Be My Knife (17 page)
Authors: David Grossman
I have nothing to add right now.
I only wanted you to know that I understand now, and I am experiencing something I didn’t believe in when you told me about it—the feeling of joy and sorrow together, and exactly from the same place, just as you promised.
You asked me what I see in you now that I know everything.
I would have to write ten letters to describe everything I see … I will probably write them slowly; but now, I mean, at sixteen minutes to two—I only see one who, at the end of a long night of writing, rests her forehead against mine, with a terrible fatigue
that has collected in her, over years, probably—she looks into my eyes and tells me that, with that potato, I touched her with a direct, correct touch, in the place inside her where she is completely mute.
I only wanted you to know that I understand now, and I am experiencing something I didn’t believe in when you told me about it—the feeling of joy and sorrow together, and exactly from the same place, just as you promised.
You asked me what I see in you now that I know everything.
I would have to write ten letters to describe everything I see … I will probably write them slowly; but now, I mean, at sixteen minutes to two—I only see one who, at the end of a long night of writing, rests her forehead against mine, with a terrible fatigue
that has collected in her, over years, probably—she looks into my eyes and tells me that, with that potato, I touched her with a direct, correct touch, in the place inside her where she is completely mute.
I too will be quiet now.
Good night.
Good night.
Yair
July 25
I have been telling myself, constantly, how good it was that I never asked anyone about you!
Because when you asked me at the beginning to hear all the stories about you only from you, that no story about you that I hear should be, or turn into, “gossip,” I pretty much smiled to myself (what kinds of dirty stories can this one have to hide from me?).
Because when you asked me at the beginning to hear all the stories about you only from you, that no story about you that I hear should be, or turn into, “gossip,” I pretty much smiled to myself (what kinds of dirty stories can this one have to hide from me?).
And I still insist on being pleased that I succeeded in persuading you not to meet in the flesh—body to body and ashes to ashes—because I have no doubt that if we had met, we never could have known each other in
this
way.
Because I would have had to seduce you immediately, to know you through my usual ignorant path to knowledge, a merchant bartering for perfumes and spices.
Think what we would have lost, and what we would never have known.
this
way.
Because I would have had to seduce you immediately, to know you through my usual ignorant path to knowledge, a merchant bartering for perfumes and spices.
Think what we would have lost, and what we would never have known.
I’m not talking about the facts.
I would have discovered those facts, the real, the everyday, even if we had a short but intense flirtation.
You would have told me.
You would have had to.
Even as a part of the bureaucracy of adultery, I would have had to know them.
But then I would never have known this sadness I am feeling right now, which I have been living with and holding on to for a couple of days now (mixed with a kind of longing, which I can’t quite understand).
I would have discovered those facts, the real, the everyday, even if we had a short but intense flirtation.
You would have told me.
You would have had to.
Even as a part of the bureaucracy of adultery, I would have had to know them.
But then I would never have known this sadness I am feeling right now, which I have been living with and holding on to for a couple of days now (mixed with a kind of longing, which I can’t quite understand).
It isn’t only sadness.
Everything about you, every emotion you arouse in me, caresses me day and night, fresh and new, and presses itself to me with its entire surface, and with the fullness of its breasts.
Everything about you, every emotion you arouse in me, caresses me day and night, fresh and new, and presses itself to me with its entire surface, and with the fullness of its breasts.
When I told you about the private language I wanted to share with Ido, you responded that you want every piece of earth, every drop of water in the sea or flickering moment of a candle to have a private name of its own.
I liked you so much in that moment.
Maybe because it was the first time I saw how capable you were of drifting into your imagination: why, in the middle of the sentence, you began daydreaming about a world in which all the people in it would spend their days busily naming, naming, naming all the animals, vegetables, and minerals; naming would
become the true essence of humanity.
