Be My Knife (36 page)
Authors: David Grossman
… Would you like a pillow?
Give me some more blanket, scratch my back—no, higher—yes.
Give me some more blanket, scratch my back—no, higher—yes.
You ask, Why don’t we go for a walk?
Breathe some different air?
Look at this mess—at least let’s throw away those empty beer cans—come on, you can help yourself out of this, just a little.
Breathe some different air?
Look at this mess—at least let’s throw away those empty beer cans—come on, you can help yourself out of this, just a little.
And I tell you: It’s strange, I miss you more than I miss my family.
And the girl in the room next to mine is really sobbing—you can’t decipher her words—or even tell what language she’s speaking in—but there is some kind of constant whimper—if I concentrate, I think I hear her begging him not to burn her with cigarettes.
What hell.
And the girl in the room next to mine is really sobbing—you can’t decipher her words—or even tell what language she’s speaking in—but there is some kind of constant whimper—if I concentrate, I think I hear her begging him not to burn her with cigarettes.
What hell.
I finally couldn’t take it anymore-I went out and looked for where the voices were coming from.
It turned out they weren’t from the room next to mine—they weren’t even on my floor.
Acoustic illusions were bouncing throughout the building.
I got ambitious—I ran through all four floors, listening shamelessly by every door—I didn’t care about getting caught.
I didn’t have a clue as to what I would do if I ran into somebody—but, why, people here were actually paying for things like that!
I started thinking, It’s a ghost hotel, until, on the fourth floor, I heard very clear voices coming from one of the rooms—and nerve-racked as I was, I pushed the doorknob and entered.
I saw the naked back of a man watching television—surrounded by maybe twenty empty beer cans scattered on the floor.
The room looked exactly like mine—and the man didn’t hear me and didn’t move (the room smelled like maybe he was dead).
When I returned to my room, so did the voices.
It turned out they weren’t from the room next to mine—they weren’t even on my floor.
Acoustic illusions were bouncing throughout the building.
I got ambitious—I ran through all four floors, listening shamelessly by every door—I didn’t care about getting caught.
I didn’t have a clue as to what I would do if I ran into somebody—but, why, people here were actually paying for things like that!
I started thinking, It’s a ghost hotel, until, on the fourth floor, I heard very clear voices coming from one of the rooms—and nerve-racked as I was, I pushed the doorknob and entered.
I saw the naked back of a man watching television—surrounded by maybe twenty empty beer cans scattered on the floor.
The room looked exactly like mine—and the man didn’t hear me and didn’t move (the room smelled like maybe he was dead).
When I returned to my room, so did the voices.
There’s something else.
If I don’t tell you, you will never know, to the far reaches of my being, exactly whom you are dealing with.
(What am I worth if I tell you?
What am I worth if I don’t?) This kind of event pays you back—with high interest—for all the slime you scattered behind you in the world.
Listen, forget it—have this written inside you:
If I don’t tell you, you will never know, to the far reaches of my being, exactly whom you are dealing with.
(What am I worth if I tell you?
What am I worth if I don’t?) This kind of event pays you back—with high interest—for all the slime you scattered behind you in the world.
Listen, forget it—have this written inside you:
I was at home with Maya, about two years ago.
We were eating supper in the kitchen.
With Ido.
It was a nice, quiet evening, just the way I like it.
The phone jangles—I walk down the hall to pick it up—and hear the voice of a woman telling me her name is T.
and she is a friend of N.’s.
I immediately remember who she is, and the pit of my stomach clenches a little.
T.
was the only witness to our affair—and why is she calling my home?
She tells me in a tense voice that N.
died yesterday.
We were eating supper in the kitchen.
With Ido.
It was a nice, quiet evening, just the way I like it.
The phone jangles—I walk down the hall to pick it up—and hear the voice of a woman telling me her name is T.
and she is a friend of N.’s.
I immediately remember who she is, and the pit of my stomach clenches a little.
T.
was the only witness to our affair—and why is she calling my home?
She tells me in a tense voice that N.
died yesterday.
I’m silent.
Maya and Ido are laughing behind me.
He was learning how to whistle then (by sucking air inward), and Maya was trying to learn how from him—and on the telephone T.
is asking me if I heard what she said.
I say yes, and pulling together a slightly formal voice, I tell her that we don’t want a children’s encyclopedia.
Maya and Ido are laughing behind me.
