Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (20 page)
(There is no such hour)
I want to make a deal with you.
It’s a strange one—and embarrassing even to explain.
But you’re the only person I can share this with.
But you’re the only person I can share this with.
It’s about Yokhai and the operation he’s going to have in January.
I want to give you half of my luck for the surgery.
Don’t laugh—don’t say anything!
I know it sounds false and idiotic—and in exchange, please treat it like a good-luck charm, a superstition, but please, please don’t reject my proposal (if it doesn’t help, it certainly can’t hurt).
I want to give you half of my luck for the surgery.
Don’t laugh—don’t say anything!
I know it sounds false and idiotic—and in exchange, please treat it like a good-luck charm, a superstition, but please, please don’t reject my proposal (if it doesn’t help, it certainly can’t hurt).
And it’s not that I’m exceptionally lucky, but my life has been managing itself more or less well.
And with everything that has been happening at work (annoying in itself), I think that in the past few years, Fortune’s kept a little twisted smile toward me.
I also have to confess that I have made this “deal” twice: once with a woman who was facing a risky surgery and once with a woman who couldn’t get pregnant.
And in both cases, everything worked out.
By the way, the two women didn’t know I made the particular pact in question.
They were, in their own ways, very close to me; but not close enough for me to tell them what I was doing.
And with everything that has been happening at work (annoying in itself), I think that in the past few years, Fortune’s kept a little twisted smile toward me.
I also have to confess that I have made this “deal” twice: once with a woman who was facing a risky surgery and once with a woman who couldn’t get pregnant.
And in both cases, everything worked out.
By the way, the two women didn’t know I made the particular pact in question.
They were, in their own ways, very close to me; but not close enough for me to tell them what I was doing.
This transaction is not without its own bureaucratic procedures—I have to know ahead of time the exact day and time you will be needing my luck, and then I begin to practice aiming it at you (actually, at Yokhai).
And on the day of the operation itself, I will actually free myself from all my obligations, “strip” myself of my luck, and “project” it to him with all the power of my will (you will only have to write me how long after the surgery he will need this transmission of mine).
And on the day of the operation itself, I will actually free myself from all my obligations, “strip” myself of my luck, and “project” it to him with all the power of my will (you will only have to write me how long after the surgery he will need this transmission of mine).
And please don’t worry about me during this time period—it is true that on the certain day that I “strip” away my luck and, less so for two or three days after, little incidents of misfortune occur in unreasonable quantities (it is quite amazing to see how they draw themselves up and attack from every possible direction), but so far, it has all added up to
only a few lost keys, a flat tire, and a surprise tax audit.
And luck begins to grow again very shortly afterward (I swear!).
In my opinion, shaving it from time to time is good for its growth.
only a few lost keys, a flat tire, and a surprise tax audit.
And luck begins to grow again very shortly afterward (I swear!).
In my opinion, shaving it from time to time is good for its growth.
Don’t respond.
Don’t say yes or no.
I said it—you heard me.
Don’t say yes or no.
I said it—you heard me.
August 10
Only to report that the child has probably returned to roost.
It must be my nightmares—or because of our correspondence.
Perhaps it was because of that night around your house—something in me hasn’t been able to calm down since then.
I hesitated over whether I should even tell you about it, about giving him the right to exist by writing to you about him.
But almost every night I am filled with some kind of darkness, torn, a length of fabric swaying in the void.
And now he’s standing there again.
It has been three or four nights at this point, and he is standing there, right now, at this very moment, insistent and shivering among the bushes; there is actually a child’s shape lurking in the darkness there.
And I’m going to tell you something—I have never written anything so insane, so ludicrous.
Perhaps it was because of that night around your house—something in me hasn’t been able to calm down since then.
I hesitated over whether I should even tell you about it, about giving him the right to exist by writing to you about him.
But almost every night I am filled with some kind of darkness, torn, a length of fabric swaying in the void.
And now he’s standing there again.
It has been three or four nights at this point, and he is standing there, right now, at this very moment, insistent and shivering among the bushes; there is actually a child’s shape lurking in the darkness there.
And I’m going to tell you something—I have never written anything so insane, so ludicrous.
He and I have fallen into a little nightly bedtime ceremony.