And you pulled me after you, hand in hand through your garden, from a single stalk of a weed to a single grain of soil, to a water drop and a beetle, as you gave each a funny private name—but I couldn’t understand what you were really saying to me then (How little I understood of you), and only can now, now that I know something about the years during which you prayed that every tree would be called only “Tree” and every flower—“Flower.”
The years in which “to feel” was, for you, the same as “to live above your means.”
I think I’m grasping what you are actually telling me—that perhaps you are finally starting to heal.
I liked you so much in that moment.
Maybe because it was the first time I saw how capable you were of drifting into your imagination: why, in the middle of the sentence, you began daydreaming about a world in which all the people in it would spend their days busily naming, naming, naming all the animals, vegetables, and minerals; naming would
become the true essence of humanity.
And you pulled me after you, hand in hand through your garden, from a single stalk of a weed to a single grain of soil, to a water drop and a beetle, as you gave each a funny private name—but I couldn’t understand what you were really saying to me then (How little I understood of you), and only can now, now that I know something about the years during which you prayed that every tree would be called only “Tree” and every flower—“Flower.”
The years in which “to feel” was, for you, the same as “to live above your means.”
I think I’m grasping what you are actually telling me—that perhaps you are finally starting to heal.
I don’t know what my connection is to all this, and if I have contributed anything to this recovery.
But it moves me to think that I am close to you as it is happening, because I think it has been a long time, a very, very long time, since someone was living through something so good when I was around.
But it moves me to think that I am close to you as it is happening, because I think it has been a long time, a very, very long time, since someone was living through something so good when I was around.
Y.
I forgot the most important thing: in the name of whomever you want to make me swear to (with a festive seriousness that I think only exists in treaties between countries or pacts between children), in the name of your actually buying those dark orange sneakers (!), in the name of Amir Gilboah’s
I Will Send You like a Doe,
which you bought yourself as a gift from me—and especially in the name of your going and ordering new glasses—I swear to guard you as a friend.
I Will Send You like a Doe,
which you bought yourself as a gift from me—and especially in the name of your going and ordering new glasses—I swear to guard you as a friend.
July 26
I thought that in Hebrew—
No, this is too formal.
This morning, in the garage—maybe because you use the word so often—the thought came to my mind that motherhood,
imahut,
sounds like
i-mahut,
nonexistent, as in “i-mmaterial” or “i-rregular.”
I can imagine that there are more than a few mothers who feel that their child empties them of themselves, sucks out their insides.
But between you and Yokhai—
imahut,
sounds like
i-mahut,
nonexistent, as in “i-mmaterial” or “i-rregular.”
I can imagine that there are more than a few mothers who feel that their child empties them of themselves, sucks out their insides.
But between you and Yokhai—
Hey … that was the first time I wrote his name.
His name is spreading through the whole of my mouth and my brain like the first moment
after tasting honey (with an added bitter sting).
I could actually see him.
And you with him.
This wonder child, who is so full of the joy of living that people fall in love with him everywhere he goes—
His name is spreading through the whole of my mouth and my brain like the first moment
after tasting honey (with an added bitter sting).
I could actually see him.
And you with him.
This wonder child, who is so full of the joy of living that people fall in love with him everywhere he goes—
I’m reading what you’re telling me about him, and I can feel
your
motherhood in my body, like a warm spring rising and flooding from me to him, milky, pouring out.
And how you wrap him up, surround him with infinite love.
I swear, I was watching it through a magnifying glass and couldn’t find even a trace of bitterness inside you about what happened to him, nor any anger at him.
your
motherhood in my body, like a warm spring rising and flooding from me to him, milky, pouring out.
And how you wrap him up, surround him with infinite love.
I swear, I was watching it through a magnifying glass and couldn’t find even a trace of bitterness inside you about what happened to him, nor any anger at him.
When we were in the middle of our quickies, you once asked how it is possible for a person to start his life over and over again, just as a reply to another person’s call.
I understood that question, as I reread you the day before yesterday.
Not just “understood”: something deep inside my body moved a little, deep inside, beat in my body to you.
