Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (11 page)
Explain it to me, Miriam—the war you are fighting that leaves you searching, at the end of some days, so desperately for a clear will to get up the next morning—what are you talking about, exactly?
And where on earth did you get this crazy (and false) feeling that you are a person who should not create anything new in this world?
I’m the person who keeps changing his face, is the consistently unstable, destructive force between us.
Don’t forget!
And where on earth did you get this crazy (and false) feeling that you are a person who should not create anything new in this world?
I’m the person who keeps changing his face, is the consistently unstable, destructive force between us.
Don’t forget!
(Or perhaps, now that I’m thinking about it, perhaps it is some kind of illusion you are creating for me, the story you are choosing to tell me about yourself.
But why would you tell me such a horrible story?)
But why would you tell me such a horrible story?)
Do you understand the kind of state you left me in by not explaining anything?—“ … and sometimes the feeling that every living thing, even the two little kittens Nilly gave birth to yesterday and, as is her way, left for me to nurse, even they are like stolen fire for the moments they are in my hands.”
And you immediately fell silent.
There were quite a few empty lines toward the end of the page, and I didn’t know how to fill them—my imagination went wild—and when you returned, summoned in front of me, your face was back to normal and you told me something small and irrelevant—if you’ll excuse my teacherly remarks.
I think you just wanted to end your letter politely.
It is very nice that your son has now devoted himself to an operation so prestigious as counting to a million (a way not worse than any other to waste your life)—you finally told me, clearly, that you have a son—I was starting to worry—but how could you
leave
me like that after mentioning those things?
And you immediately fell silent.
There were quite a few empty lines toward the end of the page, and I didn’t know how to fill them—my imagination went wild—and when you returned, summoned in front of me, your face was back to normal and you told me something small and irrelevant—if you’ll excuse my teacherly remarks.
I think you just wanted to end your letter politely.
It is very nice that your son has now devoted himself to an operation so prestigious as counting to a million (a way not worse than any other to waste your life)—you finally told me, clearly, that you have a son—I was starting to worry—but how could you
leave
me like that after mentioning those things?
Enough, enough—let’s unclench our fists—our dark secrets are always less terrible than we imagine them—so give yourself to me, without
walls, without reservations—write to me, for instance.
Tell me—in a completely separate letter—a one-sentence letter—tell me the first thing, the first thought, the first flicker flashing in your mind when you read this letter.
(Yes, yes!
Now!
At this very minute!
Write it down, put it in an envelope, and send it, even before your “official” reply, even before dealing with all the complications inherent with me within you.)—
walls, without reservations—write to me, for instance.
Tell me—in a completely separate letter—a one-sentence letter—tell me the first thing, the first thought, the first flicker flashing in your mind when you read this letter.
(Yes, yes!
Now!
At this very minute!
Write it down, put it in an envelope, and send it, even before your “official” reply, even before dealing with all the complications inherent with me within you.)—
June 14
Boom!
So now it’s my turn?
After we come, we’ll fall asleep, lying close together.
Your back will be stuck to my belly, and I will squeeze my toes like clothespins on your ankles, so you won’t fly away on me during the night, and we’ll be like a picture from a nature book: a length cut of a fruit.
I am the peel, you are the flesh.
Your back will be stuck to my belly, and I will squeeze my toes like clothespins on your ankles, so you won’t fly away on me during the night, and we’ll be like a picture from a nature book: a length cut of a fruit.
I am the peel, you are the flesh.
Yair
P.S.
I didn’t believe you would dare so much.
I didn’t believe you would dare so much.
June 17
And when we lie down together, I would like to close my eyes and gently touch the edge of your hairline somewhere under your navel (your belly button), so I can, with the tips of my fingers, feel the place, one of the places, that delicate silky place, where you changed from a child into a woman.
Y.
June 18
One out of turn:
Yesterday I walked down through Queen Heleni Alley.
A child, nine or ten years old, was walking in front of me.
We were alone.
The alley was dark, and once in a while he glanced back and quickened his pace.
But even when I walk slowly, I walk pretty quickly.
I could feel his fear.
I could remember this kind of fear well.
And I wondered how I could put him at ease without embarrassing him.
Then he tried to leap away—but he twisted his leg badly, and now he dragged it along behind him, whimpering in pain.
This is how we walked, together, at a fixed distance, until we reached the end of the alley.
He’s limping outside, and I, inside.
A child, nine or ten years old, was walking in front of me.
We were alone.
The alley was dark, and once in a while he glanced back and quickened his pace.
But even when I walk slowly, I walk pretty quickly.
I could feel his fear.
I could remember this kind of fear well.
And I wondered how I could put him at ease without embarrassing him.
Then he tried to leap away—but he twisted his leg badly, and now he dragged it along behind him, whimpering in pain.
This is how we walked, together, at a fixed distance, until we reached the end of the alley.
He’s limping outside, and I, inside.
Y.