Even though, immediately after his debut, I cut that confusing bush down with the decisiveness of a Soviet censor.
But he has returned, night after night, and plants himself by the door.
It’s a pity you are not here—I would show him to you.
Even though, immediately after his debut, I cut that confusing bush down with the decisiveness of a Soviet censor.
But he has returned, night after night, and plants himself by the door.
It’s a pity you are not here—I would show him to you.
A skinny boy, slightly hunched over, a slumped, shy flatterer.
Only I know how exposed he is, know that his soul is constantly being mercilessly stirred up; how passionately he wants to give of himself and surrender.
But as you said—if only he believed that he could, and that if he did, someone would be there to receive him.
Only I know how exposed he is, know that his soul is constantly being mercilessly stirred up; how passionately he wants to give of himself and surrender.
But as you said—if only he believed that he could, and that if he did, someone would be there to receive him.
Let’s be honest here—he’s a slightly effeminate boy, soft, a blabberer and a braggart—I look at him now and immediately remember the experience of being him—the constant nervous buzz, the quick sequences of surprises causing his heart to beat uncontrollably fast; you were right—you can see his heart through his peeled skin, sensitive as a parpur’s, beating and beating.
His presence disgusts me (are you surprised?).
I’m taken by a strong impulse to turn him over to the hands of the authorities of the private education
system in which I studied.
Because my personal tutors were grand masters in their field.
Do you know what I’m talking about?
What do you know, anyway?
Well, a little at this point.
Enough.
These tutors knew the correct gait, posture, and speech—what you are allowed to say and what you should shut up about.
What is better not to say, to avoid getting laughed at; how to always pick up your shoulders so you will appear wider, to close your mouth so you won’t look like a complete idiot.
Like a fragile ethrog swaddled in tissue paper all year long, I was educated by two peerless pedagogues, the best—my parents, may their memories be blessed, who never missed or overlooked a single sorrowful defect of mine!
With the dedication of years of hard work, they succeeded in improving me, sanding me down, until I could be presented to society without too much embarrassment.
These days, it doesn’t even involve much effort on my part: I’m quite good at imitating most of the moves and sounds of a mature male, an elder in the community—and you can certainly say that the plaster mold of the death mask has more or less already dissolved and sunk in through my skin, into my body, my cells, as it was supposed to.
I’m taken by a strong impulse to turn him over to the hands of the authorities of the private education
system in which I studied.
Because my personal tutors were grand masters in their field.
Do you know what I’m talking about?
What do you know, anyway?
Well, a little at this point.
Enough.
These tutors knew the correct gait, posture, and speech—what you are allowed to say and what you should shut up about.
What is better not to say, to avoid getting laughed at; how to always pick up your shoulders so you will appear wider, to close your mouth so you won’t look like a complete idiot.
Like a fragile ethrog swaddled in tissue paper all year long, I was educated by two peerless pedagogues, the best—my parents, may their memories be blessed, who never missed or overlooked a single sorrowful defect of mine!
With the dedication of years of hard work, they succeeded in improving me, sanding me down, until I could be presented to society without too much embarrassment.
These days, it doesn’t even involve much effort on my part: I’m quite good at imitating most of the moves and sounds of a mature male, an elder in the community—and you can certainly say that the plaster mold of the death mask has more or less already dissolved and sunk in through my skin, into my body, my cells, as it was supposed to.
Until, suddenly, right by my front door—an infected and inferior organ of mine escaped from my body and started leaping in the dance of fools, the donkey jig.
And there is one moment—
(Why not, I’ve already spilled my guts.)
There is a moment when he suddenly bangs at the door for me, when I immediately work myself into a high panic.
Please don’t tell me it is only childish imagination, of course it is, it is exactly the imagination of my childhood—it hits me, leaving me altogether paralyzed, it gets my blood pumping crazily for a few seconds, and I can’t fight it.
I have to see him, to produce him emerging from the darkness, approaching me; he’s running to me, barreling down to my front door, so I can—
Please don’t tell me it is only childish imagination, of course it is, it is exactly the imagination of my childhood—it hits me, leaving me altogether paralyzed, it gets my blood pumping crazily for a few seconds, and I can’t fight it.
