Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (35 page)
Thoughts—when they aren’t bumping into other people’s thoughts—are capable of racing to the end of the world in a flash—they can zoom out of your mind and return in a second.
But even this function has slowed down in the past few hours.
Everything is slightly vague, indifferent; I’m not even hungry.
Everything is slightly vague, indifferent; I’m not even hungry.
In order to read your tiny handwriting, sometimes I have to get really close to the wall.
You should see me walking along and across these walls.
You should see me walking along and across these walls.
And if I called you, would you dare brave such a place?
(My good little girl with the fifties face—I would never do that to you.)
(My good little girl with the fifties face—I would never do that to you.)
I guess I fell asleep again for a moment.
I woke up with my heart pounding.
Three a.m.
And to my right, in one of the more distant rooms, they are truly out of control (from here it sounds like big drums or pistons—a completely mechanical noise).
You were with me until I fell asleep.
I brought you here, I was lying down and talking to you aloud.
We had a conversation (I don’t remember about what).
Each time I spoke from your mouth, I recovered a piece of myself.
For half a night you illuminated me like a candle.
I woke up with my heart pounding.
Three a.m.
And to my right, in one of the more distant rooms, they are truly out of control (from here it sounds like big drums or pistons—a completely mechanical noise).
You were with me until I fell asleep.
I brought you here, I was lying down and talking to you aloud.
We had a conversation (I don’t remember about what).
Each time I spoke from your mouth, I recovered a piece of myself.
For half a night you illuminated me like a candle.
A little concentrated entity is traveling inside my body, through my bloodstream.
I don’t think about it most of the time, most of the time I don’t think about anything, but each time it passes through my heart, it opens its eyes and says Yair, with your voice.
I don’t think about it most of the time, most of the time I don’t think about anything, but each time it passes through my heart, it opens its eyes and says Yair, with your voice.
According to my calculations, I should know by tomorrow or the day after if I’ve been infected.
What’s strange is, I don’t really care.
I swear.
Most of the time I don’t even think about whatever reasons threw me in here.
If someone asked me why I am here, I would have to concentrate to remember.
What’s strange is, I don’t really care.
I swear.
Most of the time I don’t even think about whatever reasons threw me in here.
If someone asked me why I am here, I would have to concentrate to remember.
Why am I here?
Because I need to finish some important business.
What business?
I don’t know; I’ll know when it happens.
And what will you do in the meantime?
Just lie like that, on that bed, for days on end?
Just lie like that, on that bed, for days on end?
Yes.
What can I do?
What can I do?
I am sleeping in bed with Maya.
She wakes me up and shows me that a tiny woman, the size of a nut, is lying between us, a whole, complete woman.
I immediately start to make my excuses—I didn’t do it!
I don’t even know her!
And Maya says in a voice without anger and with even a little compassion, But look how closely she resembles you.
She wakes me up and shows me that a tiny woman, the size of a nut, is lying between us, a whole, complete woman.
I immediately start to make my excuses—I didn’t do it!
I don’t even know her!
And Maya says in a voice without anger and with even a little compassion, But look how closely she resembles you.
Maybe I will write a diary to pass the time in my remaining days.
Not so long ago you called me “My dear diary.”
Not so long ago you called me “My dear diary.”
If I feel at all better tonight, I’ll go out.
I deserve a little vacation from the monastery, don’t you think?
(Why do I care so much about what you think?!)
I deserve a little vacation from the monastery, don’t you think?
(Why do I care so much about what you think?!)
At times I feel like an idiot for not really using this week.
I do not understand what’s keeping me from going wild.
Do I owe anything to anybody here?
I do not understand what’s keeping me from going wild.
Do I owe anything to anybody here?
On the other hand, even getting up for a piss is a major operation.
If I am actually infected—
What should I do, do you think, to save a part of myself in the few days I have left?
What would you do if you knew you had only one week before you caught a disease with these
particular
complications?
What would you do if you knew you had only one week before you caught a disease with these
particular
complications?
I mean—(just a thought—the intellectual amusement of a potentially impotent man)—could one hope for a sudden new love to save me from the claws of disease?
Or, at the very least, make it retreat a little?
Or, at the very least, make it retreat a little?
No, it’s not in you.
I probably won’t fall in love with you—that’s quite clear to me.
What kind of love could we have?
I mean, what we already have between us is too weighty to be love, isn’t it?
I don’t think poorly of it, but over the last few days, I’ve had a feeling that we are somehow too densely packed to push ourselves into that single word “love.”
Correct me if I’m wrong.
I probably won’t fall in love with you—that’s quite clear to me.
What kind of love could we have?
I mean, what we already have between us is too weighty to be love, isn’t it?
I don’t think poorly of it, but over the last few days, I’ve had a feeling that we are somehow too densely packed to push ourselves into that single word “love.”
Correct me if I’m wrong.
Correct me.
Those two on the other side of the wall are really molesting each other.
I’m sure those are whipping noises.
It’s been like that for a few hours now.
No human voices—it’s as if they are whipping and getting whipped in complete silence—and I am the only one who shrinks at every blow.