The problem with these quickies, obviously, is that you’re hungry again after an hour (although “sometimes, the way you touch me—it is one touch, the same I feel in that spot of pain and pleasure” will do for me for at least a week).
June 19
Have you written to me yet?
Have you sent it yet?
When does your box get emptied?
Have you sent it yet?
When does your box get emptied?
(Just a little exercise of my agitation muscles—don’t want them to get flaccid.
That way you can always recognize me.)
That way you can always recognize me.)
About those final assumptions of yours—you were triply wrong: I am not writing to you from prison.
I am not sick and bedridden with some terrible disease.
I am not even an Israeli spy for Damascus or Moscow on a brief vacation home before returning to the cold-I am all three.
I am not sick and bedridden with some terrible disease.
I am not even an Israeli spy for Damascus or Moscow on a brief vacation home before returning to the cold-I am all three.
What else?
Not much.
Not much.
A lot: your fingers trembling when you find my envelopes in your box in the teachers’ lounge.
It’s the same for me, what do you think?
First I examine with a touch—how thick is the new letter?
How much food will I have to savor over the next days and nights—
First I examine with a touch—how thick is the new letter?
How much food will I have to savor over the next days and nights—
To answer your (surprisingly weird) question—hands and digital together (but why is that important anyway?).
Oh, I remember something I keep forgetting to ask you: do you have any—this is silly, I know, but anyway—do you happen to have any connection to a Chinese newspaper (completely in Chinese!), a weekly magazine published in Shanghai that I’ve started receiving lately out of nowhere—I didn’t order it.
If you don’t, forget the question.
This is not a letter.
It is just a nightly humming, a whistle in the dark until you return to me.
It is just a nightly humming, a whistle in the dark until you return to me.
(It never ceases to amaze me—how my desiccated life chose to expose a giant breast for me.)
Yair
June 21
An open mouth or a hole in a tree trunk?
I’m struggling to decide—but so filled with joy—because
there weren’t any words there!
I’m struggling to decide—but so filled with joy—because
there weren’t any words there!
I didn’t know you painted, too.
The line and the black and the power of your touch.
The line and the black and the power of your touch.
I swear by my life: someday I will dance for you.
I won’t care if we are surrounded by people—I will just look into your eyes and I will dance.
I won’t care if we are surrounded by people—I will just look into your eyes and I will dance.
But in the meantime, I need to write, don’t I?
So then, in honor of your black strokes:
So then, in honor of your black strokes:
A shrunken black monkey, let’s say, scrambling over his mistress’s belly.
Does that make any sense to you?
No matter.
We allowed ourselves the freedom to mumble.
To me, it means: the master bought it for her at one of the fairs he passed through in his journeys.
The master is always on a journey, the master’s journey.
The monkey is tame.
It was bought for the lady’s pleasure, but not for its own.
God forbid—do you understand?
It always has to remember its place—the place of the replacer, the guard, until the master returns (and perhaps there isn’t any master at all).
No matter.
We allowed ourselves the freedom to mumble.
To me, it means: the master bought it for her at one of the fairs he passed through in his journeys.
The master is always on a journey, the master’s journey.
The monkey is tame.
It was bought for the lady’s pleasure, but not for its own.
God forbid—do you understand?
It always has to remember its place—the place of the replacer, the guard, until the master returns (and perhaps there isn’t any master at all).
Y.
And I know you can read my mind at this moment—how you said it was strange to you that I can remember every motion, moan, and beauty mark of the women who were with me—but couldn’t find myself in those memories.
June 22
When I’m with people (this came to mind tonight while I was bathing my son)—it doesn’t matter if they are strangers or those closest to
me—I am always accompanied by one thought: I am impotent to do the one thing all of them do so naturally—putting down roots.
me—I am always accompanied by one thought: I am impotent to do the one thing all of them do so naturally—putting down roots.
Question: Tell me, idiot, why the hell are you sending these bits of trash?
All your trifling thoughts and dime-store philosophies?
Why do you have not one crumb of nobility or taste to tame your words, to guide you so that you don’t say
everything?
!
All your trifling thoughts and dime-store philosophies?
Why do you have not one crumb of nobility or taste to tame your words, to guide you so that you don’t say
everything?
!
Answer: It is the donkey foal in me, and it is the special impulse I have with her, more than with anybody else I ever knew, to say everything, even these dime-store philosophies of mine.
It’s not even to tell her, sometimes it’s to have this flicker fly to her, like an unconscious relative whom you bring to the emergency room and just throw into the doctor’s hands you pray will be able to mend him.
Tell her about the Möbius strip.
It’s not even to tell her, sometimes it’s to have this flicker fly to her, like an unconscious relative whom you bring to the emergency room and just throw into the doctor’s hands you pray will be able to mend him.
Tell her about the Möbius strip.
Question: Are you crazy?
So soon?
So soon?
Answer: What do you mean “so soon”?
There’s no such thing as too early or too late, we’re on spherical time, remember?