(And then I remembered, of course, what Anna said; how, during her pregnancy, her heart moved to the pulse in her womb.)
I understood that question, as I reread you the day before yesterday.
Not just “understood”: something deep inside my body moved a little, deep inside, beat in my body to you.
(And then I remembered, of course, what Anna said; how, during her pregnancy, her heart moved to the pulse in her womb.)
Waiting for your letter,
Yair
July 30
Yes, that is what I wrote.
I am sorry, I wasn’t thinking (but if I explain myself, it might hurt even more).
I am sorry, I wasn’t thinking (but if I explain myself, it might hurt even more).
First of all, you are right—it really does make you think, doesn’t it, how this combination of words could come out of me—accidentally—as something that doesn’t even demand proof or an explanation—“anger at him,” as if it were some natural law.
Perhaps it is because I can easily imagine parents who would have been angry at their child even under much less extreme circumstances.
Whom else are you going to blame—whom else is there, really, to be angry with?
(No, I can’t even condemn them.)
Whom else are you going to blame—whom else is there, really, to be angry with?
(No, I can’t even condemn them.)
You are writing that the most difficult thing by far is to see such a child, who doesn’t even realize what he is missing out on, who will never have a family of his own.
Who will not love, who cannot express emotions.
But I know, if it were me, in some corner of my heart, there would also be anger at him.
Perhaps not?
Perhaps I too have this noble side that would be revealed only at a time of great testing?
I’m afraid not.
Still, perhaps?
I don’t know.
How can you know?
You yourself said that you
never imagined how hard it could be to stand in front of his isolation.
The hopelessness—and the amount of strength—you found in yourself that you never knew about.
Who will not love, who cannot express emotions.
But I know, if it were me, in some corner of my heart, there would also be anger at him.
Perhaps not?
Perhaps I too have this noble side that would be revealed only at a time of great testing?
I’m afraid not.
Still, perhaps?
I don’t know.
How can you know?
You yourself said that you
never imagined how hard it could be to stand in front of his isolation.
The hopelessness—and the amount of strength—you found in yourself that you never knew about.
I’m hurting you with my words, and probably also shaming myself in your eyes.
Lightning rod … But we do have an agreement, don’t we?
Everything.
What’s the point of this if we don’t?
And maybe, eventually, I will understand—and then, eventually, it will be possible for me to breathe there, in that lung …
Lightning rod … But we do have an agreement, don’t we?
Everything.
What’s the point of this if we don’t?
And maybe, eventually, I will understand—and then, eventually, it will be possible for me to breathe there, in that lung …
I experimented a little with your letter.
I copied it out, changing the names of the bodies from female to male.
Do you understand?
I dressed myself with your story, and I tried to tell you about my son, Yokhai.
I copied it out, changing the names of the bodies from female to male.
Do you understand?
I dressed myself with your story, and I tried to tell you about my son, Yokhai.
After a page and a half, I couldn’t.
Because of his attacks of rage.
His fits.
They broke me, and I couldn’t continue.
When he becomes strange and scary, when suddenly a wild and crazy child takes over his body, a child who can shatter and demolish everything in the house.
I know I could never stand that alienation.
When there is no possible way to reach him, when he becomes a blind force—I could never stand it.
And you also need a lot of physical strength to stop him and hold him when he gets like that, don’t you?
Where are you hiding all those muscles of yours?
Because of his attacks of rage.
His fits.
They broke me, and I couldn’t continue.
When he becomes strange and scary, when suddenly a wild and crazy child takes over his body, a child who can shatter and demolish everything in the house.
I know I could never stand that alienation.
When there is no possible way to reach him, when he becomes a blind force—I could never stand it.
And you also need a lot of physical strength to stop him and hold him when he gets like that, don’t you?
Where are you hiding all those muscles of yours?
If I could have, I would have bought you a big house, large enough for your entire soul.
I would fill it with all your big and little and hungry dreams, carpets and paintings and books and objets d’art in every size, from all around the world.
