Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (16 page)
Or maybe Anna will appear, by chance, passing by in one of her dazzling straw hats, and we will invite her to sit with us.
She’ll sit down, her legs will barely reach the ground, and she’ll appraise us with that sassy look, shifting her eyes from you to me, and will understand everything.
Not one word will be said, but everything that ought to be known will be, and I will feel as if I’ve been accepted into some small, selective club.
Perhaps I won’t even be afraid that we have a partner in our secret, because—as you keep telling me—you can trust Anna.
(But don’t tell her yet.)
She’ll sit down, her legs will barely reach the ground, and she’ll appraise us with that sassy look, shifting her eyes from you to me, and will understand everything.
Not one word will be said, but everything that ought to be known will be, and I will feel as if I’ve been accepted into some small, selective club.
Perhaps I won’t even be afraid that we have a partner in our secret, because—as you keep telling me—you can trust Anna.
(But don’t tell her yet.)
I envy you for having such a friend, a soul mate.
Me?
Do I?
The same kind of friend as Anna is to you?
I wish.
There are all sorts of substitutes, from the army, work; if you combine all of them, they might amount to something near it.
Do I?
The same kind of friend as Anna is to you?
I wish.
There are all sorts of substitutes, from the army, work; if you combine all of them, they might amount to something near it.
There used to be one.
It’s over.
It’s a shame.
It’s over.
It’s a shame.
(What a sun, Miriam, what a wonderful sun, I’m closing my eyes in front of it, trying to see you.)
July 19
A letter still has not arrived.
I went to the box again, on my way home, and there wasn’t any.
I don’t know what’s with me today, I’ve been running restlessly since morning, as if some part of me, an internal organ, is wandering alone in the world and I have no clue what’s going on with it.
I went to the box again, on my way home, and there wasn’t any.
I don’t know what’s with me today, I’ve been running restlessly since morning, as if some part of me, an internal organ, is wandering alone in the world and I have no clue what’s going on with it.
It’s the middle of the night and I am completely awake.
I’ve been enjoying a little sleep disorder for a few weeks now.
Maya bought me sleeping pills, and I throw them down the toilet and tell her nothing helps.
Want to sleep.
Want not to sleep.
As you said, the nights are our time together.
I’ve been enjoying a little sleep disorder for a few weeks now.
Maya bought me sleeping pills, and I throw them down the toilet and tell her nothing helps.
Want to sleep.
Want not to sleep.
As you said, the nights are our time together.
(And I’m being asked why I am so awake at night, and what I am writing all the time.
My explanation isn’t so very far from the truth—I’m telling her that, for the first time, I’m trying to write a story.)
My explanation isn’t so very far from the truth—I’m telling her that, for the first time, I’m trying to write a story.)
The day before yesterday, in the coffeehouse in Tel Aviv, just in that moment of glamour and sunshine, a kind of dark, elemental thought that has been wandering through me for a while now suddenly rephrased itself—that I am some kind of “black twin.”
I mean (do you understand?
Should I elaborate?)—one who killed his twin in the womb.
I know you’re not laughing at this thought—it has always been with me, ever since my very early childhood, like a shadow—that I am a little cracked in my being, I was damaged and wounded beyond repair because I strangled my twin in the womb.
Who was he?
I don’t know.
Why must I have killed him?
I don’t know.
The thought itself always remains fetal for me.
He was only a very tiny, shiny little body; I see him surrounded with a yellow or golden glow, some kind of little enwombed body, yet divine and glowing.
I mean, a quiet, continuous, uninterrupted, beaming light emanated from him.
And I killed him.
I mean (do you understand?
Should I elaborate?)—one who killed his twin in the womb.
I know you’re not laughing at this thought—it has always been with me, ever since my very early childhood, like a shadow—that I am a little cracked in my being, I was damaged and wounded beyond repair because I strangled my twin in the womb.
Who was he?
I don’t know.
Why must I have killed him?
I don’t know.
The thought itself always remains fetal for me.
