Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (14 page)
She is the one who is so very offended right now, because again (as it was then, maybe?), the “boy” shows that he’s interested in her only as a “friend,” to talk with and to consult with, or to whisper in her ears his love and passion—none of which is for her!
For someone else—for the shameless, lemony beauty of the summer?
For the evil queen?
For someone else—for the shameless, lemony beauty of the summer?
For the evil queen?
What do you know, Miriam, perhaps the present boy, twenty-something years later, began to suspect a kind of hollow sound in that proud statement of yours, that you do not, do not get scared by true passion in your feelings and relationships.
That, on the contrary, on the contrary, this passion is the flesh of your heart, the heart of your life …
That, on the contrary, on the contrary, this passion is the flesh of your heart, the heart of your life …
Whom are you cheating?
July 11-12
This might be my last letter.
Read it carefully: it’s half past three, the middle of the night, and I am in my car, and everything has already happened—don’t ask me what I did.
If this doesn’t help melt your hard heart, I’ll simply throw my hands up in the air and renounce you.
And myself as well.
I know, it’s a shame.
SHAME!!!
Read it carefully: it’s half past three, the middle of the night, and I am in my car, and everything has already happened—don’t ask me what I did.
If this doesn’t help melt your hard heart, I’ll simply throw my hands up in the air and renounce you.
And myself as well.
I know, it’s a shame.
SHAME!!!
Could you hear that?
You have no idea how close I am to you now.
I mean, close.
Outside your house.
I’ve spent this entire night no more than twenty meters from you, approaching and retreating, and I was like the tiger who prowled around you in wide circles in your dream, but I am a tiger losing his mind from the despair of
not
devouring you in the one way he is used to.
You have no idea how close I am to you now.
I mean, close.
Outside your house.
I’ve spent this entire night no more than twenty meters from you, approaching and retreating, and I was like the tiger who prowled around you in wide circles in your dream, but I am a tiger losing his mind from the despair of
not
devouring you in the one way he is used to.
Miriam—I ran around you tonight.
That’s it.
Seven times around your house, on that little road surrounding your group of houses.
Seven times around your house, on that little road surrounding your group of houses.
Your success in releasing me from my own mind in this way (you will soon hear how).
Cigarette.
My head is like a hive.
The car stinks.
Smoke sticks in arabesques to the windshield.
Just thinking that I am so close to your
kitchen, from which you write to me, so close to the fluorescent light that trembles a little, the wooden owl on which you write all your “to-dos” and immediately forget.
Even to your gecko, Bruria, who comes down to do her work exactly at midnight.
My head is like a hive.
The car stinks.
Smoke sticks in arabesques to the windshield.
Just thinking that I am so close to your
kitchen, from which you write to me, so close to the fluorescent light that trembles a little, the wooden owl on which you write all your “to-dos” and immediately forget.
Even to your gecko, Bruria, who comes down to do her work exactly at midnight.
I am here.
The whole world is sleeping—shh, rapists snuggling, murderers cuddling in their beds, and only me in the whole night, around you.
.I’m scared to tell you what else I did.
Just tell me, are you starting to feel something?
Are you turning and tossing in your sleep, incapable of understanding what is flowing up within you?
It’s me—my madness is starting to affect you, foaming in waves around you; I practiced a pure religious ritual around you tonight, I circled Jericho seven times tonight, how did you not hear me gasping for breath?
I hadn’t run like that in years, not since military training; my flaccid muscles, my body, which understood long ago that great pleasures wouldn’t come to it from our association.
But I wanted it to suffer—hear me, I ran around you, I saw your house from all four sides, including the rusty gate and the bicycle that is leaning on the big tree in the yard and the bougainvillea shade.
Your house is very small, it looks like a cabin covered in stone, a little run-down.
The garden is almost bare, Miriam, there is one window broken in the back.
Everything is very different from how you described it, and suddenly I think—what was it you said about your little family most likely not expanding?
The whole world is sleeping—shh, rapists snuggling, murderers cuddling in their beds, and only me in the whole night, around you.
.I’m scared to tell you what else I did.
Just tell me, are you starting to feel something?
Are you turning and tossing in your sleep, incapable of understanding what is flowing up within you?
It’s me—my madness is starting to affect you, foaming in waves around you; I practiced a pure religious ritual around you tonight, I circled Jericho seven times tonight, how did you not hear me gasping for breath?
I hadn’t run like that in years, not since military training; my flaccid muscles, my body, which understood long ago that great pleasures wouldn’t come to it from our association.
