Be My Knife (39 page)
Authors: David Grossman
You reached a hand to the fruit bowl by the bed and pushed a grape into my mouth, saying,
This is not a grape
, anav;
this is an
anava—as if a grape could be a she-grape: the word sent a shocking wave of heat into my body—I bit into it, and juice sprayed onto your cheek and ran down.
One drop hung on the corner of your lips—I licked it and passed half a she-grape from my mouth to yours—and I passed the whole of my tongue over your beautiful lips.
Come, my darling, lie inside me
, you whispered in your heart—and I was instantly filled—again, suddenly—and we entwined even closer to each other and fell into eternal time.
I remember how you lifted your white legs up straight and tight in the air in one mind-blowing motion—and I tilted them so they both rested on my right shoulder—I leaned my head on them and thought,
Mew-ssic
.
We both watched us, you and me, together, a player with his white cello—and this, together, pushed us even deeper into the heart of consummation—and enflamed us into fire—the smell of my sweat was as strong as it is now, as I write you—my body sticky, hot, my lips burning, my skin stinging with madness—we both came.
We didn’t care at all about the other’s pleasure, didn’t keep track of it in the way I am inclined to do—and the pleasure was so intense I had to think about something else immediately—the same way sometimes I have to read your letters through half-closed eyes—so I thought that the thin voice wailing out at that moment was my voice, and how strange it is that when I am with you, I come with a terribly squeaky voice—so I immediately made some thick basso sounds, even though I clearly know that, in your opinion, I was the most myself when I was screaming before.
So, in order to put my manliness back in order, I roared out, as is customary, that the second time is always so much better and harder.
For a moment you couldn’t resist the light rudeness in my voice and drawled back in a deep, slightly exaggerated voice,
Oh yeah?
What do you know, anyway?
Poor men, who have to be satisfied with so little
.
And we knew we were both only paying lip service to our sexes, that really, something was truly happening to us, because we were no longer representing them as is customary and appropriate.
We
managed, by some miracle, to escape from the usual political system of men and women—and because of our intimacy and our wallowing in each other, it’s as if we had found a way to realize that our bodies are, after all, only a coincidence.
Right?
Just a few chunks of meat that happened to be stuck together in one way and not another.
A man came out, or a woman—and it’s true that this coincidence determines it—but just knowing that changes everything again.
It’s scary to write it down—as if the words themselves are capable of bewitching me—and then I would want this to last forever, the ability to move freely between sexes, to have my spirit finally fly like the bird in the oath of Bein ha-Betarim, the covenant of the flesh—
This is not a grape
, anav;
this is an
anava—as if a grape could be a she-grape: the word sent a shocking wave of heat into my body—I bit into it, and juice sprayed onto your cheek and ran down.
One drop hung on the corner of your lips—I licked it and passed half a she-grape from my mouth to yours—and I passed the whole of my tongue over your beautiful lips.
Come, my darling, lie inside me
, you whispered in your heart—and I was instantly filled—again, suddenly—and we entwined even closer to each other and fell into eternal time.
I remember how you lifted your white legs up straight and tight in the air in one mind-blowing motion—and I tilted them so they both rested on my right shoulder—I leaned my head on them and thought,
Mew-ssic
.
We both watched us, you and me, together, a player with his white cello—and this, together, pushed us even deeper into the heart of consummation—and enflamed us into fire—the smell of my sweat was as strong as it is now, as I write you—my body sticky, hot, my lips burning, my skin stinging with madness—we both came.
We didn’t care at all about the other’s pleasure, didn’t keep track of it in the way I am inclined to do—and the pleasure was so intense I had to think about something else immediately—the same way sometimes I have to read your letters through half-closed eyes—so I thought that the thin voice wailing out at that moment was my voice, and how strange it is that when I am with you, I come with a terribly squeaky voice—so I immediately made some thick basso sounds, even though I clearly know that, in your opinion, I was the most myself when I was screaming before.
So, in order to put my manliness back in order, I roared out, as is customary, that the second time is always so much better and harder.
For a moment you couldn’t resist the light rudeness in my voice and drawled back in a deep, slightly exaggerated voice,
Oh yeah?
What do you know, anyway?
Poor men, who have to be satisfied with so little
.