He was learning how to whistle then (by sucking air inward), and Maya was trying to learn how from him—and on the telephone T.
is asking me if I heard what she said.
I say yes, and pulling together a slightly formal voice, I tell her that we don’t want a children’s encyclopedia.
Now she is silent.
I remember that, in the remains of my mind’s clarity, I was wondering what would happen to G., he must have been seven or eight.
Since I had broken up with N., she and I had kept no contact.
She promised not to call or write and, of course, kept her promise.
It’s
terrible to say it now—but on my part, I mean, I practically wiped her out of me after we ended things.
I remember that, in the remains of my mind’s clarity, I was wondering what would happen to G., he must have been seven or eight.
Since I had broken up with N., she and I had kept no contact.
She promised not to call or write and, of course, kept her promise.
It’s
terrible to say it now—but on my part, I mean, I practically wiped her out of me after we ended things.
Please understand—T., the woman on the phone, accused me of adultery and dishonesty throughout the entire course of our affair.
She never told me directly, but I understood exactly how T.
felt about me from a few disapproving silences.
And even though I never met her, I felt that I always had to justify myself to her.
(I was not a little occupied with what her opinion of me must be.)
She never told me directly, but I understood exactly how T.
felt about me from a few disapproving silences.
And even though I never met her, I felt that I always had to justify myself to her.
(I was not a little occupied with what her opinion of me must be.)
And she says, I understand I must have called at an inconvenient time.
Maya calls out from the kitchen, Who is it?
We always report our callers to each other—we don’t even have to report it at this point—most of the time we can tell who it is from the other’s “Hello.”
We always report our callers to each other—we don’t even have to report it at this point—most of the time we can tell who it is from the other’s “Hello.”
I say aloud, You know what—it wouldn’t hurt if you gave me a few details on this new encyclopedia.
And Maya in the kitchen says, “By the time he learns to read, it will already be out of date.”
I make a “let’s hear him out” gesture.
Ido tries to say, “En-cy-clo-pe-di-a,” and they both laugh—and the kitchen sails away from me.
Ido tries to say, “En-cy-clo-pe-di-a,” and they both laugh—and the kitchen sails away from me.
T., who waited through this cozy conversation patiently, said quickly, with disgust, that N.
had passed away yesterday at Hadassah Hospital after having been very ill for half a year.
I didn’t even know she had gotten sick.
She had died twenty minutes away from me.
I didn’t feel anything—and there had been hours when my soul had touched her soul.
had passed away yesterday at Hadassah Hospital after having been very ill for half a year.
I didn’t even know she had gotten sick.
She had died twenty minutes away from me.
I didn’t feel anything—and there had been hours when my soul had touched her soul.
I also thought about how faithfully she had kept her promise—she didn’t call me even once, even when she got sick—she didn’t even write.
She was so strong, so faithful to me—and I was such a jerk for giving her up as I did.
And I actually knew so little about her.
She was so strong, so faithful to me—and I was such a jerk for giving her up as I did.
And I actually knew so little about her.
I could have never told you this story, couldn’t I?
Couldn’t I?
I have this stupid belief that if I tell you, nothing like it will ever happen to me again, in my life.
Couldn’t I?
I have this stupid belief that if I tell you, nothing like it will ever happen to me again, in my life.
I wanted to know what had happened to her during those years—what would happen to her child now.
I asked a few more empty questions, verbal dung for the satisfaction of my listeners.
T.
ignored it, quickly gave me the details about the funeral, and hung up.
And I hung up the phone because we weren’t interested in buying encyclopedias.
I returned to the kitchen, and M.
asked me if I had fallen for another one.
I.
showed me his whistle.
And I?
I sat down to my supper, and talked and laughed and whistled inward and outward, and felt like those Nazis who would come home to their families after work.
I asked a few more empty questions, verbal dung for the satisfaction of my listeners.
T.
ignored it, quickly gave me the details about the funeral, and hung up.
And I hung up the phone because we weren’t interested in buying encyclopedias.
I returned to the kitchen, and M.
asked me if I had fallen for another one.
I.
showed me his whistle.
And I?
I sat down to my supper, and talked and laughed and whistled inward and outward, and felt like those Nazis who would come home to their families after work.
My hand hurts from writing.
The blinds are shut, so I can forget, for a moment, if it is day or night.
I don’t know how you will feel about this story.
But look at it this way—you were gracious to me—you were the pit in the ground into which I could, once, yell out this secret.
I’ve never even told myself about it since it happened.