But I wanted it to suffer—hear me, I ran around you, I saw your house from all four sides, including the rusty gate and the bicycle that is leaning on the big tree in the yard and the bougainvillea shade.
Your house is very small, it looks like a cabin covered in stone, a little run-down.
The garden is almost bare, Miriam, there is one window broken in the back.
Everything is very different from how you described it, and suddenly I think—what was it you said about your little family most likely not expanding?
And at one point a light turned on in your house, and my soul almost left my body in fear and hope that it was you, how I prayed it was you standing in the window, looking out into the darkness—Who is running like this—my God, I can’t believe it, I must be dreaming—and you would suddenly understand, in one look, you would see everything I am, Don Juan, a stranger, a man walking a tightrope, and that confused soul writing to you; you would look into me and say, Come, Froggy, come, all of you.
Luckily for me, you didn’t come out.
You would have fainted if you had seen me this way, in my special condition.
You would have thought it was just a pervert, a normal poor old pervert, surrenderingly paying his taxes to the bureaucratic gears of his glands.
You would call the police, or even worse, your husband, who would beat the hell out of me, a man like that could eat three of me for breakfast.
You would have fainted if you had seen me this way, in my special condition.
You would have thought it was just a pervert, a normal poor old pervert, surrenderingly paying his taxes to the bureaucratic gears of his glands.
You would call the police, or even worse, your husband, who would beat the hell out of me, a man like that could eat three of me for breakfast.
You probably can’t read my handwriting, it is even more disturbed than usual.
By the way, I’ve asked my mother and you were right, they really
did force me to write with my right hand instead of the left.
How did you know?
How do you know me better than I know myself?
Look at me.
Sitting in the car and shivering, and knowing that I have never done anything so complete for anyone.
I don’t know what else to do, to make you believe that what I offered you I have never offered anyone else, no one.
And I knew, from the first moment, that I didn’t want a little story on the side with you, I wanted a story.
Perhaps you know what it is in scientific literature—the name for such a clear, burning will, the strange perversion, this need a person has to tell his story to one particular person and no one else.
This is so strong in me, toward you.
A section of my brain came back to life because of you—at the back, on the left side, behind my ear—it stretches and opens when I think: Miriam.
And it is the same location of the reveries and dreams I had as a child.
I spent most of my childhood there, underneath the ice.
It has been years since I’ve been able to go there—I had even forgotten the way.
What did you call it?
The “memory-shredders.”
Exactly.
But I could remember just one thing—no stranger was ever allowed inside there, under no circumstances could anyone know I had such a section in my brain—don’t forget, I am a person born to parents—who, until the age of eighteen, lived in a family, family as principle and family as death camp—
By the way, I’ve asked my mother and you were right, they really
did force me to write with my right hand instead of the left.
How did you know?
How do you know me better than I know myself?
Look at me.
Sitting in the car and shivering, and knowing that I have never done anything so complete for anyone.
I don’t know what else to do, to make you believe that what I offered you I have never offered anyone else, no one.
And I knew, from the first moment, that I didn’t want a little story on the side with you, I wanted a story.
Perhaps you know what it is in scientific literature—the name for such a clear, burning will, the strange perversion, this need a person has to tell his story to one particular person and no one else.
This is so strong in me, toward you.
A section of my brain came back to life because of you—at the back, on the left side, behind my ear—it stretches and opens when I think: Miriam.
And it is the same location of the reveries and dreams I had as a child.
I spent most of my childhood there, underneath the ice.
It has been years since I’ve been able to go there—I had even forgotten the way.
What did you call it?
The “memory-shredders.”
Exactly.
But I could remember just one thing—no stranger was ever allowed inside there, under no circumstances could anyone know I had such a section in my brain—don’t forget, I am a person born to parents—who, until the age of eighteen, lived in a family, family as principle and family as death camp—
I’m scattered, this isn’t what I wanted.
I am cold.
Even though it is July—cold.
When I ran, my whole skin crystallized with frost from the cold.
And it was, by the way, completely different from the dance in the Mt.
Carmel forest.
There, everything was light and heat—and here, I was diving into a deep darkness, my skin couldn’t hold everything raging inside me.
Tonight, I felt myself crossing my borders.
I know what’s going through your mind right now: the watershed of darkness.
True.
A language already is being born, it’s good, but look how my emotions toward you make me fall apart, and that is exactly the opposite of what I have with Maya, so why should I have it at all?
Even though it is July—cold.
When I ran, my whole skin crystallized with frost from the cold.