She said she was actually born for this kind of time …
There’s no such thing as too early or too late, we’re on spherical time, remember?
She said she was actually born for this kind of time …
Come, lend me a hand, I will now tell you that one of the things I sometimes do is to think of him as
old.
I am talking about my son, about—let’s call him Ido.
About my Ido.
old.
I am talking about my son, about—let’s call him Ido.
About my Ido.
Maybe it’s to inoculate myself (against what—too much love for him?).
I picture him old again and again.
And it helps.
It puts out every passion born of love and panic for him instantly.
I picture him old again and again.
And it helps.
It puts out every passion born of love and panic for him instantly.
Notice: old.
Not dead.
I have my expertise in that one as well, of course.
But dead is probably too simple and unequivocal for the torture I need.
My son—old, stooped over, staring absently at the television in some institution for the likes of him, strings of spittle drooling from his mouth.
Dead, because the spark lighting his eyes has already been turned off.
It’s not simple to concentrate on such an image; try it, it requires the operation of extremely strong soul-muscles, the muscles along the spine of the soul, because the soul arches in terrible resistance against it and great strength is needed to force its surrender … Where were we?
Not dead.
I have my expertise in that one as well, of course.
But dead is probably too simple and unequivocal for the torture I need.
My son—old, stooped over, staring absently at the television in some institution for the likes of him, strings of spittle drooling from his mouth.
Dead, because the spark lighting his eyes has already been turned off.
It’s not simple to concentrate on such an image; try it, it requires the operation of extremely strong soul-muscles, the muscles along the spine of the soul, because the soul arches in terrible resistance against it and great strength is needed to force its surrender … Where were we?
With my son, with the post-factum infant, my old son, a little man, all crabbed up with brown spots on his hands, infected with one of those diseases of his age, trying to remember something that slipped away—me, perhaps?
Perhaps the twists of his memory suddenly rouse thoughts of
me?
The two of us together in a good moment?
When, this morning, a speck of dust got in his eye and I licked it out with my tongue?
When I covered all the angles of the shelves in our house with foam rubber the day his head started to reach them?
Or just when I loved him, terribly, in my own limited way?
Perhaps the twists of his memory suddenly rouse thoughts of
me?
The two of us together in a good moment?
When, this morning, a speck of dust got in his eye and I licked it out with my tongue?
When I covered all the angles of the shelves in our house with foam rubber the day his head started to reach them?
Or just when I loved him, terribly, in my own limited way?
And perhaps he will get confused for a moment and think that he is my father?
I hope so.
I long for, wish, that somewhere in the infinite cosmos, where destinies are being stirred with people and every person touches the possibility of being any other person for a moment, there will be such a moment in which he will be my father (relieving the everlasting burden of the mysterious coincidence dictating that I must be his father, and not the other way around).
I especially want everything to be over, ended, to be tucked into his bosom and to cuddle and mingle our flesh, ashes to ashes.
I pray for it to be so, to be, in that same time, just another person like him, for him, who tried—a person who was in the world but, for one moment, burst and twitched in the space of life—
I long for, wish, that somewhere in the infinite cosmos, where destinies are being stirred with people and every person touches the possibility of being any other person for a moment, there will be such a moment in which he will be my father (relieving the everlasting burden of the mysterious coincidence dictating that I must be his father, and not the other way around).
I especially want everything to be over, ended, to be tucked into his bosom and to cuddle and mingle our flesh, ashes to ashes.
I pray for it to be so, to be, in that same time, just another person like him, for him, who tried—a person who was in the world but, for one moment, burst and twitched in the space of life—
I think: Maybe then, in the arbitration or the indifference of his old age, and also in the wisdom that he will gain, probably through the years of his fatherhood with the children he will have—would he wish to choose me again?
What do you think, would he choose me?
What do you think, would he choose me?
Speak to me.
Sometimes it’s so hard to wait two or three days for a reply, because it hurts
now
.
now
.
After I fantasized about my little honeysuckle Ya’ara, you said that you’re certain that I am also a very giving father to Ido, that I give more perhaps than many parents can give a child, and that I am probably not just “sucking him dry.”
Thank you for trying to release me from that torment.
I’m just terrified to tell you how much I do suck him dry, I am Yair-Sucking, I leave him a husk, even if I don’t intend it, by the very fact of my presence.
But someday, in the year 2065, he will smile at me, with bald gums and glazed-over eyes, and tell me that it’s all right, he too understands now the instability of the verdicts imposed in our penal colony—that one time you are Franz Kafka—and another time you’re his father, Hermann …
Thank you for trying to release me from that torment.
I’m just terrified to tell you how much I do suck him dry, I am Yair-Sucking, I leave him a husk, even if I don’t intend it, by the very fact of my presence.
But someday, in the year 2065, he will smile at me, with bald gums and glazed-over eyes, and tell me that it’s all right, he too understands now the instability of the verdicts imposed in our penal colony—that one time you are Franz Kafka—and another time you’re his father, Hermann …
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