The blinds are shut, so I can forget, for a moment, if it is day or night.
I don’t know how you will feel about this story.
But look at it this way—you were gracious to me—you were the pit in the ground into which I could, once, yell out this secret.
I’ve never even told myself about it since it happened.
Listen, I’ve probably been looking for you for years, and in my search I wasted so much, constantly making too many mistakes by following the paths of too many coincidences.
It’s becoming clearer to me that I’ve been looking for you for a long time—like a man in a smoke-filled room looking for a window.
I guess everything was upside down.
I’ve always thought coincidence was my original sin—and also my most recurring sin—because my most important decisions have been made without any strong intentions—and certainly without this “lingering” of yours.
In the past few days, though, I am starting to realize that perhaps it is the other way around: Coincidence is not my sin but my punishment.
It’s becoming clearer to me that I’ve been looking for you for a long time—like a man in a smoke-filled room looking for a window.
I guess everything was upside down.
I’ve always thought coincidence was my original sin—and also my most recurring sin—because my most important decisions have been made without any strong intentions—and certainly without this “lingering” of yours.
In the past few days, though, I am starting to realize that perhaps it is the other way around: Coincidence is not my sin but my punishment.
It’s a rather horrible punishment.
You know what?
It is the most horrible punishment.
It proliferates, it spreads everywhere.
A person, for example, thinking about a child—it even doesn’t matter whose child—it could be his own son—and he suddenly asks himself, How can it be possible?
That a child, a wonder of creation, is born of an encounter that is not fated—and is preventable—between two
You know what?
It is the most horrible punishment.
It proliferates, it spreads everywhere.
A person, for example, thinking about a child—it even doesn’t matter whose child—it could be his own son—and he suddenly asks himself, How can it be possible?
That a child, a wonder of creation, is born of an encounter that is not fated—and is preventable—between two
(Does it ever occur for you—you write a sentence that, a moment earlier, you had no knowledge of?
Not in this way, never to that extent—suddenly a short, terse verdict is laid in front of you—with no possibility of appeal.)
Not in this way, never to that extent—suddenly a short, terse verdict is laid in front of you—with no possibility of appeal.)
Miriam,
A few minutes ago (it’s now seven in the morning)—I heard a noise.
I jumped out of bed (I guess I had fallen asleep for a little bit)—I was convinced that they had come to rob me, or rape me (anything is possible here), and saw that someone had pushed some paper under the door.
I jumped out of bed (I guess I had fallen asleep for a little bit)—I was convinced that they had come to rob me, or rape me (anything is possible here), and saw that someone had pushed some paper under the door.
Your letter.
Finally, from light-years a way—I think it came in the mail a couple of days ago and has lain on the check-in counter since (the envelope is covered with scribbles and doodles and phone numbers in many different handwritings).
It’s a shame it didn’t reach me earlier—it would have helped me a lot, saved me.
I haven’t opened it yet.
I can’t.
I’m afraid I will not be able to stand such joy in my present condition.
I’m also a little afraid of what is inside, that thing you were wondering about telling me.
I don’t think myself capable of handling anything too heavy right now.
Maybe I’ll take a small nap and later—
It’s a shame it didn’t reach me earlier—it would have helped me a lot, saved me.
I haven’t opened it yet.
I can’t.
I’m afraid I will not be able to stand such joy in my present condition.
I’m also a little afraid of what is inside, that thing you were wondering about telling me.
I don’t think myself capable of handling anything too heavy right now.
Maybe I’ll take a small nap and later—
But I’m already feeling different—completely different (as if they returned my ID card to me).
One more moment—I want to suck all the sweetness from the moment before.
A new yearning for home has awakened within me.
I phoned Maya and we talked.
Everything is fine—Ido has already recovered.
He hasn’t had a fever for a few days now and is just a bit swollen.
I ironed out my soul a little, and hers—I heard the noises of home in the background.
She told me she had come to Tel Aviv to look for me.
I didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.
Suddenly we sighed together—at least that was something good, our joined sigh.
I was filled with affection for her—we are good friends.
I might not have given her her due in these letters.
It is still hard to talk about her to you—too many voices mixing together.
But in life, in reality, she is my best friend—you know that, don’t you?
She is the light and the heat, the bloodstream and the tissue of my life.
She truly is my daily joy.
It is all so complicated.
I phoned Maya and we talked.
Everything is fine—Ido has already recovered.
