly keep up with you as you climbed and scaled the rocks.
What are you running for?
I didn’t imagine that your big soft body could move this way, like a lioness, you wrote, surprising … and a strong vital smell hovered above your words, the smell of sweat and earth and stamen.
You are wonderful when you rejoice, when you’re rolling around in a field of poppies or throwing oat flowers at me (I’ll be throwing them back at you soon!
Did you play that game, too—How Many Kids Will You Have?).
A white-and-yellow daisy got caught in your hair.
And for a moment I shrank with the misery of an amputated hand, because I couldn’t untangle it from your hair, and I couldn’t give you a boost to climb over the terrace.
And all the scratches and stings I didn’t get, your sweat, which I didn’t get to lick—I’m only writing it and missing it.
It’s a good thing you
stopped in the village to chat with kindergarteners, all lined up.
It gave me a moment to breathe.
I noticed that you made certain not to tell me if one of the children belongs to you (by your description, one could think they were all yours).
And generally, in your last two letters, it seems to me that you’re teasing me with riddles, hiding and reappearing, smiling secret intimate smiles.
And it’s wonderful.
I’m barely alive, but keeping up, through your secret passages between the houses and fences, all the way to the gate of your house, blue speckled with rust—why rust?
maybe someone isn’t doing his job keeping the house up properly?
Well, I didn’t say anything, and who can even think about that when you are spinning around to face me in a swirl of imaginary skirts, and for one moment, within the motion of your spin—I don’t know if you felt it—you came and spread out in all of your ages in front of me, and your brown eyes shone like the few words you whispered to me and like (oh dear, I feel a simile coming on) two pits in an opening loquat: would you like to come in?
Even so, I could hardly keep up with you as you climbed and scaled the rocks.
What are you running for?
I didn’t imagine that your big soft body could move this way, like a lioness, you wrote, surprising … and a strong vital smell hovered above your words, the smell of sweat and earth and stamen.
You are wonderful when you rejoice, when you’re rolling around in a field of poppies or throwing oat flowers at me (I’ll be throwing them back at you soon!
Did you play that game, too—How Many Kids Will You Have?).
A white-and-yellow daisy got caught in your hair.
And for a moment I shrank with the misery of an amputated hand, because I couldn’t untangle it from your hair, and I couldn’t give you a boost to climb over the terrace.
And all the scratches and stings I didn’t get, your sweat, which I didn’t get to lick—I’m only writing it and missing it.
It’s a good thing you
stopped in the village to chat with kindergarteners, all lined up.
It gave me a moment to breathe.
I noticed that you made certain not to tell me if one of the children belongs to you (by your description, one could think they were all yours).
And generally, in your last two letters, it seems to me that you’re teasing me with riddles, hiding and reappearing, smiling secret intimate smiles.
And it’s wonderful.
I’m barely alive, but keeping up, through your secret passages between the houses and fences, all the way to the gate of your house, blue speckled with rust—why rust?
maybe someone isn’t doing his job keeping the house up properly?
Well, I didn’t say anything, and who can even think about that when you are spinning around to face me in a swirl of imaginary skirts, and for one moment, within the motion of your spin—I don’t know if you felt it—you came and spread out in all of your ages in front of me, and your brown eyes shone like the few words you whispered to me and like (oh dear, I feel a simile coming on) two pits in an opening loquat: would you like to come in?
Yes, of course, my dear, my marvel, with all my heart—what do you think?
(Morning)
Tonight, in the middle of a deep sleep, it came to me—could it be that he is the same friend whose diaries you read every few days, so that you can know what he was doing on the same day a few decades ago?
Who—as you already told me in your second letter—is your morning prayer?
Who—as you already told me in your second letter—is your morning prayer?
Please don’t be angry with my attempt to discover which private conversation of yours I slipped into.
I was only playing a little detective game, and in the middle of the night I jumped out of my bed and checked a few dates and flipped through some pages, and here you are, on exactly the same day you suddenly returned to me, on the fourth of May.
I found that this is what he wrote in the diary from 1915:
I was only playing a little detective game, and in the middle of the night I jumped out of my bed and checked a few dates and flipped through some pages, and here you are, on exactly the same day you suddenly returned to me, on the fourth of May.
I found that this is what he wrote in the diary from 1915:
“Reflection on other people’s relationship to me.
Insignificant as I may be, nevertheless there is no one here who understands me in my entirety.
To have someone possessed of such understanding, a wife perhaps, would mean to have support from every side, to have God.”
Insignificant as I may be, nevertheless there is no one here who understands me in my entirety.
To have someone possessed of such understanding, a wife perhaps, would mean to have support from every side, to have God.”
And even if my wild guess was completely wrong, even if I stepped
into a too-private place, I would like to give you something in return, from the same day, from the same man:
into a too-private place, I would like to give you something in return, from the same day, from the same man:
“ … Sometimes I thought she understood me without realizing it; for instance, the time she waited for me at the subway station—I had been longing for her unbearably, and in my passion to reach her as quickly as possible almost ran past her, thinking she would be at the top of the stairs, and she took me quietly by the hand.”
