Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (48 page)
This morning’s lottery (again!) drew the last letter from Tel Aviv: “ … that you actually strike a spark from me to ignite yourself to life.”
I’m reading it and am filled with despair.
I don’t understand the tone of his complaint, this thrusting of guilt onto me; it makes me so happy each time someone, anyone, a pupil, a friend, Amos “takes a spark from me.
I don’t understand the tone of his complaint, this thrusting of guilt onto me; it makes me so happy each time someone, anyone, a pupil, a friend, Amos “takes a spark from me.
Please, take it, I have so few takers.
I want this—each time the green man on Mars gazes down at me, he will see how sparks fly, every time I interact and connect with another person.
… And immediately, upon my first exit from the house after writing, “reality” responds: I sneezed hard by the traffic light at Ha-Mekasher Junction.
A young man, tanned, with blond curls and a backpack, passed in front of me.
He took a deep breath and laughed: “Even your germs, baby.”
A young man, tanned, with blond curls and a backpack, passed in front of me.
He took a deep breath and laughed: “Even your germs, baby.”
A stupid quarrel with A.
It started with his suggestion that I take a vacation, to refresh myself.
Maybe even go abroad.
And I attacked him, screeched out that he probably doesn’t want me by his side right now, that he can hardly stand me in the condition I’ve been in.
It was complete nonsense, it had no basis in reality, but I was already swept away on a tide of anger.
I felt as if internal streams of poisons were breaking open inside me, my guts were burning … I said horrible things.
As an impartial observer I listened to myself … I sounded as if I was reciting text from some cheap melodrama—Maybe he already has someone else, and if he wants to be with her, he should look for a better, less transparent excuse.
His face sank in front of me, faded away; he tried to calm me down and looked so worried for me, scared—it tore my heart, and still I wasn’t able to stop.
It was as if a burning, twisting spiral cord had been cut loose and scratched my insides; it was a crazy mix of pain and meaningless pleasure.
Then I said something about him and Anna (something I had never thought before and will not write down now), and his face tightened as if I had slapped him.
He left home, slamming the door, and came back just before dawn, after I had spent hours with my nightmares, seeing him in every possible place.
I apologized and he forgave me.
But how will he really be able to forgive and forget?
The air in the house is constrainedly polite and burning.
Yokhai, who witnessed it, sticks by Amos and refuses
to let go of him; he considers me with a new kind of look, as if he finally understands, for the first time, what the story truly is.
It started with his suggestion that I take a vacation, to refresh myself.
Maybe even go abroad.
And I attacked him, screeched out that he probably doesn’t want me by his side right now, that he can hardly stand me in the condition I’ve been in.
It was complete nonsense, it had no basis in reality, but I was already swept away on a tide of anger.
I felt as if internal streams of poisons were breaking open inside me, my guts were burning … I said horrible things.
As an impartial observer I listened to myself … I sounded as if I was reciting text from some cheap melodrama—Maybe he already has someone else, and if he wants to be with her, he should look for a better, less transparent excuse.
His face sank in front of me, faded away; he tried to calm me down and looked so worried for me, scared—it tore my heart, and still I wasn’t able to stop.
It was as if a burning, twisting spiral cord had been cut loose and scratched my insides; it was a crazy mix of pain and meaningless pleasure.
Then I said something about him and Anna (something I had never thought before and will not write down now), and his face tightened as if I had slapped him.
He left home, slamming the door, and came back just before dawn, after I had spent hours with my nightmares, seeing him in every possible place.
I apologized and he forgave me.
But how will he really be able to forgive and forget?
The air in the house is constrainedly polite and burning.
Yokhai, who witnessed it, sticks by Amos and refuses
to let go of him; he considers me with a new kind of look, as if he finally understands, for the first time, what the story truly is.
Another fit tonight.
Probably because of the tension.
This time he suddenly refused to swallow the Apenotin.
He raged, and broke another window, and hurt his hand.
Amos couldn’t stand it and went out for a walk.
I struggled with him by myself for long minutes until I succeeded in calming him down (he really is a lot stronger than I am).
While doing that, he again scraped open the scab on his forehead.
I really don’t know how to keep him from doing that again and again, he takes such a terrible pleasure in scraping and rubbing his wounds, and it drives me crazy (also because I understand it so completely).
