Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (9 page)
Here I am before you: I am the donkey foal.
I am the hole in the fence, the crack through which mistakes and treachery—and also bald ridicule—drip into the house.
It has been this way since childhood, ever since I can remember myself I have been the hole, how unmasculine.
And to whom else could I say such a thing?
Believe me, believe that at least—in my moments of flight, moments of gliding, I am the most me, the me that is meant to be.
And in a surprising manner, it is a moment full of happiness, generally—it is a full moment, it is everything together, and I wish I had a way to spend my entire life in such a moment.
I am the hole in the fence, the crack through which mistakes and treachery—and also bald ridicule—drip into the house.
It has been this way since childhood, ever since I can remember myself I have been the hole, how unmasculine.
And to whom else could I say such a thing?
Believe me, believe that at least—in my moments of flight, moments of gliding, I am the most me, the me that is meant to be.
And in a surprising manner, it is a moment full of happiness, generally—it is a full moment, it is everything together, and I wish I had a way to spend my entire life in such a moment.
And then, of course, there is the thump of the landing, and lots of dust around, and terrible silence, and I am sobering up from all that I was for a moment, cautiously looking around.
And I start to freeze from the cold that surrounds me within and without, a cold that only clowns and fools know.
So it is true that once or twice in my life it so happened that I was a living seed and a brilliant idea, but mostly—no more than spit.
And if you want one, I am, for example, stuck in this time in my life like Heine in the grave of his mattresses with forty thousand books and pamphlets and magazines piling up around me.
I had an idea, you see?
A great idea …
And I start to freeze from the cold that surrounds me within and without, a cold that only clowns and fools know.
So it is true that once or twice in my life it so happened that I was a living seed and a brilliant idea, but mostly—no more than spit.
And if you want one, I am, for example, stuck in this time in my life like Heine in the grave of his mattresses with forty thousand books and pamphlets and magazines piling up around me.
I had an idea, you see?
A great idea …
That’s it.
Sometimes you survive a glorious leap like Nakhshon and get credited in the Bible; mostly, you find out that the pool below you was empty.
But always—even if you succeed—you’re somehow terribly alone when you go back to all the rest, and to their appraising looks, that suddenly seem to you as if they’re ahem-ing with their eyes.
And my father would say to me, The whole body wants to pee, but you know what to take out to do the job.
Sometimes you survive a glorious leap like Nakhshon and get credited in the Bible; mostly, you find out that the pool below you was empty.
But always—even if you succeed—you’re somehow terribly alone when you go back to all the rest, and to their appraising looks, that suddenly seem to you as if they’re ahem-ing with their eyes.
And my father would say to me, The whole body wants to pee, but you know what to take out to do the job.
This is how I feel now, and it destroys me, I can’t stand such a look from you; because for a completely different glance of yours, I decided to jump headfirst, on three, whatever the dangers, “and not less than everything,”
by the demands of T.
S.
Eliot’s requirements.
And now I’m eating myself up for not having been more cautious.
by the demands of T.
S.
Eliot’s requirements.
And now I’m eating myself up for not having been more cautious.
Because I could have written to you a sophisticated, caressing letter, and clouded my intentions, and seduced you slowly, and flirted with ease, and definitely have met body to body, by all the common rules of the adulterous games accepted and in play in the grown-up community.
When I think of things I wrote to you, things I told you about my family, or things that, because of you, I told myself about my family, that horrible sentence about three people living together—I feel like castrating myself, tearing out my own tongue!
When I think of things I wrote to you, things I told you about my family, or things that, because of you, I told myself about my family, that horrible sentence about three people living together—I feel like castrating myself, tearing out my own tongue!
June 7
Enough, enough.
What an unbearable night.
(And to think that you might not even be capable of imagining my suffering!) I never told you how it started, exactly; I mean, I told you only so much.
I think I’ve repeated that much at least thirty times by now, but I was only telling you about yourself, about what I saw in you.
And I can’t have this end without your knowing what was happening inside me in those moments.
What an unbearable night.
(And to think that you might not even be capable of imagining my suffering!) I never told you how it started, exactly; I mean, I told you only so much.
I think I’ve repeated that much at least thirty times by now, but I was only telling you about yourself, about what I saw in you.
And I can’t have this end without your knowing what was happening inside me in those moments.