I can’t get used to it—it is as if every hit is the first.
What were we talking about?
The last page I wrote to you fell onto the floor.
Good luck finding a needle in this haystack.
I’ve eaten hardly anything since coming here.
Previous years—huge feasts.
It was part of the pleasure.
Food is a man’s best friend, too.
It surprises me—I am really not hungry at all—only a little weak, floating along in this way.
It feels kind of nice—but if I stand up too quickly, I get dizzy.
So I try not to stand up.
Actually, I’ve been in bed most of the time since yesterday (or the day before?)—a pad of paper, a pen, waking up, writing a few lines down, falling asleep.
In between times, someone might as well be performing an operation on me with full anesthesia—oh well, let it be.
I’m sure those are whipping noises.
It’s been like that for a few hours now.
No human voices—it’s as if they are whipping and getting whipped in complete silence—and I am the only one who shrinks at every blow.
I can’t get used to it—it is as if every hit is the first.
What were we talking about?
The last page I wrote to you fell onto the floor.
Good luck finding a needle in this haystack.
I’ve eaten hardly anything since coming here.
Previous years—huge feasts.
It was part of the pleasure.
Food is a man’s best friend, too.
It surprises me—I am really not hungry at all—only a little weak, floating along in this way.
It feels kind of nice—but if I stand up too quickly, I get dizzy.
So I try not to stand up.
Actually, I’ve been in bed most of the time since yesterday (or the day before?)—a pad of paper, a pen, waking up, writing a few lines down, falling asleep.
In between times, someone might as well be performing an operation on me with full anesthesia—oh well, let it be.
In the window across from mine, above the pool bar—a guy and a girl, Japanese, very young—with no curtains.
With open windows.
They’ve been making love for a whole hour now.
It is so beautiful, it isn’t even sexy.
With open windows.
They’ve been making love for a whole hour now.
It is so beautiful, it isn’t even sexy.
I lie here, in the dark, watching.
They are very much in love—and there isn’t a spot on their skin they don’t kiss.
I desperately hope they continue on this way—because all the surrounding noises have stopped.
They are very much in love—and there isn’t a spot on their skin they don’t kiss.
I desperately hope they continue on this way—because all the surrounding noises have stopped.
Terribly urgent—I suddenly remembered it.
I want to give you one picture, a flicker of my memory—don’t ask questions—a picture of one sweet little child, with very short hair; you can see only his mobile, expressive face; and he is jumping around, talking, waving his hands, a bit monkeyish in his sweetness.
He’s about five in the picture.
A woman’s delicate hand is resting on his head.
Ignore it.
I want to give you one picture, a flicker of my memory—don’t ask questions—a picture of one sweet little child, with very short hair; you can see only his mobile, expressive face; and he is jumping around, talking, waving his hands, a bit monkeyish in his sweetness.
He’s about five in the picture.
A woman’s delicate hand is resting on his head.
Ignore it.
It’s a very precious moment to me—it doesn’t matter why—simply accept it from me.
A boy walking with his mother on the sidewalk, back from kindergarten.
She is a young woman, tiny and slender, with short curly hair and a gorgeous smile—shy and bold and full of love.
And her hand is on his head, presenting him to me with a small show of pride—this is her boy.
A boy walking with his mother on the sidewalk, back from kindergarten.
She is a young woman, tiny and slender, with short curly hair and a gorgeous smile—shy and bold and full of love.
And her hand is on his head, presenting him to me with a small show of pride—this is her boy.
I know one doesn’t do such a thing, giving as a gift a picture that has been cut up, or half a photograph—but believe me, you are getting the prettiest part, and also the most beautiful moment I had with those two.
There’s no point in enlarging the angle of the shot and seeing all the extraneous details—that, for example, another boy is walking by their side.
He isn’t even part of the story, he is just another boy she is picking up from kindergarten that day, her son’s friend (why can’t I remove him from this picture?).
There’s no point in enlarging the angle of the shot and seeing all the extraneous details—that, for example, another boy is walking by their side.
He isn’t even part of the story, he is just another boy she is picking up from kindergarten that day, her son’s friend (why can’t I remove him from this picture?).
And why would you want to see the man with the birdlike face, sitting in the Subaru, the one that had been in the sprinklers, from whose trunk I took out the towel to dry your hair?
The man is me.
And the other boy accidentally looked up and saw what was in my face, which was apparently entirely exposed, full of joy pouring out to her and her
boy.
An ugly story, really, another usual scene from my film noir.
Why am I telling you this?
The man is me.
And the other boy accidentally looked up and saw what was in my face, which was apparently entirely exposed, full of joy pouring out to her and her
boy.
An ugly story, really, another usual scene from my film noir.
Why am I telling you this?
My story with her, with that woman, was actually longer than the usual.
I think I loved her.
The boy’s name was G.
His full name doesn’t matter, his sweet, serious name.
She wasn’t married, and didn’t want to get married either—she had definite opinions in her opposition to marriage—but she had a little boy, and I (pathetic, self-deceiving in such affairs) enjoyed feeling a bit like his father from afar.