I would have brought you sculptures of birds, and big vases of blue glass from Hebron, and huge pickle jars, and decorated mirrors, and lamps from China, and filigreed pillows.
And I would have built the house with many windows, open and full of light, with stained glass in every color, without bars and nets.
I would fill it with all your big and little and hungry dreams, carpets and paintings and books and objets d’art in every size, from all around the world.
I would have brought you sculptures of birds, and big vases of blue glass from Hebron, and huge pickle jars, and decorated mirrors, and lamps from China, and filigreed pillows.
And I would have built the house with many windows, open and full of light, with stained glass in every color, without bars and nets.
Because it is horrible to think of you in that empty house.
I am slowly starting to roll through everything you have said to me, from the first letter.
It will take me a while to grasp it, your story in its entirety.
Listen: I was reading you too quickly, too urgently, too secretly.
I’m afraid that too many things were lost en route.
I’m thinking about heavy hints you dropped for me along the way that I, blocked off and indifferent and in my usual rush, completely missed.
When you told me that “reality” constantly dripped into every one of your cells, and that you had
almost no way to avoid it, not even in your imagination, or your dreams at night—
It will take me a while to grasp it, your story in its entirety.
Listen: I was reading you too quickly, too urgently, too secretly.
I’m afraid that too many things were lost en route.
I’m thinking about heavy hints you dropped for me along the way that I, blocked off and indifferent and in my usual rush, completely missed.
When you told me that “reality” constantly dripped into every one of your cells, and that you had
almost no way to avoid it, not even in your imagination, or your dreams at night—
No imagination.
No dreams.
And if you could let yourself get carried away, it would only be through artistic creations: painting, poetry, music, of course—but even then “reality” would soon come upon you and stab you, like a slave trying to escape (and with stolen fire in your hands).
So what have you left for you, tell me, where have you been living?
No dreams.
And if you could let yourself get carried away, it would only be through artistic creations: painting, poetry, music, of course—but even then “reality” would soon come upon you and stab you, like a slave trying to escape (and with stolen fire in your hands).
So what have you left for you, tell me, where have you been living?
Yair
And he has already counted to three?
Cheesecake with raisins for every two, and a huge backrub for every three?
(When you lick his wrist again and again, until he calms down—how did you discover that this is what brings him out of the fit—is that also something you discover naturally?)
My regards to your three gloomy Labradors.
Regards to the palm tree.
To the jasmine.
The bougainvillea.
The big cypress tree on which your husband’s bike—Amos’s bike—leans.
Regards to all the private names.
Regards to the palm tree.
To the jasmine.
The bougainvillea.
The big cypress tree on which your husband’s bike—Amos’s bike—leans.
Regards to all the private names.
August 1
I met Yokhai.
I remember now.
About a year ago I was accompanying Ido’s kindergarten class on a trip to Kibbutz Tzuba.
We visited the chicken coop, and when we passed through the rows, one of the chickens by chance had laid an egg without a shell—and the woman working there—I have no idea why—took the egg and put it in my hand.
My hand, of all the ones there.
I remember now.
About a year ago I was accompanying Ido’s kindergarten class on a trip to Kibbutz Tzuba.
We visited the chicken coop, and when we passed through the rows, one of the chickens by chance had laid an egg without a shell—and the woman working there—I have no idea why—took the egg and put it in my hand.
My hand, of all the ones there.
I don’t know if you ever held such a naked egg.
It was still warm, and soft, and full of motion within the film that was wrapping it.
I didn’t dare move.
I was standing with my arm outstretched, my palm slightly cupped, and felt as if some exposed secret of my life was in my hand.
I didn’t know then that it was a premonition of Yokhai.
It was still warm, and soft, and full of motion within the film that was wrapping it.
I didn’t dare move.
I was standing with my arm outstretched, my palm slightly cupped, and felt as if some exposed secret of my life was in my hand.
I didn’t know then that it was a premonition of Yokhai.
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