So here it is, in short order, and then we can finish with it.
One night, about two months ago, I saw you.
You were standing in the middle of a large group that had gathered around you, and especially around your husband.
A whole flock of respectable teachers and educators, and everybody sighed over how hard it is to succeed in the education racket, how long it takes to see the fruit of your labors.
Someone—of course-mentioned Khoni and the Circle, and another tale, about the old man who planted a carob tree for his grandchildren, and your husband—excuse me, your “man” (although it seems to me that he certainly sees himself as a “husband”)—was going on about some complicated genetic experiment he’s been working on now for ten years.
I can’t be too precise about the details, because I wasn’t really concentrating too hard on what he was saying.
Please send him my apologies.
The bitter truth is, his story was long and boring.
A lot of
facts
in it, something about rabbit fertility, I think, and about the instinct, in times of stress, to draw the fetus back into the womb (?).
Doesn’t matter.
In any case, everyone listened to him, with his infectious self-confidence and that special manner of speaking, slowly, authoritatively.
A man like that knows the world will fall silent
and listen, raptly, as soon as he opens his mouth.
He uses a full range of facial expressions brilliantly, and has the self-possession of a mature male, what with those long cheeks and developed jawline and thick brow … By God, you’re lucky, Miriam.
You got the best male of the herd.
Darwin is saluting you from his grave.
Of course, the two of you made a wonderful pair, clearly, scaling the high altitudes together—you see how I was still free there, meaning, free to make that mistake?
One night, about two months ago, I saw you.
You were standing in the middle of a large group that had gathered around you, and especially around your husband.
A whole flock of respectable teachers and educators, and everybody sighed over how hard it is to succeed in the education racket, how long it takes to see the fruit of your labors.
Someone—of course-mentioned Khoni and the Circle, and another tale, about the old man who planted a carob tree for his grandchildren, and your husband—excuse me, your “man” (although it seems to me that he certainly sees himself as a “husband”)—was going on about some complicated genetic experiment he’s been working on now for ten years.
I can’t be too precise about the details, because I wasn’t really concentrating too hard on what he was saying.
Please send him my apologies.
The bitter truth is, his story was long and boring.
A lot of
facts
in it, something about rabbit fertility, I think, and about the instinct, in times of stress, to draw the fetus back into the womb (?).
Doesn’t matter.
In any case, everyone listened to him, with his infectious self-confidence and that special manner of speaking, slowly, authoritatively.
A man like that knows the world will fall silent
and listen, raptly, as soon as he opens his mouth.
He uses a full range of facial expressions brilliantly, and has the self-possession of a mature male, what with those long cheeks and developed jawline and thick brow … By God, you’re lucky, Miriam.
You got the best male of the herd.
Darwin is saluting you from his grave.
Of course, the two of you made a wonderful pair, clearly, scaling the high altitudes together—you see how I was still free there, meaning, free to make that mistake?
Then your husband let out a burst of laughter, and that was it: I remember how astonished I was by the strong, manly,
sparkling
laughter that surged out of him.
How I shrank from it—as if he had caught me doing something shameful.
I don’t even know what he was laughing about, or at whom, but everyone was laughing along with him; it was as if they wanted to, for a moment, dance among those commanding rays pouring from his beaming face.
I looked at you by chance—perhaps because you were the only woman there, and I was searching for understanding from or protection in you—and I saw you weren’t laughing.
On the contrary, you shivered and hugged yourself; perhaps his laughter (which you probably love) revived some painful memory inside you.
Or maybe it just horrified you as much as it did me.
sparkling
laughter that surged out of him.
How I shrank from it—as if he had caught me doing something shameful.
I don’t even know what he was laughing about, or at whom, but everyone was laughing along with him; it was as if they wanted to, for a moment, dance among those commanding rays pouring from his beaming face.
I looked at you by chance—perhaps because you were the only woman there, and I was searching for understanding from or protection in you—and I saw you weren’t laughing.
On the contrary, you shivered and hugged yourself; perhaps his laughter (which you probably love) revived some painful memory inside you.
Or maybe it just horrified you as much as it did me.
So they kept talking, all extremely interested; what am I talking about—
fascinated
by the conversation in that way they are all so very good at, but you weren’t there anymore.
It was amazing—I saw how you sneaked away from everyone without moving one step; you simply took advantage of the momentary diversion to disappear.