Later, when I finally managed to get him to bed, he asked me with hand signs to tie him down, something we haven’t had to do for a long time now, months.
Amos wasn’t there, so I decided to do it alone.
Again, it was amazing to see how it immediately calmed him.
I rubbed his feet and sang quietly to him until he fell asleep; so perhaps we renewed our pact with each other.
Probably because of the tension.
This time he suddenly refused to swallow the Apenotin.
He raged, and broke another window, and hurt his hand.
Amos couldn’t stand it and went out for a walk.
I struggled with him by myself for long minutes until I succeeded in calming him down (he really is a lot stronger than I am).
While doing that, he again scraped open the scab on his forehead.
I really don’t know how to keep him from doing that again and again, he takes such a terrible pleasure in scraping and rubbing his wounds, and it drives me crazy (also because I understand it so completely).
Later, when I finally managed to get him to bed, he asked me with hand signs to tie him down, something we haven’t had to do for a long time now, months.
Amos wasn’t there, so I decided to do it alone.
Again, it was amazing to see how it immediately calmed him.
I rubbed his feet and sang quietly to him until he fell asleep; so perhaps we renewed our pact with each other.
I sank in front of the television, exhausted.
I was so run-down, so empty, I thought that if a miracle didn’t happen in a few minutes, I would simply cease to exist.
With no pain.
I was so run-down, so empty, I thought that if a miracle didn’t happen in a few minutes, I would simply cease to exist.
With no pain.
A miracle happened, as usual.
They broadcast another one of “my” programs, about the forgotten tribes that Amos suspects the BBC invents just for me.
This time it was about a tribe living in the Sahara desert.
Once a year they migrate to a new place to live, and they feast for a week and marry off the girls.
Each girl chooses two men and spends her first night with them.
One very pretty girl told the camera, “On this night I will become a woman.”
For a few weeks she will have sexual relations with both of them, but after that, she will marry a third …
They broadcast another one of “my” programs, about the forgotten tribes that Amos suspects the BBC invents just for me.
This time it was about a tribe living in the Sahara desert.
Once a year they migrate to a new place to live, and they feast for a week and marry off the girls.
Each girl chooses two men and spends her first night with them.
One very pretty girl told the camera, “On this night I will become a woman.”
For a few weeks she will have sexual relations with both of them, but after that, she will marry a third …
They showed her after the first night, sitting with both her men, combing the hair of one of them—He laughed and told the other one, “You see?
At night she loved you more, but now she loves me.”
At night she loved you more, but now she loves me.”
Nothing happened, but I felt that I was slowly returning from some dark place.
Why, you can, during a complete life with someone (said Amos later, in the kitchen, after we made up), travel the whole spectrum of human
emotions, and I said, And animal ones as well.
He closed his eyes and became silent with memories not from here, and I saw, flashing on his (already tired, already comfortable) face, what used to scare me in him, the mark of times and memories in which I have no part.
This time, for some reason, it brought me joy, even relief, as if, for a moment, a polygon crystal filled with shadows had turned in front of me, and at the end of the turn again showed the well-known features; and it wasn’t fake, this is his face now; each facet, together, is also the sum of all his faces.
I was filled with love for him in a way I haven’t felt for weeks.
Love for him, because of him, himself, alone.
I thought how lucky I was that I was no longer a young girl, and that he is no longer a young man; and thought how much I love his wrinkles.
emotions, and I said, And animal ones as well.
He closed his eyes and became silent with memories not from here, and I saw, flashing on his (already tired, already comfortable) face, what used to scare me in him, the mark of times and memories in which I have no part.
This time, for some reason, it brought me joy, even relief, as if, for a moment, a polygon crystal filled with shadows had turned in front of me, and at the end of the turn again showed the well-known features; and it wasn’t fake, this is his face now; each facet, together, is also the sum of all his faces.
I was filled with love for him in a way I haven’t felt for weeks.
Love for him, because of him, himself, alone.
I thought how lucky I was that I was no longer a young girl, and that he is no longer a young man; and thought how much I love his wrinkles.
I’m eight or nine years old, in the apartment on 15 Nekhemya Street; folded up into my hiding place behind the “geyser” in the bathroom, my body clinging to the hot boiler as I whisper tragic love stories to myself that I used to invent (it bursts open inside me as I write—the smell of burning wood, the lavender bottle I found on the beach and kept back there, hidden with
Life
Assets, the book that was my Bible; the way I used to search for my groom among the fallen soldiers of the
Scrolls of Fire
.