And we knew we were both only paying lip service to our sexes, that really, something was truly happening to us, because we were no longer representing them as is customary and appropriate.
We
managed, by some miracle, to escape from the usual political system of men and women—and because of our intimacy and our wallowing in each other, it’s as if we had found a way to realize that our bodies are, after all, only a coincidence.
Right?
Just a few chunks of meat that happened to be stuck together in one way and not another.
A man came out, or a woman—and it’s true that this coincidence determines it—but just knowing that changes everything again.
It’s scary to write it down—as if the words themselves are capable of bewitching me—and then I would want this to last forever, the ability to move freely between sexes, to have my spirit finally fly like the bird in the oath of Bein ha-Betarim, the covenant of the flesh—
Miriam, I am still terrified of this feeling starting to rise up within me—that another step forward—I mean—if we walk another step forward—or further inward—we might both break the laws of personal possession in their most elemental sense, the sane sense, I mean.
I am especially worried about you, yes, very worried—that you don’t know how to keep a hold on yourself and are really capable of any insanity.
There’s nothing we can do—you have to acknowledge the facts.
You’re so exposed—your totality scares me.
It is that clear to you that my feelings could never compare to yours, isn’t it?
Your wide range of shades and depths, and your abandon—and also your hidden demands that I be loyal to myself at least in the same way you are loyal to me, that I mourn being distinct from you—you have been broadcasting this to me this entire time, in these words, and in others—Don’t even try to deny that you want to be me!
I am especially worried about you, yes, very worried—that you don’t know how to keep a hold on yourself and are really capable of any insanity.
There’s nothing we can do—you have to acknowledge the facts.
You’re so exposed—your totality scares me.
It is that clear to you that my feelings could never compare to yours, isn’t it?
Your wide range of shades and depths, and your abandon—and also your hidden demands that I be loyal to myself at least in the same way you are loyal to me, that I mourn being distinct from you—you have been broadcasting this to me this entire time, in these words, and in others—Don’t even try to deny that you want to be me!
Just a minute, no—don’t be easy on me—clench me with all the strength of your groin clamps, wrap your two legs around my body and whisper in my ear that this is you, and this is me, and that I won’t pull out—fight me!
I’ve been writing for hours, my words are starting to fall apart, I am in a state of exhaustion—I no longer know what to do with you—and that is the bitter truth.
It’s not that I am suddenly retreating, and I’m not saying that we should end things now, even before that stupid ultimatum, that guillotine finally—
I’ve been writing for hours, my words are starting to fall apart, I am in a state of exhaustion—I no longer know what to do with you—and that is the bitter truth.
It’s not that I am suddenly retreating, and I’m not saying that we should end things now, even before that stupid ultimatum, that guillotine finally—
Maybe we should stop this now, before it’s really too late, Miriam.
October 13
Yair.
It really is Yair.
But I won’t give you my surname.
It really is Yair.
But I won’t give you my surname.
I truly would have liked to tell you, tell you everything.
What do you
think?
I could so easily write it down for you, here, in order—name, address, telephone number, occupation, and age—so there can at least be a clear path to the recipient of your feelings of disgust.
But then, all those sweaty molecules will start sticking together into a new, epidermic story—and we will both die twice.
What do you
think?
I could so easily write it down for you, here, in order—name, address, telephone number, occupation, and age—so there can at least be a clear path to the recipient of your feelings of disgust.
But then, all those sweaty molecules will start sticking together into a new, epidermic story—and we will both die twice.
It really is better this way, believe me.
Why do you want to know how small, how banal I am in real life?
Why do you want to know how small, how banal I am in real life?
That’s it.
This is where our broadcast ends, and our little hallucinations.
And everything.
I am in Jerusalem again, tightly screwed back into my life—you do understand that I cannot continue this after what happened.
Even I have some limit to my baseness.
I can’t stand the thought of what you went through because of me, in those stinking places on the beach—it’s only proof of how any connection with me continues to soil everything.
This is where our broadcast ends, and our little hallucinations.
And everything.
I am in Jerusalem again, tightly screwed back into my life—you do understand that I cannot continue this after what happened.
Even I have some limit to my baseness.