Y.
May 16
You’re such an enigma.
You don’t have to solve me, you tell me, just be with me.
Here I am—and I am with you, as you walk through your yard, a little paradise you’ve created for yourself (when I climb the stairs to the porch with the bougainvillea shade, I finally recognized the purple leaves from the anonymous-intimacy letter).
You had already flown inside.
I was still in a bit of shock from that move—and then flooded, I was simply flooded with light and warmth, and also with the huge array of colors, the jungle of giant potted plants, the wool carpets and embroidered pictures and the piano and the walls crammed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
I instantly felt safe.
Even the clutter seemed familiar to me.
Here I am—and I am with you, as you walk through your yard, a little paradise you’ve created for yourself (when I climb the stairs to the porch with the bougainvillea shade, I finally recognized the purple leaves from the anonymous-intimacy letter).
You had already flown inside.
I was still in a bit of shock from that move—and then flooded, I was simply flooded with light and warmth, and also with the huge array of colors, the jungle of giant potted plants, the wool carpets and embroidered pictures and the piano and the walls crammed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
I instantly felt safe.
Even the clutter seemed familiar to me.
So that’s it?
I’m inside, inside your home.
You have a generous home, not just generous—like a river practically overflowing.
And a little bit like the Old Curiosity Shop, just as you said.
I learned it by heart, I even sketched it out on paper, so I could know just where the wall with the photographs is, and on which window the orange-and-red stained glass hangs, and where the blue glass vases from Hebron sit, and how the sunbeams break through them in the morning and fall and spread out on the embroidery with the filigree (what is that, exactly?), but mainly I saw you, your words, you suddenly wrote like—did you notice?
I’m inside, inside your home.
You have a generous home, not just generous—like a river practically overflowing.
And a little bit like the Old Curiosity Shop, just as you said.
I learned it by heart, I even sketched it out on paper, so I could know just where the wall with the photographs is, and on which window the orange-and-red stained glass hangs, and where the blue glass vases from Hebron sit, and how the sunbeams break through them in the morning and fall and spread out on the embroidery with the filigree (what is that, exactly?), but mainly I saw you, your words, you suddenly wrote like—did you notice?
Do you understand what I am talking about?
This is in no way a criticism of you, it’s just a question, or let’s say the unwilling cock of an eyebrow: because you were extremely happy on the way from the dam, you rejoiced and I couldn’t help but get excited along with you.
And in the house, how can I explain it?
It seemed to me that, for a moment, you were somehow aflame …
And in the house, how can I explain it?
It seemed to me that, for a moment, you were somehow aflame …
Quickly—quickly, moving from room to room, nearly breathless, agitated in a way not at all in your usual rhythm, and when I think about it now—not at all in your tone either, not your verbal muscle tone.
It was as if you frightened yourself by bringing me into your privacy so suddenly.
Or perhaps you only wanted to show me that anything I can do you can do as well?
It was as if you frightened yourself by bringing me into your privacy so suddenly.
Or perhaps you only wanted to show me that anything I can do you can do as well?
I’m such an idiot.
What am I complaining about, I wish I could do that, too.
Be as happy as a child, standing for the first time in front of a picture that has been hanging in the living room for years, or over a jar of pickles—be awed by a “large, pregnant” piece of pottery …
What am I complaining about, I wish I could do that, too.
Be as happy as a child, standing for the first time in front of a picture that has been hanging in the living room for years, or over a jar of pickles—be awed by a “large, pregnant” piece of pottery …
I feel so relieved that I can now lean back and let you know—that almost from the start I felt a little ashamed before you, and mainly—too much of something (exaggerated and bubbling, et cetera, et cetera).
Perhaps it was because you seemed so reserved to me that night, so self-sufficient, there was something so clear and crystal and ascetic about you, almost scolding me without even knowing me.
And suddenly this crowded house.
Perhaps it was because you seemed so reserved to me that night, so self-sufficient, there was something so clear and crystal and ascetic about you, almost scolding me without even knowing me.
And suddenly this crowded house.
On the other hand, don’t be mistaken, it also relaxes me to know it, it proves another little one of my proofs about you and me.
Perhaps not a very grand proof in itself, perhaps you won’t be happy about it, I’m not very proud of it myself, but suddenly it was because I found it in you as well—
Perhaps not a very grand proof in itself, perhaps you won’t be happy about it, I’m not very proud of it myself, but suddenly it was because I found it in you as well—
I hope you’re not offended.
Truly, this is not a critique of your taste.
I wish you to understand that it is not “taste” or “tastelessness” that is important to me now.
Only the signs of our alikeness in everything, big or small; and the delicate, mysterious affair that we shall call “the right measure” I mean—a likeness like the one that exists, say, between two cups, broken in exactly the same place.