My little round mirror, my treasure with the red velvet back, in front of which I would practice wild Hollywood kisses for hours, exemplary little girl that I was.
I was also Eliki, and Marisol the Spanish singer—it’s been thirty years since I’ve thought of her, and just like that, she springs out of my little finger …).
Life
Assets, the book that was my Bible; the way I used to search for my groom among the fallen soldiers of the
Scrolls of Fire
.
My little round mirror, my treasure with the red velvet back, in front of which I would practice wild Hollywood kisses for hours, exemplary little girl that I was.
I was also Eliki, and Marisol the Spanish singer—it’s been thirty years since I’ve thought of her, and just like that, she springs out of my little finger …).
I am crouched there, behind the geyser; it was the only place in the house my mother couldn’t get into.
I’m whispering a story to myself, completely focused on it, but I suddenly feel something—deep furrows are being plowed into my back: she is on tiptoe, she has sneaked in to listen to me (the smell of the bleach from her hands slaps me in the face).
Then, as if I hadn’t noticed her, I begin raising my voice, speaking with elevated language, ornamented and lofty.
I excite myself without shame, so that she’ll understand and know exactly just how splendid and glamorous I am, so she will feel like a dry raisin in front of the harvest celebration that I am.
So she knows that I will never be her.
I’m whispering a story to myself, completely focused on it, but I suddenly feel something—deep furrows are being plowed into my back: she is on tiptoe, she has sneaked in to listen to me (the smell of the bleach from her hands slaps me in the face).
Then, as if I hadn’t noticed her, I begin raising my voice, speaking with elevated language, ornamented and lofty.
I excite myself without shame, so that she’ll understand and know exactly just how splendid and glamorous I am, so she will feel like a dry raisin in front of the harvest celebration that I am.
So she knows that I will never be her.
(It now becomes clear to me that more than once, when I was writing to Yair, perhaps more than I was willing to admit, I used to write for that
pair of eyes as well, that were always, always, snooping over my shoulder.
Oh, the twisted temptation to once again feel how they are bulging open behind me in amazement, monstrous and shocked at what I am capable of …)
pair of eyes as well, that were always, always, snooping over my shoulder.
Oh, the twisted temptation to once again feel how they are bulging open behind me in amazement, monstrous and shocked at what I am capable of …)
Not now, though.
In these pages I don’t feel them there at all.
In these pages I don’t feel them there at all.
No one to the left of me, no one to the right.
There are none behind me, none to my side.
There are none behind me, none to my side.
Over the last hour, the sky has begun to produce an unusual light within the usual twilight, almost European.
I’ve been sitting here for even longer, hypnotized, absorbing the changing colors into my body.
Only my writing hand is moving.
Our kingfisher is simply going out of his mind with the beauty of it, diving again and again into the turquoise light, not to hunt for insects, or to impress a female kingfisher, either—only to add his own color to the picture.
I suddenly know again that the world
exists
; it is beautiful, and even if I am not always completely available to appreciate its beauty, others can feel it, and soon I will be able to return to that, to fee
I’ve been sitting here for even longer, hypnotized, absorbing the changing colors into my body.
Only my writing hand is moving.
Our kingfisher is simply going out of his mind with the beauty of it, diving again and again into the turquoise light, not to hunt for insects, or to impress a female kingfisher, either—only to add his own color to the picture.
I suddenly know again that the world
exists
; it is beautiful, and even if I am not always completely available to appreciate its beauty, others can feel it, and soon I will be able to return to that, to fee
Dear God
Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.
Now.
It’s all over.
I am writing mainly to keep myself from shaking.
I was sitting on the balcony, writing, and Yokhai was playing in the garden.
I usually lift my head every few seconds to watch him, but I guess I forgot for a moment.
When I next lifted my head, he was gone and the gate was open.
I ran as if my life depended on it, and the thoughts were racing through my head—that maybe I should pierce the tires of parked cars, so they wouldn’t be able to go, etc., and where could he have gone, and who will find him.
I asked neighbors, people in the street.
No one had seen him.
I ran to the center of the village like a madwoman, bursting into the grocery store, to the candy shelves, because sometimes … but he wasn’t there.