And I also saw where you disappeared to.
Something behind your eyes opened and closed, one flash of a secret door, and suddenly only your body was left standing there, sad, abandoned by you (that I will never be able to tell you about it again, your fair, soft body, butter and honey—).
You dropped your head a bit, and held yourself in your hands, as if you were cradling your child-self, and your baby-self, and ripples and furrows of wonder started trembling on your forehead, like that of a girl hearing a long, complicated, sad story; yes, your whole face started sailing upon your face.
And I unconsciously felt my heart reaching out to you in the dance of the donkey foal; there is probably still a gap where I am missing a rib from that moment, everything went crazy and so did I.
fascinated
by the conversation in that way they are all so very good at, but you weren’t there anymore.
It was amazing—I saw how you sneaked away from everyone without moving one step; you simply took advantage of the momentary diversion to disappear.
And I also saw where you disappeared to.
Something behind your eyes opened and closed, one flash of a secret door, and suddenly only your body was left standing there, sad, abandoned by you (that I will never be able to tell you about it again, your fair, soft body, butter and honey—).
You dropped your head a bit, and held yourself in your hands, as if you were cradling your child-self, and your baby-self, and ripples and furrows of wonder started trembling on your forehead, like that of a girl hearing a long, complicated, sad story; yes, your whole face started sailing upon your face.
And I unconsciously felt my heart reaching out to you in the dance of the donkey foal; there is probably still a gap where I am missing a rib from that moment, everything went crazy and so did I.
(Don’t worry, I’ll be leaving your life in a moment, last throes.) Now I can allow myself to remember how that large group of students swarmed around you immediately afterward—do you remember?
It’s strange how I managed to erase it from my memory until now.
They practically kidnapped you from the adults for the favor of having a photo taken with you—they almost carried you on their shoulders.
And that one moment you passed by me, and I saw you were still daydreaming a little, but starting to make the effort to smile on the outside; it was a completely different smile, public, fluorescent—would you look at how completely I had forgotten about it?
They practically kidnapped you from the adults for the favor of having a photo taken with you—they almost carried you on their shoulders.
And that one moment you passed by me, and I saw you were still daydreaming a little, but starting to make the effort to smile on the outside; it was a completely different smile, public, fluorescent—would you look at how completely I had forgotten about it?
But maybe I didn’t forget it.
Maybe it was this thrilling peep into your inner workings that let me know, immediately, that you would understand me?
Maybe it was this thrilling peep into your inner workings that let me know, immediately, that you would understand me?
Because it was a moment of “your ignominy.”
Without understanding it yet, I think I recognized it: this smile, a bit like a contraction.
You were wearing an election-campaign smile for a moment … What am I saying?
You?
An election campaign?
Yes, yes, I am certainly never wrong about these things.
So, even you?
Elected over and over again, charming, yes, emblazoning yourself on the eyes of strangers.
(And now I’m even sorrier that we won’t continue this.)
Without understanding it yet, I think I recognized it: this smile, a bit like a contraction.
You were wearing an election-campaign smile for a moment … What am I saying?
You?
An election campaign?
Yes, yes, I am certainly never wrong about these things.
So, even you?
Elected over and over again, charming, yes, emblazoning yourself on the eyes of strangers.
(And now I’m even sorrier that we won’t continue this.)
And I don’t know if you felt what came next, perhaps you hadn’t yet fully recovered your senses.
Your students, a herd of oafs and clods, teenagers, scrapers of facial scruff—how they all started fighting for the privilege of being the closest to you, so they could touch you, suckle a look or a smile from you, announce whatever terribly important problem was troubling them at exactly that moment.
It was kind of funny to watch—
Your students, a herd of oafs and clods, teenagers, scrapers of facial scruff—how they all started fighting for the privilege of being the closest to you, so they could touch you, suckle a look or a smile from you, announce whatever terribly important problem was troubling them at exactly that moment.
It was kind of funny to watch—
“Funny” is not the right word.
Pity for the parpur.
Because even the man standing to the side had, in that same moment a bizarre, unexpected impulse—it’s actually embarrassing to recall—the same wild urge to open wide his fledgling mouth in a madness of sudden, terrible hunger—Me me, Teacher, me me …
Pity for the parpur.