He hasn’t had a fever for a few days now and is just a bit swollen.
I ironed out my soul a little, and hers—I heard the noises of home in the background.
She told me she had come to Tel Aviv to look for me.
I didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.
Suddenly we sighed together—at least that was something good, our joined sigh.
I was filled with affection for her—we are good friends.
I might not have given her her due in these letters.
It is still hard to talk about her to you—too many voices mixing together.
But in life, in reality, she is my best friend—you know that, don’t you?
She is the light and the heat, the bloodstream and the tissue of my life.
She truly is my daily joy.
It is all so complicated.
I told her I couldn’t come back yet.
She was silent again.
I told her that something was happening to me here, it got a little convoluted, I went somewhere I didn’t mean to go—and now I have to continue to untangle the mess.
I made it clear to her that it was something with myself.
She said, Take your time.
I told her it wouldn’t take long, just a few more days.
She said that if it was important to me, she would manage.
I thought about how generous she is, and how horrible I would have been to her, and how much I would have argued with her had our positions been reversed.
She was silent again.
I told her that something was happening to me here, it got a little convoluted, I went somewhere I didn’t mean to go—and now I have to continue to untangle the mess.
I made it clear to her that it was something with myself.
She said, Take your time.
I told her it wouldn’t take long, just a few more days.
She said that if it was important to me, she would manage.
I thought about how generous she is, and how horrible I would have been to her, and how much I would have argued with her had our positions been reversed.
After that, I dialed your number, and hung up before you could pick
up the phone.
But even the ringing was enough to make me feel better—that I was still capable of creating a sound you would hear.
up the phone.
But even the ringing was enough to make me feel better—that I was still capable of creating a sound you would hear.
I’m going to read your letter.
Just a moment.
Hey, Miriam …
Too heavy to contain, too dense to contain, too tense to contain—and yet, still—look at what a huge space you have cleared for me inside yourself—me with all my elbow angles poking you.
I wanted to simply jump into a taxi now, at this moment, at ten at night, to fly to you and hold you close, with all my strength, to stroke your face, comfort you.
I wanted to lie with you, so I could be as close as possible to the story, to the place of that story, of you and Amos and Anna.
And Yokhai.
I wanted to lie with you, so I could be as close as possible to the story, to the place of that story, of you and Amos and Anna.
And Yokhai.
You can probably guess the nausea I feel over some of the things I wrote to you over the past months unintentionally, innocently, rudeness, stupidity—without paying attention, with the cruelty of a baby crushing a chick—they all rise up in my throat.
My spoiled nonsense about the mumps—and what would
you
do if you had a disease with such complications … How the hell could you stand me?
you
do if you had a disease with such complications … How the hell could you stand me?
I wish you could feel how much I am with you now, in body and soul, more than ever—practically reigniting a huge engine inside me.
I’m coming back, Miriam.
I don’t want to remember where I have been these past few days, to what depths I sank.
I want to wake up to life, to give you all my genetic material, what I am, for better or for worse, with my words.
The microscopic double helix of my DNA spiraling through every sentence of mine to you.
I’m writing wretched nonsense, I know, because now I want to bring you even my stupidity, and my enthusiasm, my cowardice, and my treachery—and the miserliness of my heart.
But I also have two or three good things in me that could mix with all of your goodness.
Let my fears mate with yours, our disappointments and failures—only yesterday I wrote how insulting it is to think of a child being born by the non-fatal combination of a man and a woman.
And you never, not once, told me how many times that similar combination of words had floated in your mind—when a child was not born.
Why
didn’t you tell me?
You hid such a thing from me for six months—what were you afraid of?
I’m coming back, Miriam.
I don’t want to remember where I have been these past few days, to what depths I sank.
I want to wake up to life, to give you all my genetic material, what I am, for better or for worse, with my words.
The microscopic double helix of my DNA spiraling through every sentence of mine to you.
I’m writing wretched nonsense, I know, because now I want to bring you even my stupidity, and my enthusiasm, my cowardice, and my treachery—and the miserliness of my heart.
But I also have two or three good things in me that could mix with all of your goodness.
Let my fears mate with yours, our disappointments and failures—only yesterday I wrote how insulting it is to think of a child being born by the non-fatal combination of a man and a woman.
And you never, not once, told me how many times that similar combination of words had floated in your mind—when a child was not born.
Why
didn’t you tell me?
You hid such a thing from me for six months—what were you afraid of?
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