Truly, this is not a critique of your taste.
I wish you to understand that it is not “taste” or “tastelessness” that is important to me now.
Only the signs of our alikeness in everything, big or small; and the delicate, mysterious affair that we shall call “the right measure” I mean—a likeness like the one that exists, say, between two cups, broken in exactly the same place.
Yair
May 20
It is, of course, impossible to write down all those moments throughout the day.
But I liked the fact that you used the word “date” to describe it.
We’re on a date.
But I liked the fact that you used the word “date” to describe it.
We’re on a date.
This morning, for example, in the daily traffic jam right before Ganot Interchange.
A large Volvo driving in front of me with a little boy sitting
in back who was waving hello to all the drivers.
There were five of us in the cars around him, and none of us moved a facial muscle; we didn’t give him a single sign of being seen.
The boy smiled hopefully for a little longer.
There was something shy and fragile in his smile.
A large Volvo driving in front of me with a little boy sitting
in back who was waving hello to all the drivers.
There were five of us in the cars around him, and none of us moved a facial muscle; we didn’t give him a single sign of being seen.
The boy smiled hopefully for a little longer.
There was something shy and fragile in his smile.
My dilemma: If I was to wave back at him, he would immediately recognize that I am only pretending to be a grown-up.
That I am the weak link in the chain tied around him.
At that moment, he might start making obscene gestures at me, thus making me the joke of the jam.
I could see in the vulnerable line of his mouth that he wouldn’t miss an opportunity to gain this kind of strength.
That I am the weak link in the chain tied around him.
At that moment, he might start making obscene gestures at me, thus making me the joke of the jam.
I could see in the vulnerable line of his mouth that he wouldn’t miss an opportunity to gain this kind of strength.
I consulted you (that is to say, we had a date).
I accepted your opinion.
I smiled at him.
I waved to him.
I saw how his smile grew bigger with happiness, almost in disbelief that such a thing was happening to him … He immediately told his father, the driver, who looked at me through the rearview mirror for a long time.
I looked away and saw what the other drivers were thinking of me.
I accepted your opinion.
I smiled at him.
I waved to him.
I saw how his smile grew bigger with happiness, almost in disbelief that such a thing was happening to him … He immediately told his father, the driver, who looked at me through the rearview mirror for a long time.
I looked away and saw what the other drivers were thinking of me.
I also thought that if there had been a woman among us, she could have smiled at him and dismissed me from that duty.
So again, for the second time today: Good morning to you.
I am amused by your way of not answering my direct questions immediately.
(Such as what I wrote about your home.) And I already know that in two or three letters I will get an indirect answer, or sometimes I won’t get any.
I suppose this is your way of determining a path and rhythm for yourself, not letting me take the reins … But you asked a question, and contrary to all the hemming and hawing that came before it, I can respond quite simply: I certainly want another child.
Another three, maybe.
Why not?
To walk down the street like a mother duck with her living, quacking train—that is the peak of prosperity.
But in the present situation, since you’re asking, even one more will do.
(Such as what I wrote about your home.) And I already know that in two or three letters I will get an indirect answer, or sometimes I won’t get any.
I suppose this is your way of determining a path and rhythm for yourself, not letting me take the reins … But you asked a question, and contrary to all the hemming and hawing that came before it, I can respond quite simply: I certainly want another child.
Another three, maybe.
Why not?
To walk down the street like a mother duck with her living, quacking train—that is the peak of prosperity.
But in the present situation, since you’re asking, even one more will do.
Do for what?
It’s hard to say exactly.
It’s hard to say exactly.
Perhaps—turn us into a family.
Because we are not one yet.
Because we are not one yet.
Well, that surprised even me.
I’ll send it anyway.
I’ll send it anyway.
Y.
It’s not that we don’t live together well, the three of us (I have to make you understand), but somehow, in the meantime, we are just three people
1
who are getting on just fine, even in love with one another, in deep friendship (but—as you know, a triangle is always a very shaky geometric construction).
1
who are getting on just fine, even in love with one another, in deep friendship (but—as you know, a triangle is always a very shaky geometric construction).
(Almost midnight)
And I wish I had a girl.
There is nothing I would rather have.
A soft little girl.
A little honeysuckle.
It’s also the thought of seeing just what kind of girl would come out of me; a legitimate feminine version of myself: and to see how all her parts coexist, elbows and breasts.
And perhaps she, somehow, just by being, will know how to settle that old quarrel of which we have yet to speak, you and I.
There is nothing I would rather have.
A soft little girl.
A little honeysuckle.
It’s also the thought of seeing just what kind of girl would come out of me; a legitimate feminine version of myself: and to see how all her parts coexist, elbows and breasts.
And perhaps she, somehow, just by being, will know how to settle that old quarrel of which we have yet to speak, you and I.
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