He was only a very tiny, shiny little body; I see him surrounded with a yellow or golden glow, some kind of little enwombed body, yet divine and glowing.
I mean, a quiet, continuous, uninterrupted, beaming light emanated from him.
And I killed him.
It depresses me, now that I wrote it down here.
Sometimes I’m sorry that you and I didn’t meet in some other way, a simpler way; we could have started with some magnetic flirtation and then, only afterward, slowly begun to discover all the rest.
Imagine that.
Imagine that.
I wish we could be together in a simple place now, I don’t care where—in an everyday place, a healthy place where people just meet.
In the street.
In an office.
In a public park, wherever you like, wherever your breath is full: just to be, without uttering a single word, even if it is just a vegetable market, as you once mocked me by saying.
In the street.
In an office.
In a public park, wherever you like, wherever your breath is full: just to be, without uttering a single word, even if it is just a vegetable market, as you once mocked me by saying.
Do you know what I do sometimes?
I press down on my eyeballs with my fists and watch the sparkles.
You once told me that this is how you comforted yourself when you were a child, in your Josephan pit.
You produced light from yourself.
I don’t feel abandoned right now, not at all, but I do feel as if I’m missing a part.
I press down on my eyeballs with my fists and watch the sparkles.
You once told me that this is how you comforted yourself when you were a child, in your Josephan pit.
You produced light from yourself.
I don’t feel abandoned right now, not at all, but I do feel as if I’m missing a part.
Here’s the store, you see?
A little vegetable market, like there used to be in the old days, cardboard and wooden boxes, old scales and black iron weights.
A little vegetable market, like there used to be in the old days, cardboard and wooden boxes, old scales and black iron weights.
And there you are, how good of you to be here.
Standing with your back to me.
Your head is bent a little over something, and I see your fair neck, with its long, delicate gradation of bones.
You’re standing by the sweet potatoes.
As simple as can be.
You’re holding something in your hands.
What is it?
A very large potato, with a little dirt stuck to it.
And you’re staring at it as if you were hypnotized.
What happens next?
I haven’t a clue.
Whatever will be written back to me.
Standing with your back to me.
Your head is bent a little over something, and I see your fair neck, with its long, delicate gradation of bones.
You’re standing by the sweet potatoes.
As simple as can be.
You’re holding something in your hands.
What is it?
A very large potato, with a little dirt stuck to it.
And you’re staring at it as if you were hypnotized.
What happens next?
I haven’t a clue.
Whatever will be written back to me.
I’m passing by you, behind you, once, again, approaching and retreating, approaching again, attracted to you.
I can’t understand why you are so enthralled by a potato.
I can’t understand why you are so enthralled by a potato.
You’re standing in the middle of the little store, you don’t see the other customers, you don’t hear the buses rumbling in the street, farting black smoke.
All alone, focused so deeply on yourself.
What is going on there, inside you?
What do you have there, inside you?
Take me with you, please—hide me in there as well.
And I, left on the outside, jealous of the yams.
I rudely peek into your hands and can see that it looks a little bit like a human face, the apple of the earth.
All alone, focused so deeply on yourself.
What is going on there, inside you?
What do you have there, inside you?
Take me with you, please—hide me in there as well.
And I, left on the outside, jealous of the yams.
I rudely peek into your hands and can see that it looks a little bit like a human face, the apple of the earth.
And now what?
I don’t have a clue, I’m just floating toward you.
I don’t have a clue, I’m just floating toward you.
You notice I’m looking at you and smile with embarrassment; your painful smile, which I can feel even through your words.
Always.
As if every time, again, it needs to tear its way through your nerves.
Always.
As if every time, again, it needs to tear its way through your nerves.
Smiling, and shrugging your shoulders in an apology, with the expression of someone caught doing something inappropriate, forgetting that it is everything around you that is inappropriate.
With a wave of your hand, you motion to the others in the box, as if suggesting that I should choose one, too.
I bow, and find myself in front of a pile of strange, ugly, twisted faces that at once, with no explanation, break my heart.
With a wave of your hand, you motion to the others in the box, as if suggesting that I should choose one, too.