I have to see him, to produce him emerging from the darkness, approaching me; he’s running to me, barreling down to my front door, so I can—
Do you like these little private games of mine?
What would you have done in my place, anyway?
Well, you are much more generous than I am.
You even agreed to allow me inside you.
I’m not that noble—I’m terrified.
I just slam the door in his face, night after night, with all my strength and with all my locks, and hurry to the bedroom.
And Maya had better be there, just so I can look at her for a moment, acknowledge her again, the presence of her full, warm body, the absolute validity of her surprisingly small feet.
To gaze upon them and
calm myself down—to immediately panic again—such a narrow base for two adults and a child to hold on to.
Well, you are much more generous than I am.
You even agreed to allow me inside you.
I’m not that noble—I’m terrified.
I just slam the door in his face, night after night, with all my strength and with all my locks, and hurry to the bedroom.
And Maya had better be there, just so I can look at her for a moment, acknowledge her again, the presence of her full, warm body, the absolute validity of her surprisingly small feet.
To gaze upon them and
calm myself down—to immediately panic again—such a narrow base for two adults and a child to hold on to.
Oh well, I have to go to sleep.
You don’t have to respond to this scribbled nonsense.
By the way, I read something in Ido’s kids’ magazine that I thought would interest you: you have a dinosaur’s footprint in Beit Zayit.
Did you know that?
A dinosaur passed by your place a million years ago and left a huge footprint.
Interesting, don’t you think?
I also tried your tze-tze recipe tonight before trying to sleep.
But I think I put too much liquor in it.
(It doesn’t matter.
If I get a letter from you in the afternoon, the night is already lost.) Enough, good night!
You don’t have to respond to this scribbled nonsense.
By the way, I read something in Ido’s kids’ magazine that I thought would interest you: you have a dinosaur’s footprint in Beit Zayit.
Did you know that?
A dinosaur passed by your place a million years ago and left a huge footprint.
Interesting, don’t you think?
I also tried your tze-tze recipe tonight before trying to sleep.
But I think I put too much liquor in it.
(It doesn’t matter.
If I get a letter from you in the afternoon, the night is already lost.) Enough, good night!
Y.
(Well, I lay down for almost an hour out of politeness, but I’m afraid I did not explain myself fully)—You know what?
I will allow him to enter my house, once, on purpose; I’ll force him to enter, so I can take him and walk him by the ear and show him, without mercy: refrigerator; dishwasher; a living room with a highly decorative set of armchairs.
Here’s a bedroom with a queen-size Ha-Zore’a bed.
Here we have a woman.
A full, soft woman with round, beautiful breasts, taking her clothes off right now—for me!
And then, when his eyes already start to burn with the held-back tears of loneliness and abandonment, I will lay the final, fatal blow: drag him by the scruff of the neck to the little room at the end of the hall and yell, Well, look at what we have here!
Surprise!
A child!
I made a child in this world!
Look closely, so you can understand that you have already lost the fight between us, honey: I have a child!
I escaped from you and I made something that exists, independently, in the outside world!
Check my trademark, stamped on the shape of his fingers, his eyes and hair!
And if you don’t find the rest familiar—you know why?
It doesn’t belong to you!
I swear, I feel like pushing his head, hard, into Ido’s bed, the way you drown a kitten—Look closely, you can even touch him—why not?
Touch him, feel him: a child who has been created from another’s matter as well.
Who is not me—and not you!
Because I, with my initiative, succeeded in escaping the fate you had laid out for me.
I allied myself with another chromosome pool, free from my matter, and especially from yours—and this is how.
I have managed to
create one thing from good, strong, healthy matter in this world, with a warranty that’s been good for almost five years now, get it, baby?
I will allow him to enter my house, once, on purpose; I’ll force him to enter, so I can take him and walk him by the ear and show him, without mercy: refrigerator; dishwasher; a living room with a highly decorative set of armchairs.
Here’s a bedroom with a queen-size Ha-Zore’a bed.
Here we have a woman.
A full, soft woman with round, beautiful breasts, taking her clothes off right now—for me!
And then, when his eyes already start to burn with the held-back tears of loneliness and abandonment, I will lay the final, fatal blow: drag him by the scruff of the neck to the little room at the end of the hall and yell, Well, look at what we have here!