Because even the man standing to the side had, in that same moment a bizarre, unexpected impulse—it’s actually embarrassing to recall—the same wild urge to open wide his fledgling mouth in a madness of sudden, terrible hunger—Me me, Teacher, me me …
Enough.
Enough.
I’m humiliating myself even more with every word.
Please, take a piece of paper, write a few words, just one will do—yes or no.
I don’t have the energy for a long letter from you now.
Write “I’m sorry, I tried to get used to it, to you, I really did try hard, but I couldn’t forgive your turmoil, your misleading statements.”
Enough.
I’m humiliating myself even more with every word.
Please, take a piece of paper, write a few words, just one will do—yes or no.
I don’t have the energy for a long letter from you now.
Write “I’m sorry, I tried to get used to it, to you, I really did try hard, but I couldn’t forgive your turmoil, your misleading statements.”
Well, fine.
We are agreed.
At least we know where we stand.
My heart will probably continue to shout out your name for a little while longer; and eventually, it will heal.
Perhaps I’ll return to Ramat Rakhel, or some other place out of town.
Some place with no people, that can be
ours, at least long enough so I can yell out with all my strength, “Miriam!
Miriam!
Mir-yam!”
We are agreed.
At least we know where we stand.
My heart will probably continue to shout out your name for a little while longer; and eventually, it will heal.
Perhaps I’ll return to Ramat Rakhel, or some other place out of town.
Some place with no people, that can be
ours, at least long enough so I can yell out with all my strength, “Miriam!
Miriam!
Mir-yam!”
Yair
Don’t worry, another day, or two, slowly, the letters will peel away, and the only thing left will be my clockwork scream to you-hee-haw, hee-haw!
June 10
It so happened that your letter arrived after I was already completely exhausted.
I opened the mailbox, simply out of habit, the same way I’ve done tens of times in the last week, and your white envelope was there.
I stood there, looking at it—and didn’t feel a thing.
Just tired.
Perhaps afraid as well.
Because I was hoping that I had already become used to thinking it was over.
Frozen for good.
And where would I find the strength to undergo all the aches of defrosting?
I opened the mailbox, simply out of habit, the same way I’ve done tens of times in the last week, and your white envelope was there.
I stood there, looking at it—and didn’t feel a thing.
Just tired.
Perhaps afraid as well.
Because I was hoping that I had already become used to thinking it was over.
Frozen for good.
And where would I find the strength to undergo all the aches of defrosting?
I read it, of course.
Once, and again, and again.
I still can’t understand how I could fall apart so quickly over a break of a single week.
Can you believe it—I felt as if you were gone for at least a month.
Once, and again, and again.
I still can’t understand how I could fall apart so quickly over a break of a single week.
Can you believe it—I felt as if you were gone for at least a month.
As if I was just waiting for an excuse to torture myself.
I’ve nothing to add today.
I’m glad you’re back, that we are together again.
That you didn’t even think of disappearing on me.
Just the opposite.
I’m glad you’re back, that we are together again.
That you didn’t even think of disappearing on me.
Just the opposite.
And I’m still angry at you for not taking a moment to consider how much I would suffer.
How could you, you, not know me?
You could have at least sent a note before leaving, or a postcard from the Central Station at Rosh Pina.
It would have delayed you by no more than ten minutes and saved me a lot of misery.
How could you, you, not know me?
You could have at least sent a note before leaving, or a postcard from the Central Station at Rosh Pina.
It would have delayed you by no more than ten minutes and saved me a lot of misery.
On the other hand, I am starting to grasp that if you had the choice, you probably wouldn’t cause me suffering.
So, we can fade this letter out on an optimistic note—you probably had no choice.
June 10-11
This is still not a response, not a real response, not the response you deserve for that letter, for the depths that revealed themselves to me as I
read and reread it.
Mostly because of how you released me gently, rope by rope, from the knots of the trap I set for myself.
Sparing me any and all embarrassment over the Gastric Juice Concerto I played for you.
read and reread it.
Mostly because of how you released me gently, rope by rope, from the knots of the trap I set for myself.
Sparing me any and all embarrassment over the Gastric Juice Concerto I played for you.
(They really let you leave work?
Two weeks before the end of the school year?
Two weeks before the end of the school year?
And what do they have to say about it at home?
It’s none of my business.)
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