I bow, and find myself in front of a pile of strange, ugly, twisted faces that at once, with no explanation, break my heart.
Suddenly filth starts peeling off me, thick scabs of it falling off my body.
How much of an animal I had become, Miriam, how rough, how filthy.
How I was polluted.
How much of an animal I had become, Miriam, how rough, how filthy.
How I was polluted.
We’re both silent.
At this point, not a single word has passed between us.
People are crowding all around us—we’re blocking the aisle and they grumble.
Never mind, we have a right to it, you said it at the beginning of all this—actually, it happened when you decided that this thing between you and me has a right to exist.
I was so moved by that, when you gave yourself permission to be completely free with your feelings toward me.
At this point, not a single word has passed between us.
People are crowding all around us—we’re blocking the aisle and they grumble.
Never mind, we have a right to it, you said it at the beginning of all this—actually, it happened when you decided that this thing between you and me has a right to exist.
I was so moved by that, when you gave yourself permission to be completely free with your feelings toward me.
You look at me, surprised that I’m not hurrying to pick up a potato from the pile.
I stand and look at you a little.
And then, as if you suddenly recognized something in my gaze, something I myself don’t see, truly don’t see it—you reach out both of your hands and deliver the potato unto mine.
I touch it lightly, not more than that, it’s still warm from your touch, it’s as warm as if it were human, and I make myself look straight into its mongoloid angel’s face, with its two wide, blemished cheeks, its eyes deep and black.
Deep in a blind dream.
It’s a burden.
I stand and look at you a little.
And then, as if you suddenly recognized something in my gaze, something I myself don’t see, truly don’t see it—you reach out both of your hands and deliver the potato unto mine.
I touch it lightly, not more than that, it’s still warm from your touch, it’s as warm as if it were human, and I make myself look straight into its mongoloid angel’s face, with its two wide, blemished cheeks, its eyes deep and black.
Deep in a blind dream.
It’s a burden.
Why did you choose it?
Why are you delivering it to me?
I want to wake up, but not to lose you.
And if I wake, I won’t be with you in this way any longer.
I look straight into your hands.
I see.
Why are you delivering it to me?
I want to wake up, but not to lose you.
And if I wake, I won’t be with you in this way any longer.
I look straight into your hands.
I see.
Strange, Miriam, but this is what has written itself, from me to you.
I’m not certain where it came from and why I am suddenly so depressed.
As if I had just received some bad news.
It’s completely senseless.
I’m thinking about how much I wanted to make you laugh.
And look what happens to me, I eventually create—this.
I’m not certain where it came from and why I am suddenly so depressed.
As if I had just received some bad news.
It’s completely senseless.
I’m thinking about how much I wanted to make you laugh.
And look what happens to me, I eventually create—this.
I’m not sure I like it, this Law of Communicating Vessels which keeps all our waters level with one another.
Shall we begin to correspond?
July 24
My darling,
Just to let you know that I’m sitting behind your pages in complete silence, listening to you, and there is no way you are too heavy for me.
Nor are you a burden.
And certainly not too heavy to contain.
Nor are you a burden.
And certainly not too heavy to contain.
Because I’m already inside you, Miriam—I’m finally inside your story.
You, from the first moment, were more right than I was—the facts and details of your every day are your life, not “a mob.”
I can’t stop thinking about what you said, that you have spent your entire life trying to turn what I call the “sweating mob” into something that is more.
Because if you give up this struggle for even one hour, you yourself will immediately be transformed into a mob.
Because if you give up this struggle for even one hour, you yourself will immediately be transformed into a mob.
How do you do it?
I have the strong feeling that you are awake right now as well.
Perhaps your dogs are jostling each other around you, nervous, asking each other, Why is she awake at such an hour?
A decent woman should be asleep at such an hour.
Not running back and forth between the balcony and the kitchen in the middle of the night.
Did you really sniff their fur for traces of my scent?
I told you, my soul almost left my body forever out of fear of them.
Perhaps your dogs are jostling each other around you, nervous, asking each other, Why is she awake at such an hour?