Surprise!
A child!
I made a child in this world!
Look closely, so you can understand that you have already lost the fight between us, honey: I have a child!
I escaped from you and I made something that exists, independently, in the outside world!
Check my trademark, stamped on the shape of his fingers, his eyes and hair!
And if you don’t find the rest familiar—you know why?
It doesn’t belong to you!
I swear, I feel like pushing his head, hard, into Ido’s bed, the way you drown a kitten—Look closely, you can even touch him—why not?
Touch him, feel him: a child who has been created from another’s matter as well.
Who is not me—and not you!
Because I, with my initiative, succeeded in escaping the fate you had laid out for me.
I allied myself with another chromosome pool, free from my matter, and especially from yours—and this is how.
I have managed to
create one thing from good, strong, healthy matter in this world, with a warranty that’s been good for almost five years now, get it, baby?
What the hell am I saying?
As if Ido proves anything about me.
I have no peace.
What a scorcher outside.
The air wraps itself around you and sticks to you like rubber.
What a scorcher outside.
The air wraps itself around you and sticks to you like rubber.
August 11
… and just as I was about to send you a letter this morning, I got your note from the university library.
It delights me just to think of you sitting in the Judaica Reading Room, writing those wild, excited sentences while you slide in a graceful slalom to copy sentences from
History of the People of Israel in Ancient Times
—in the same breath!—every time a fellow teacher passes by you.
I was thinking for the thousandth time just what fun it is that we found each other in the huge pile of peas.
How lucky we are to be from the same country, and the same language, and the same Paporish and Douvshani schoolbooks … By the way, about the quotation you couldn’t remember (when I tried to “dress myself” with the letter in which you told me about Yokhai)—
It delights me just to think of you sitting in the Judaica Reading Room, writing those wild, excited sentences while you slide in a graceful slalom to copy sentences from
History of the People of Israel in Ancient Times
—in the same breath!—every time a fellow teacher passes by you.
I was thinking for the thousandth time just what fun it is that we found each other in the huge pile of peas.
How lucky we are to be from the same country, and the same language, and the same Paporish and Douvshani schoolbooks … By the way, about the quotation you couldn’t remember (when I tried to “dress myself” with the letter in which you told me about Yokhai)—
I admit it, it took me a while to get to it, but tomorrow at dawn I will send out my speedy messengers to look it up—and in seven days (no more than twenty-four hours by the clock) I will have the full quotation with the exact reference.
I promise.
I promise.
When I was writing you yesterday, I again felt how peculiar this whole letters business is: by the time you open a letter of mine and accept its truth, I am already somewhere else.
When I read your letters, I am actually inside a moment of yours that has passed; I am with you inside a time you are no longer inhabiting.
This works out to each of us being faithful to each other’s abandoned moments … What do you think?
Perhaps this is the source of the sadness aroused in me by almost every one of your letters, with no connection to its context—even your funny, wonderful note from the university.
Life is passing by.
When I read your letters, I am actually inside a moment of yours that has passed; I am with you inside a time you are no longer inhabiting.
This works out to each of us being faithful to each other’s abandoned moments … What do you think?
Perhaps this is the source of the sadness aroused in me by almost every one of your letters, with no connection to its context—even your funny, wonderful note from the university.
Life is passing by.
August 11-12
Immediately go and scold your three silken students for their ignorance: Rabbi Nakhman of Breslev is the source for the forgotten quotation!
In the Moharan Collection, in the chapter “Impregnation of Barren Women,” he discusses “human beings who sleep through their days.”
Either because of works of pettiness, or because of passions and bad deeds, or because they have eaten spiritual food that reduced their minds to a state of sleep …
Either because of works of pettiness, or because of passions and bad deeds, or because they have eaten spiritual food that reduced their minds to a state of sleep …
Apparently you have to revive the heart of those sleeping and awaken them, but with caution, like waking a sleepwalker.
And because of this, as soon as such a person wakes, you must “dress him with the face taken away from him whilst he slept.”
And how do you think Rabbi Nakhman recommends you go about it?—“ … as you would heal the blind.
You must close him in so that he will not suddenly see the light, and you should reduce the light for him, so what he suddenly sees will not harm him.