I can’t stand the thought of what you went through because of me, in those stinking places on the beach—it’s only proof of how any connection with me continues to soil everything.
Miriam, Miriaaammm, oh, how I loved to roar out your name in the beginning.
I’m now lying in the lowest cellar I have ever been in—I feel like a human roach.
There is no punishment I deserve more than terminating my connection with you—it is the one judgment I can pronounce upon myself.
I had almost written: “Who knows how long it will take until I’m myself again?”—but as you well know, who is that self, anyway, and who would even be interested in returning to it?
I’m now lying in the lowest cellar I have ever been in—I feel like a human roach.
There is no punishment I deserve more than terminating my connection with you—it is the one judgment I can pronounce upon myself.
I had almost written: “Who knows how long it will take until I’m myself again?”—but as you well know, who is that self, anyway, and who would even be interested in returning to it?
Because at least twice a day during my time with you, he would squeeze his hand through a crack in the door and inquire whether his nightmare was over already and whether you were gone—and I have no doubt that as soon as tomorrow rolls around—What am I talking about?
Tomorrow?
Tonight, now, when I seal this envelope!
And I will see him sitting in my chair, legs up on the table, grinning at me: Baby, I’m home!
Tomorrow?
Tonight, now, when I seal this envelope!
And I will see him sitting in my chair, legs up on the table, grinning at me: Baby, I’m home!
Enough, enough.
Let’s finish it.
It’s like the eulogy at my own funeral.
In these past months you gave me the greatest gift I have ever received from anyone (I can only compare it to what Maya gave me when she agreed to have a child with me), and I’ve destroyed it.
Oh well, I’m dedicatedly destroying what Maya gave me as well.
Let’s finish it.
It’s like the eulogy at my own funeral.
In these past months you gave me the greatest gift I have ever received from anyone (I can only compare it to what Maya gave me when she agreed to have a child with me), and I’ve destroyed it.
Oh well, I’m dedicatedly destroying what Maya gave me as well.
I can’t describe in words what the thought of you getting up and leaving everything behind to come to Tel Aviv does to me.
You were there for me; again, perhaps it seems only natural to you—you felt that I was in distress, and you sailed out to help—but it still moves me terribly to think that a person would do such a thing for another person—for me.
You were there for me; again, perhaps it seems only natural to you—you felt that I was in distress, and you sailed out to help—but it still moves me terribly to think that a person would do such a thing for another person—for me.
And the thought tormenting me now is that I became so absorbed in
myself that I didn’t see you, didn’t guess that you were—that for two days we were perhaps a hundred meters away from each other—perhaps we even passed each other in touching distance—and I, what did I see?
Only words.
myself that I didn’t see you, didn’t guess that you were—that for two days we were perhaps a hundred meters away from each other—perhaps we even passed each other in touching distance—and I, what did I see?
Only words.
To think of you walking between the prostitutes on the beach, approaching them and asking them—or going into the hotels that rent by the hour along Allenby and ha-Yarkon—then returning to walk there at night as well; and the “health clubs” and “massage parlors”—investigating, insisting and arguing with those loathsome characters over there—and that guy who looked at you and started following you, weren’t you scared?
Just imagine—a student of yours could have seen you—didn’t you realize how crazy you were to do such a thing—for me?
Just imagine—a student of yours could have seen you—didn’t you realize how crazy you were to do such a thing—for me?
My most terribly dear and wonderful Miriam—the horrible squeezing under my heart tells me that now is the moment I should have stood up and come to you and said, Let’s try, why not, maybe we can—Your Honor, Judge, perhaps you will be lenient and order reality to loosen up its jaws just a little, so we can escape from them, for just one moment, and be two human beings who wish to be alone.
Why not?
Two human beings who like each other.
Who will it hurt if they take shelter in each other and curl up together for two hours a week in some shitty motel, so they can watch what happens to them and find out where they can go together?
Actually, Your Honor, why does it have to be a shitty motel?
Go easy this time—let it go—ignore them—treat it like the rehabilitation of the outlaw I am; why can’t you think of them meeting in a beautiful open space, on the seashore, in a glittering city, on the lawn of Ramat Rakhel against the desert, in the oak forest above the Kinneret …
Why not?
Two human beings who like each other.