Do you understand?
I felt that this was the kind of boy she and I could have had.
Don’t forget, he was my ideal child—a living child I could transport into my imaginary world.
I think I loved her.
The boy’s name was G.
His full name doesn’t matter, his sweet, serious name.
She wasn’t married, and didn’t want to get married either—she had definite opinions in her opposition to marriage—but she had a little boy, and I (pathetic, self-deceiving in such affairs) enjoyed feeling a bit like his father from afar.
Do you understand?
I felt that this was the kind of boy she and I could have had.
Don’t forget, he was my ideal child—a living child I could transport into my imaginary world.
I mainly loved the combination of those two—and how she raised him with wisdom, with courage.
It’s not simple to raise a child alone—and until I met her, I always, with the sacred fury of marriage on my side, railed against women like her, who dared to produce a child by themselves, only to satisfy their maternal instincts, etc.
She taught me how much greatness could be contained in such a situation.
I was constantly amazed at how she alone was making a person in the world, with what totality and cleverness.
Their pride in belonging to each other—the private language that was so completely theirs—a mutual sense of humor—and some kind of guarantee for each other.
I felt as if I had a little secret family there, even though I had never seen the child, only in pictures.
It’s not simple to raise a child alone—and until I met her, I always, with the sacred fury of marriage on my side, railed against women like her, who dared to produce a child by themselves, only to satisfy their maternal instincts, etc.
She taught me how much greatness could be contained in such a situation.
I was constantly amazed at how she alone was making a person in the world, with what totality and cleverness.
Their pride in belonging to each other—the private language that was so completely theirs—a mutual sense of humor—and some kind of guarantee for each other.
I felt as if I had a little secret family there, even though I had never seen the child, only in pictures.
Truly, why am I telling you this?
Because of how hard it is to break a habit?
Or because I believe you will keep it better than I can?
Or because I believe you will keep it better than I can?
One day she proposed that I meet him.
We had just spent a great morning together, and she said, Why don’t you stay a little longer once and meet G.?
And I said, Why not?
What’s the worst that could happen?
But, on the other hand, as you well know, my security officer was alerted: Why do I need him to see me?
Who needs such a witness?
So I suggested that I watch him from afar, without him seeing me.
And N.
looked at me and said, “You don’t have to, you know.”
We had just spent a great morning together, and she said, Why don’t you stay a little longer once and meet G.?
And I said, Why not?
What’s the worst that could happen?
But, on the other hand, as you well know, my security officer was alerted: Why do I need him to see me?
Who needs such a witness?
So I suggested that I watch him from afar, without him seeing me.
And N.
looked at me and said, “You don’t have to, you know.”
Later I appeased her a little, and she agreed with my rationale—and we both started to get excited about that moment.
I stayed a little longer than usual that day, and we had lunch together, and everything was
great.
And when it was time, I went down to the car and waited, while N.
picked G.
up from kindergarten.
I stayed a little longer than usual that day, and we had lunch together, and everything was
great.
And when it was time, I went down to the car and waited, while N.
picked G.
up from kindergarten.
I saw her coming around the corner, slender, independent, standing out in sharp detail against the street, with her short curly hair and laughing eyes, wearing a thin gray sweater.
She was walking with two kids, as I told you.
For a moment I couldn’t tell which one was hers.
Neither of them really resembled the pictures.
The kids were walking and describing something to her enthusiastically.
One of them bounced around her like a lamb.
She smiled at me from the end of the street, walking toward me—smiling and shining in all her slenderness—and I had to take off my sunglasses and ask, with my eyes, Which one is yours?
She laid a palm on the head of the child bouncing along at her side and made a face that said, “What kind of question is that?”
She was walking with two kids, as I told you.
For a moment I couldn’t tell which one was hers.
Neither of them really resembled the pictures.
The kids were walking and describing something to her enthusiastically.
One of them bounced around her like a lamb.
She smiled at me from the end of the street, walking toward me—smiling and shining in all her slenderness—and I had to take off my sunglasses and ask, with my eyes, Which one is yours?
She laid a palm on the head of the child bouncing along at her side and made a face that said, “What kind of question is that?”
Please, accept this picture from me: a child, small for his age, alert and full of joy, full of life and wisdom, talking with large hand gestures.
A child so funny and sweet—her hand resting gently on his head.
My eyes sank into hers, into her pride and her complete happiness.
A child so funny and sweet—her hand resting gently on his head.
My eyes sank into hers, into her pride and her complete happiness.
(The strange part was that of all of them, the other child, the stranger, noticed something—and stopped for a moment, following my gaze and hers.
I could see him trying to understand, and some kind of cloud forming on his innocent forehead.)
I could see him trying to understand, and some kind of cloud forming on his innocent forehead.)
If I had to choose one single moment, out of all the fucking, the lovemaking, the flirtations—
I’m sorry to drop this story onto you—but, again—who could I tell, if not you?
I have gotten used to talking to you aloud (have I already told you?), mumbling to you as if you were here.
Talking in small, simple fragments
Talking in small, simple fragments
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