Also, for the one who has been asleep and in the dark for a long time, when you wish to show him his face and awaken him, you must dress his face with tales …”
And because of this, as soon as such a person wakes, you must “dress him with the face taken away from him whilst he slept.”
And how do you think Rabbi Nakhman recommends you go about it?—“ … as you would heal the blind.
You must close him in so that he will not suddenly see the light, and you should reduce the light for him, so what he suddenly sees will not harm him.
Also, for the one who has been asleep and in the dark for a long time, when you wish to show him his face and awaken him, you must dress his face with tales …”
- Do you know what time it is?
And who has to get up tomorrow at half-past six?
And who will sleep away his day tomorrow with twelve straight hours of petty works?
And who has to get up tomorrow at half-past six?
And who will sleep away his day tomorrow with twelve straight hours of petty works?
Yair
Did you see that?
As I was sealing up this letter, a shooting star flew across the skies!
So quickly, quickly, what should I ask for (I don’t have a wish ready—have you any ideas)?
As I was sealing up this letter, a shooting star flew across the skies!
So quickly, quickly, what should I ask for (I don’t have a wish ready—have you any ideas)?
What you wrote once—“Let us help each other be whatever and whoever we truly are.”
August 13
Oops—these days I’ve been so busy and tense and, mainly, tired—I almost forgot about our date!
I remembered it just a minute ago (it’s today, right?
You said Wednesday at half past four).
So forgive me the unsatisfying conditions; not exactly in line with your plans, but at least I’m here on time.
I mean, the second I remembered, I stopped the car with a loud screech on the side of the road between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem (yes, in that very spot where you can see the whole forest, with all its possible shades of green on the right).
Cars are flying by me, rocking the car, so my writing is a bit hiccupy.
And instead of coffee and some rich cake, I’ll
drink warm Coke out of the can with crumbs of Ido’s Bamba snack that I will gather from the backseat.
What can you do?
I am one of those horrible people, you know, who, in spite of his inconsiderateness, still listens to the tape of Verdi’s
Requiem
sent to him by his soul mate in his car’s fucked-up player (and by the way, thank you!).
I remembered it just a minute ago (it’s today, right?
You said Wednesday at half past four).
So forgive me the unsatisfying conditions; not exactly in line with your plans, but at least I’m here on time.
I mean, the second I remembered, I stopped the car with a loud screech on the side of the road between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem (yes, in that very spot where you can see the whole forest, with all its possible shades of green on the right).
Cars are flying by me, rocking the car, so my writing is a bit hiccupy.
And instead of coffee and some rich cake, I’ll
drink warm Coke out of the can with crumbs of Ido’s Bamba snack that I will gather from the backseat.
What can you do?
I am one of those horrible people, you know, who, in spite of his inconsiderateness, still listens to the tape of Verdi’s
Requiem
sent to him by his soul mate in his car’s fucked-up player (and by the way, thank you!).
Come, let’s steal a few moments together.
You made an interesting remark at the end of your last letter … I mean, your “now I will put my woman costume on for a little while”—the quick course in makeup you surprised me with before going to the lecture at the Cultural Center.
Flip-flopping between the rose-pink lipstick and the more daring brown (did it match the angora?).
Actually, I never imagined you wearing makeup.
Somehow I thought you—never mind.
I enjoyed it.
It was a bit like with your clothes.
You have an ironic, special grace when you squeeze into other women’s words.
Strange women.
Strange words—The soft eyeshadow and lip liner, and I’m lying on the bed behind you, watching you, with my hands crossed behind my head in the position of the ultimate self-satisfied chauvinist (yes, yes, I read you: that macho guy, that
gever
who is so sure his wife undresses only for him).
You made an interesting remark at the end of your last letter … I mean, your “now I will put my woman costume on for a little while”—the quick course in makeup you surprised me with before going to the lecture at the Cultural Center.
Flip-flopping between the rose-pink lipstick and the more daring brown (did it match the angora?).
Actually, I never imagined you wearing makeup.
Somehow I thought you—never mind.
I enjoyed it.
It was a bit like with your clothes.
You have an ironic, special grace when you squeeze into other women’s words.
Strange women.