A decent woman should be asleep at such an hour.
Not running back and forth between the balcony and the kitchen in the middle of the night.
Did you really sniff their fur for traces of my scent?
I told you, my soul almost left my body forever out of fear of them.
Don’t notice me.
Mumbling, napping on your shoulder, half dreaming.
After these insane days I have the right to a little sleepy chat.
Mumbling, napping on your shoulder, half dreaming.
After these insane days I have the right to a little sleepy chat.
I close my eyes and see a woman sitting by a table, writing.
Night, and the fluorescent light in her kitchen buzzes above her.
She turns it off and turns on a little lamp.
Her face dips into the light as she leans forward, I can see only her strong jawline, her living, fragile mouth, her yearning mouth; and of course her messy hair, which she constantly tries to tame with rubber bands and combs and pins that always fall out.
An open letter is lying on the table.
She glances at it every once in a while, and goes back to writing, quickly, agitatedly; the excitement licks her like tongues of fire rising around her—and for a moment, it probably frightened her, because she tries to make a joke and save herself—Tell me, where have
you seen any woman with the time to stand in a vegetable market these days concentrating profoundly on a potato?!
But her lips are starting to tremble.
She writes something—and erases it with all her strength, she has never erased anything so violently in all her other letters, and she stands up, and sits back down, announces that she has to go outside now and take a little walk.
She stays.
She tries to recruit a few more of the troops of her artificial anger, so she can distance herself from the page; she actually incites herself into a fiery rage—and you should know, it is very important that you know that a woman in a vegetable market, at least
this
woman, is always one big ball of anger when she goes shopping!
Night, and the fluorescent light in her kitchen buzzes above her.
She turns it off and turns on a little lamp.
Her face dips into the light as she leans forward, I can see only her strong jawline, her living, fragile mouth, her yearning mouth; and of course her messy hair, which she constantly tries to tame with rubber bands and combs and pins that always fall out.
An open letter is lying on the table.
She glances at it every once in a while, and goes back to writing, quickly, agitatedly; the excitement licks her like tongues of fire rising around her—and for a moment, it probably frightened her, because she tries to make a joke and save herself—Tell me, where have
you seen any woman with the time to stand in a vegetable market these days concentrating profoundly on a potato?!
But her lips are starting to tremble.
She writes something—and erases it with all her strength, she has never erased anything so violently in all her other letters, and she stands up, and sits back down, announces that she has to go outside now and take a little walk.
She stays.
She tries to recruit a few more of the troops of her artificial anger, so she can distance herself from the page; she actually incites herself into a fiery rage—and you should know, it is very important that you know that a woman in a vegetable market, at least
this
woman, is always one big ball of anger when she goes shopping!
And while writing those words, she bursts into tears that wet the page, and she writes me her story, fifteen pages, almost without lifting her pen once, and only by the end can she breathe again, even laugh a little, circle one tearstain—“Look, like a nineteenth-century romance novel.”
Hey, Miriam.
Remember how—right at the beginning of this—when you were experiencing a moment of complete exhaustion from me, you asked, Are you always like this?
A flaming, revolving sword?
Even in your everyday life?
With everyone?
And you were asking me how I could live like that within a family, and if Maya has a similar rhythm, or perhaps I need somebody who is completely the opposite of me to calm me down.
A flaming, revolving sword?
Even in your everyday life?
With everyone?
And you were asking me how I could live like that within a family, and if Maya has a similar rhythm, or perhaps I need somebody who is completely the opposite of me to calm me down.
This is exactly what I would ask you now: Are you always like this?
How do all these attacks find room in your tiny house?
And how were you able to hold all this back until now?
I’m thinking about the woman I saw that evening in the schoolyard, and about the one who has been shaking me up for four months now, and I can only laugh at myself and at my own stupidity.
How do all these attacks find room in your tiny house?
And how were you able to hold all this back until now?
I’m thinking about the woman I saw that evening in the schoolyard, and about the one who has been shaking me up for four months now, and I can only laugh at myself and at my own stupidity.
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