Who will it hurt if they take shelter in each other and curl up together for two hours a week in some shitty motel, so they can watch what happens to them and find out where they can go together?
Actually, Your Honor, why does it have to be a shitty motel?
Go easy this time—let it go—ignore them—treat it like the rehabilitation of the outlaw I am; why can’t you think of them meeting in a beautiful open space, on the seashore, in a glittering city, on the lawn of Ramat Rakhel against the desert, in the oak forest above the Kinneret …
You asked at the end of your letter, What will become of us now?
That’s right: What will become of us?
Yair
Just another moment.
I can’t stop.
It’s as if everything will end if I stop writing.
I can’t stop.
It’s as if everything will end if I stop writing.
I knew it from your response to my first letter—I knew you would take me to a very faraway place, over my horizon—and yet I still went
with you—why did I go with you?
After you wrote to me how thrilled you were by my letter, my first impulse was to cut it off immediately.
Can you grasp what it means that this is what you wrote, at the beginning of all of this—without knowing who I was, without any games or pretense?
with you—why did I go with you?
After you wrote to me how thrilled you were by my letter, my first impulse was to cut it off immediately.
Can you grasp what it means that this is what you wrote, at the beginning of all of this—without knowing who I was, without any games or pretense?
It is so rare—believe me, trust the expert; and even then I told myself, She is too good and innocent for your games of self-immolation—be gallant for once in your life!
Let this one go—even Jack must have taken mercy and spared one woman from his ripping—mustn’t he?
Let this one go—even Jack must have taken mercy and spared one woman from his ripping—mustn’t he?
You will probably object to this comparison, but in some strange way your integrity now seems very close to what you called my “fuss and mirrors.”
It is not easily understood, your integrity—at least not by the common ruling laws of my swinish hypocrisy.
It is a private integrity, made of your element alone, a battlefield created by the war of the strong forces within you that are constantly working together, mixing into one another.
You touch all of it, and somehow don’t die of it.
On the contrary.
I wish I could learn this wisdom from you—but I don’t think I will ever be able to.
It is not easily understood, your integrity—at least not by the common ruling laws of my swinish hypocrisy.
It is a private integrity, made of your element alone, a battlefield created by the war of the strong forces within you that are constantly working together, mixing into one another.
You touch all of it, and somehow don’t die of it.
On the contrary.
I wish I could learn this wisdom from you—but I don’t think I will ever be able to.
Does this cause me sorrow?
Yes.
And shame, too.
Perhaps you think I don’t even know what shame is.
Please don’t take away my right to be ashamed.
Yes.
And shame, too.
Perhaps you think I don’t even know what shame is.
Please don’t take away my right to be ashamed.
You know, all through the period of our correspondence I was faithful to you.
I mean—this may sound pitiful to you, but still—I even lost the urge (well, almost) to look at each passing woman and fantasize about her or try my luck with her—and if I was momentarily tempted, I immediately felt how you (you, not Maya) shrank with pain.
It is important to me that you know that there were no exceptions; this is not a simple matter with me.
In this way, ten times a day, a huge surge of pride filled me for being yours.
My pride over this, my “loyalty,” probably makes you sick; truly, what right do I have to it, as we are actually talking about retreating to our rear lines of loyalty here.
And still.
I mean—this may sound pitiful to you, but still—I even lost the urge (well, almost) to look at each passing woman and fantasize about her or try my luck with her—and if I was momentarily tempted, I immediately felt how you (you, not Maya) shrank with pain.
It is important to me that you know that there were no exceptions; this is not a simple matter with me.
In this way, ten times a day, a huge surge of pride filled me for being yours.
My pride over this, my “loyalty,” probably makes you sick; truly, what right do I have to it, as we are actually talking about retreating to our rear lines of loyalty here.
And still.
Miriam—this is my last letter.
I will most likely not write to you again.
You see?
We never even reached the guillotine.
We settled it on our own.
If I wasn’t such a fool, I could have been happy with you; it doesn’t matter how—in any way the world would have allowed us to be happy.
By the way, I’m looking at the date, and remember that it is your birthday this week, isn’t it?
You’re forty years old this week.
Three days ago, of course.