Strange words—The soft eyeshadow and lip liner, and I’m lying on the bed behind you, watching you, with my hands crossed behind my head in the position of the ultimate self-satisfied chauvinist (yes, yes, I read you: that macho guy, that
gever
who is so sure his wife undresses only for him).
My eyes get a little shifty when I say the word
gever;
since you told me, I am constantly checking (but until you told me, I never noticed that I always preferred to use
ish
when I say “man”).
But why do I feel, more and more, that the word “woman” is not so simple for you either, in your internal dictionary?
gever;
since you told me, I am constantly checking (but until you told me, I never noticed that I always preferred to use
ish
when I say “man”).
But why do I feel, more and more, that the word “woman” is not so simple for you either, in your internal dictionary?
And why do I ask?
Because I know exactly what kind of
mother
you are.
I told you, your motherhood rises from you like hot steam each time you mention Yokhai.
Or any other child.
Yet those times when, here and there, you have said—and not a few times, by the way—“the woman that I am”—almost always, my bat ears pick up some light echo, a tiny, hollow space between you and the word—
Because I know exactly what kind of
mother
you are.
I told you, your motherhood rises from you like hot steam each time you mention Yokhai.
Or any other child.
Yet those times when, here and there, you have said—and not a few times, by the way—“the woman that I am”—almost always, my bat ears pick up some light echo, a tiny, hollow space between you and the word—
Enough.
This is getting too heavy for a daytime rendezvous.
Do you know what I really like best about your letters?
The little things.
More than anything.
The coffee stain you decided to leave on the paper, for example.
You wrote that it was a “stain of existence.”
And it was through this stain that I was privileged to learn how you drink coffee—how you always start each cup when it is too hot.
And then there are a few brief moments when it is exactly right—and then it cools down, bit by bit, but you stick with the cup you poured all the way to the end …
This is getting too heavy for a daytime rendezvous.
Do you know what I really like best about your letters?
The little things.
More than anything.
The coffee stain you decided to leave on the paper, for example.
You wrote that it was a “stain of existence.”
And it was through this stain that I was privileged to learn how you drink coffee—how you always start each cup when it is too hot.
And then there are a few brief moments when it is exactly right—and then it cools down, bit by bit, but you stick with the cup you poured all the way to the end …
Please, drink, drink.
To think that, at this very moment, you too are sitting somewhere, present with me.
Where did you choose to sit?
In which café did you think I would be?
Where did you choose to sit?
In which café did you think I would be?
Or the smell of your pages, I haven’t told you about that yet—it’s always the same, a thin scent of mint.
Or the photograph you sent me of Anna, taken from behind.
With her huge straw hat.
And how, with these odd yearnings (toward a woman I don’t know!), I keep turning the photograph around, over and over, looking for her intriguing, birdlike face, the laughing sparkle in her eyes, and now and then kissing her gently on her split lip.
Or the photograph you sent me of Anna, taken from behind.
With her huge straw hat.
And how, with these odd yearnings (toward a woman I don’t know!), I keep turning the photograph around, over and over, looking for her intriguing, birdlike face, the laughing sparkle in her eyes, and now and then kissing her gently on her split lip.
You see, you truly succeeded (in bringing me into your reality without piercing our hallucination).
But the moment it was the hardest to keep myself from flying to be by your side was when you asked me, What, you’ll never eat my soup?
But the moment it was the hardest to keep myself from flying to be by your side was when you asked me, What, you’ll never eat my soup?
August 14
Well, what do you know!
What shocks me most is that I myself never noticed it.
I thought it was only the chalk traces, the remains of an English children’s game, hopscotch left on the sidewalk …
I thought it was only the chalk traces, the remains of an English children’s game, hopscotch left on the sidewalk …
Other books
Her Lord's Table by Alysha Ellis
Indias Blancas by Florencia Bonelli
Mesmerizing His Bride (Magical Mesmerism Book 3) by Nadia Nightside
The Case of Naomi Clynes by Basil Thomson
The Hanging: A Thriller by Lotte Hammer, Soren Hammer
Forging Zero by Sara King
The Countertenor Wore Garlic (The Liturgical Mysteries) by Schweizer, Mark
Watch What Burns by Kirsty-Anne Still
The Meeting Point by Austin Clarke