And it was, by the way, completely different from the dance in the Mt.
Carmel forest.
There, everything was light and heat—and here, I was diving into a deep darkness, my skin couldn’t hold everything raging inside me.
Tonight, I felt myself crossing my borders.
I know what’s going through your mind right now: the watershed of darkness.
True.
A language already is being born, it’s good, but look how my emotions toward you make me fall apart, and that is exactly the opposite of what I have with Maya, so why should I have it at all?
Especially in the last three laps, when I suddenly understood what I needed to do and why I really came here tonight.
Don’t think I didn’t have a moment of hesitation—but it lasted no more than a moment, and I said, To hell with it, what are you worth if you won’t do this for her?
You’ve decided to give everything that was created in you because of her
to her, and I tried to argue with it, save myself—What if someone passes by and sees me like this, and calls the police, who arrest me?
Then I laughed at myself—I’ve been a prisoner all my life, so why be afraid now?
And so I sat in the car and took my clothes off, one piece after the other, and the shoes and the socks, and then I was already a different person.
It happened to me in the space of a few seconds, such a short border to cross—one moment you’re dressed, and the next: flesh, animal, less than an animal, as if the skin had peeled off you with your clothes, the epidermis, and the entire pile of skin underneath it.
I left the car and felt how, all of a sudden, the entire night was attracted to me, came to me from the far ends of the valley, like to new prey, a new kind of prey you don’t even have to skin.
It practically surrounded me, the night, clinging to me with violence, to every part of my body—I have never felt anything like this in my life, this abnormal fear, mixed with pleasure, and a little embarrassment, because it invaded each and every hole, this bastard night.
It bit and chewed up pieces of me and went away with them, into the dark.
And suddenly three dogs appeared, huge, as if from some Scottish folk song.
I thought I was having a stroke.
The kind of dogs used to lead the blind, I think; they stood and barked at me, angry, scolding barks.
They shamed me, can you imagine it, I was ashamed in front of them, not as a person—as an animal; I was ashamed in front of them, like an inferior dog.
Can you understand that?
Could you tell anyone this?
That when I started running, they were suddenly silent; even worse, they began to retreat, move away from me whimpering quietly, and disappeared into the darkness, and I was left completely alone.
Only me, with myself.
And it wasn’t very pleasant company.
I was probably the most alone I have ever been.
Do you know what I did then?
I smelled my armpit, and found the smell of writing you, and I thought I was probably making the right mistake for myself for once.
And I started running.
Don’t think I didn’t have a moment of hesitation—but it lasted no more than a moment, and I said, To hell with it, what are you worth if you won’t do this for her?
You’ve decided to give everything that was created in you because of her
to her, and I tried to argue with it, save myself—What if someone passes by and sees me like this, and calls the police, who arrest me?
Then I laughed at myself—I’ve been a prisoner all my life, so why be afraid now?
And so I sat in the car and took my clothes off, one piece after the other, and the shoes and the socks, and then I was already a different person.
It happened to me in the space of a few seconds, such a short border to cross—one moment you’re dressed, and the next: flesh, animal, less than an animal, as if the skin had peeled off you with your clothes, the epidermis, and the entire pile of skin underneath it.
I left the car and felt how, all of a sudden, the entire night was attracted to me, came to me from the far ends of the valley, like to new prey, a new kind of prey you don’t even have to skin.
It practically surrounded me, the night, clinging to me with violence, to every part of my body—I have never felt anything like this in my life, this abnormal fear, mixed with pleasure, and a little embarrassment, because it invaded each and every hole, this bastard night.
It bit and chewed up pieces of me and went away with them, into the dark.
And suddenly three dogs appeared, huge, as if from some Scottish folk song.
I thought I was having a stroke.
The kind of dogs used to lead the blind, I think; they stood and barked at me, angry, scolding barks.
They shamed me, can you imagine it, I was ashamed in front of them, not as a person—as an animal; I was ashamed in front of them, like an inferior dog.
Can you understand that?
Could you tell anyone this?
That when I started running, they were suddenly silent; even worse, they began to retreat, move away from me whimpering quietly, and disappeared into the darkness, and I was left completely alone.
Only me, with myself.
And it wasn’t very pleasant company.
I was probably the most alone I have ever been.
Do you know what I did then?
I smelled my armpit, and found the smell of writing you, and I thought I was probably making the right mistake for myself for once.
And I started running.
Here, I’m telling you everything: I was running slowly, so that anybody who wished to catch me could, because I got excited—somehow, nobody can catch me anymore!