You were probably waiting for me that day, hoping I
would bring you a gift, that I would come to you as a gift; and all you got, eventually, was that heap from Tel Aviv.
With the “Don’t come out” letter at the end for dessert.
I will most likely not write to you again.
You see?
We never even reached the guillotine.
We settled it on our own.
If I wasn’t such a fool, I could have been happy with you; it doesn’t matter how—in any way the world would have allowed us to be happy.
By the way, I’m looking at the date, and remember that it is your birthday this week, isn’t it?
You’re forty years old this week.
Three days ago, of course.
You were probably waiting for me that day, hoping I
would bring you a gift, that I would come to you as a gift; and all you got, eventually, was that heap from Tel Aviv.
With the “Don’t come out” letter at the end for dessert.
What should I wish for you on your birthday?
Actually, I should wish you for yourself, because you are the most precious, rarest gift I can think of right now—I wish I had more courage, for your sake.
Actually, I should wish you for yourself, because you are the most precious, rarest gift I can think of right now—I wish I had more courage, for your sake.
No.
I want to wish for something greater.
Why compromise?
I want a real wish.
I wish, I wish time would stop—and that this past summer could continue forever—that I could elude the goddamn grip I have on myself—and be discovered, suddenly, in another place—in front of you, for example.
But new, free, naked.
Even for just one day.
Even for one page of a letter.
One blink of absolute freedom.
Why not?
Really?
Otherwise, what am I worth?
I want to wish for something greater.
Why compromise?
I want a real wish.
I wish, I wish time would stop—and that this past summer could continue forever—that I could elude the goddamn grip I have on myself—and be discovered, suddenly, in another place—in front of you, for example.
But new, free, naked.
Even for just one day.
Even for one page of a letter.
One blink of absolute freedom.
Why not?
Really?
Otherwise, what am I worth?
Yair Einhorn
(Midnight.)
(That’s it?
All that noise and mystery for that kind of name?)
All that noise and mystery for that kind of name?)
I’m thirty-three years old.
I live in Talpiyot—the address is on the envelope—in a new, crowded neighborhood of private bungalows.
This is where I chose to build my home—it’s a kind of nouveau riche slum.
What else?
I run quite a large business, it’s called the Book Bunk, it’s actually right on the edge of the Jerusalem Forest, not too far from your house.
I sell used books and search for rare books on commission.
What else?
Ask me, ask me, the turnstile is open.
I have a staff of ten, including a book doctor and one young genius in a wheelchair who knows almost every book ever written in Hebrew and can recognize a book by a single sentence from it (he found your “dress his face with tales”).
And there are seven cavalrymen on motorcycles whom I saved from a pizza delivery business that went bankrupt and closed.
I’ve turned them into deliverers of books and send them to customers’ homes all over the country.
They leave black, burning stripes on the land, delivering every book and magazine that exists in the galaxy, from how-to guides about growing orchids, to Elvis Presley biographies, to volumes of Judaica and issues of the Dutch Royal House fan magazine.
I live in Talpiyot—the address is on the envelope—in a new, crowded neighborhood of private bungalows.
This is where I chose to build my home—it’s a kind of nouveau riche slum.
What else?
I run quite a large business, it’s called the Book Bunk, it’s actually right on the edge of the Jerusalem Forest, not too far from your house.
I sell used books and search for rare books on commission.
What else?
Ask me, ask me, the turnstile is open.
I have a staff of ten, including a book doctor and one young genius in a wheelchair who knows almost every book ever written in Hebrew and can recognize a book by a single sentence from it (he found your “dress his face with tales”).
And there are seven cavalrymen on motorcycles whom I saved from a pizza delivery business that went bankrupt and closed.
I’ve turned them into deliverers of books and send them to customers’ homes all over the country.
They leave black, burning stripes on the land, delivering every book and magazine that exists in the galaxy, from how-to guides about growing orchids, to Elvis Presley biographies, to volumes of Judaica and issues of the Dutch Royal House fan magazine.
I make sure to bite a little piece of paper from every copy of
Zorba
that rolls through my hands (well, I’m not as young as I used to be).
And of course, I forever tip my hat to you for successfully, and without much
ado, arranging the subscriptions to the Chinese newspaper for the only two interested readers in the country.
Zorba
that rolls through my hands (well, I’m not as young as I used to be).
And of course, I forever tip my hat to you for successfully, and without much
ado, arranging the subscriptions to the Chinese newspaper for the only two interested readers in the country.
I’m a bit winded—but I said everything, didn’t I?
I did it.
I did it.
So what, then?
Should we perhaps hum along a bit about daily affairs, to get over the embarrassment?
It suddenly became uncomfortable, didn’t it?
Someone exhaled a breath of reality.
Should I tell you about my work?
Why not, we’ve already yielded to the little sweaty molecules—do you want to hear what my workers receive as holiday gifts?
Should we perhaps hum along a bit about daily affairs, to get over the embarrassment?
It suddenly became uncomfortable, didn’t it?
Someone exhaled a breath of reality.
Should I tell you about my work?
Why not, we’ve already yielded to the little sweaty molecules—do you want to hear what my workers receive as holiday gifts?
Enough, Miriam.
Give up on me.
It was all fantasy—if there was any other solution, any other system at work in the world … I would pass almost everything I did or said through your eyes first, through your thoughts and your hungry mouth—If someone pissed me off at work or on the road, I used to think of you.
I would roll your name under my tongue and immediately calm down.
I never met a person into whose hands I wanted to deliver my soul in this way—nor did I ever think I would trust her to know how to put me together again, correctly.
There are certain geniuses to whom you could give a jigsaw puzzle of a parrot—and they could put those pieces together to make a fish.
I gave you a creep—and you made a human out of it—the same pieces, but somehow, always better.
Give up on me.
It was all fantasy—if there was any other solution, any other system at work in the world … I would pass almost everything I did or said through your eyes first, through your thoughts and your hungry mouth—If someone pissed me off at work or on the road, I used to think of you.
I would roll your name under my tongue and immediately calm down.
I never met a person into whose hands I wanted to deliver my soul in this way—nor did I ever think I would trust her to know how to put me together again, correctly.
There are certain geniuses to whom you could give a jigsaw puzzle of a parrot—and they could put those pieces together to make a fish.
I gave you a creep—and you made a human out of it—the same pieces, but somehow, always better.
I should perhaps tell you that in recent past weeks I thought, with my usual denseness, that if I had a purpose in life, it was you—or it has something to do with you, or that through you, I will somehow reach it.
There isn’t much reason behind this thinking, but this is how I felt—and you are the only person to whom I could write such words without feeling ridiculous.
Now I will have to go back and look for this “purpose” in a different, and simpler, place—where it is probably easier for me to search under the light, or the Lila, the Liza, or the Lorelei.
Pitful, aren’t I?
There isn’t much reason behind this thinking, but this is how I felt—and you are the only person to whom I could write such words without feeling ridiculous.
Now I will have to go back and look for this “purpose” in a different, and simpler, place—where it is probably easier for me to search under the light, or the Lila, the Liza, or the Lorelei.
Pitful, aren’t I?
It occurs to me that if, let’s say, I was kidnapped—or disappeared without a trace—and a detective came here and tried to understand or figure out who I was based on what everyone around me here knows, he could never find me.
This is another thing I never learned until you—that I mainly live in what I’m not.
This is another thing I never learned until you—that I mainly live in what I’m not.
I had hoped this profession would make me happier, and it doesn’t.
The details are truly unimportant.
I never told you how many jobs I had already tried, how many mistakes I have wallowed in.
I thought I finally found my vocation—working with books, searching to find for people the stories from their childhood that they loved.
What could be more
suitable for me?
Apparently it isn’t.
I am only almost happy here.
It is still a secondhand pleasure.
The details are truly unimportant.
I never told you how many jobs I had already tried, how many mistakes I have wallowed in.
I thought I finally found my vocation—working with books, searching to find for people the stories from their childhood that they loved.
What could be more
suitable for me?
Apparently it isn’t.
I am only almost happy here.
It is still a secondhand pleasure.
You have no idea how much I loathe books this minute.
Why is it that none of the thousands of books that surround me can help me?
And none of them tell our story.
Why is it that none of the thousands of books that surround me can help me?
And none of them tell our story.
And none of them gave me what your letters gave me.
Yair
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