Even if somebody caught my body, I would remain free.
I made three complete circles around you this way, and I discovered that when you run naked, the coldest places of all are behind your ears, around your neck, at your waist, and behind your knees.
And the whole time I was running, I was thinking in my heart, Here I am before you, Miriam, here I am before you.
Perhaps you heard something in your dreams—it was my nudity shouting, it was my body,
screaming with panic at what I was doing to it.
If you had come outside, you would have seen how I led myself, how my soul, suddenly freed, was, for the first time, walking my body.
Leading it in front of your window, showing you how pathetic and unnecessary and meaningless it is in the story we are.
And how wholesale it is, my body, the cheapest part of me, the thing I don’t want to pollute you with.
Even if somebody caught my body, I would remain free.
I made three complete circles around you this way, and I discovered that when you run naked, the coldest places of all are behind your ears, around your neck, at your waist, and behind your knees.
And the whole time I was running, I was thinking in my heart, Here I am before you, Miriam, here I am before you.
Perhaps you heard something in your dreams—it was my nudity shouting, it was my body,
screaming with panic at what I was doing to it.
If you had come outside, you would have seen how I led myself, how my soul, suddenly freed, was, for the first time, walking my body.
Leading it in front of your window, showing you how pathetic and unnecessary and meaningless it is in the story we are.
And how wholesale it is, my body, the cheapest part of me, the thing I don’t want to pollute you with.
Already, in the first few naked steps, I felt it happen—I am finally freed, suddenly I am just my soul, flying free and thin and glowing—it returned, and I saw my body running after me, graceless and foolish and alien, running, stumbling after me, choking with anger, trying to jump forward and catch me every once in a while, reel me back in, but I am elusive, wily—even my own body cannot catch me, and with every step it became clearer who I am, and what it is: just a slave.
Then it was a monkey, and then a clump of earth, no more than that, which rose up on two legs and growled, and I condemned it in front of your window, and presented it as a sacrifice in exchange for the lies and the pollution with which I sometimes infect you, the opaque wave rising every time—there is a bag full of bitter liquid deep down in my throat expressly for that purpose.
And it splits open when you’re good to me.
I don’t know why it is this way.
I hope I never write any more letters like that one.
I can’t promise you that yet—as I was writing it, I knew it was not a good letter, that it would cut you where you are the most sensitive.
You were right not to open it.
It is a good thing you have such a sixth sense about me.
But you should know that I wrote it in this way also on purpose, to hurt you, scratch you, splash around in it in front of your eyes, and to
prove
to you—that’s it, Miriam, that’s the bitter, shitty seed—to
prove
to you, for instance, that I am still free of you, yes, that I am still capable of quickly returning to who I was before you, the person who has not yet been diluted by a single drop of you—to take revenge on you a little for my own traitorousness.
Then it was a monkey, and then a clump of earth, no more than that, which rose up on two legs and growled, and I condemned it in front of your window, and presented it as a sacrifice in exchange for the lies and the pollution with which I sometimes infect you, the opaque wave rising every time—there is a bag full of bitter liquid deep down in my throat expressly for that purpose.
And it splits open when you’re good to me.
I don’t know why it is this way.
I hope I never write any more letters like that one.
I can’t promise you that yet—as I was writing it, I knew it was not a good letter, that it would cut you where you are the most sensitive.
You were right not to open it.
It is a good thing you have such a sixth sense about me.
But you should know that I wrote it in this way also on purpose, to hurt you, scratch you, splash around in it in front of your eyes, and to
prove
to you—that’s it, Miriam, that’s the bitter, shitty seed—to
prove
to you, for instance, that I am still free of you, yes, that I am still capable of quickly returning to who I was before you, the person who has not yet been diluted by a single drop of you—to take revenge on you a little for my own traitorousness.
And also, because of this mad reversal, that I continuously feel as if you are somehow more loyal to me than I am.
It’s starting to grow light.
I am already back at home (don’t worry—dressed).
Sitting in my car and writing.
Can’t stop.
I will soon go inside, and prepare a grand breakfast for everyone, with omelets and cornflakes and a salad I will cut from the remains of my conscience.
You have no
idea what kind of story I had to invent so as not to be at home for a whole night.
I am already back at home (don’t worry—dressed).
Sitting in my car and writing.
Can’t stop.
I will soon go inside, and prepare a grand breakfast for everyone, with omelets and cornflakes and a salad I will cut from the remains of my conscience.
You have no
idea what kind of story I had to invent so as not to be at home for a whole night.
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