Everyone stared at me, with that look of … I return home (this all happened about half an hour ago), and he is not at home.
Everything is fine.
Now.
It’s all over.
I am writing mainly to keep myself from shaking.
I was sitting on the balcony, writing, and Yokhai was playing in the garden.
I usually lift my head every few seconds to watch him, but I guess I forgot for a moment.
When I next lifted my head, he was gone and the gate was open.
I ran as if my life depended on it, and the thoughts were racing through my head—that maybe I should pierce the tires of parked cars, so they wouldn’t be able to go, etc., and where could he have gone, and who will find him.
I asked neighbors, people in the street.
No one had seen him.
I ran to the center of the village like a madwoman, bursting into the grocery store, to the candy shelves, because sometimes … but he wasn’t there.
Everyone stared at me, with that look of … I return home (this all happened about half an hour ago), and he is not at home.
The fear.
Until now, I—and all the internal judges, of course, pronouncing the verdict: they left him in my care and I didn’t keep him safe.
Again, I get up, run down the road into the valley, and there—finally
—I see him walking along the lower path.
No.
First I hear a strange, heavy, ringing noise; only then do I see him, walking, bent over.
My first thought—they did something to him.
I run to him and see that someone has hung a huge cowbell around his neck.
Until now, I—and all the internal judges, of course, pronouncing the verdict: they left him in my care and I didn’t keep him safe.
Again, I get up, run down the road into the valley, and there—finally
—I see him walking along the lower path.
No.
First I hear a strange, heavy, ringing noise; only then do I see him, walking, bent over.
My first thought—they did something to him.
I run to him and see that someone has hung a huge cowbell around his neck.
At least he isn’t hurt (I have ten hands in such moments as these).
I immediately check him all over his body, and he is fine.
Just that bell.
Who’s done this?
What is—and as he moves, the bell rings and the thick, rough rope scratches his delicate neck.
I try to tear it off with my hands, with my teeth, and I can’t.
I see two giggling teenagers behind.
a rock; I don’t know them.
Perhaps they are from the nearby school.
My mind is blank.
I sit Yokhai down on a rock and walk up to them, without the faintest idea as to why.
They back off.
I hear someone explaining, out loud, in my voice, I’d better stay away from them—I start running after them, and they escape.
Fifteen-year-olds, teenagers, slim like bamboo sticks, but I caught up to them by the split rock.
I’m breathless, so I ask them with my eyes, with my hands, with my teeth,
Why
?
They laugh at me—one of them has huge pimples on his forehead, the other is trying to grow a little beard.
They are older than I thought, maybe seventeen, and they start playing with me, turning me around, making obscene gestures as they dance in front of me, poking me from behind, on my back, the back of my neck.
All of it is silent, and I don’t know why I don’t yell for help.
I just know I have to get away.
But then they begin to imitate Yokhai, his walk, his blinking.
I choose the larger of the two—he is a head taller than I am, and I wait for him to come close to me.
And then, with the whole of my palm, I slap him.
I slap him so hard I fall—but apparently he falls as well.
I get up first, being at least more practiced in these situations, and the other guy backs off a little.
So I pick up a thick piece of wood that had been left there and swing it in his face.
The one on the ground is actually screaming in pain, holding his face and screaming.
Soon the other one will scream, too.
I will kill them and throw their bodies in a well.
The other bends to pick up a stone, and I slam him behind his knees with all the strength I don’t have.
He falls for what seems like a long time and howls in pain.
My mind finally starts to clear as he is lying at my feet, begging me not to hurt him.
I still need to do something to the bastard—but Yokhai is alone, I left him alone again!
I run to him, leaving them behind.
They curse and stones fall close to me—but not a single one hits me.
That’s it.
That’s the whole story.
I immediately check him all over his body, and he is fine.
Just that bell.
Who’s done this?
What is—and as he moves, the bell rings and the thick, rough rope scratches his delicate neck.
I try to tear it off with my hands, with my teeth, and I can’t.
I see two giggling teenagers behind.
a rock; I don’t know them.
Perhaps they are from the nearby school.
My mind is blank.
I sit Yokhai down on a rock and walk up to them, without the faintest idea as to why.
They back off.
I hear someone explaining, out loud, in my voice, I’d better stay away from them—I start running after them, and they escape.
Fifteen-year-olds, teenagers, slim like bamboo sticks, but I caught up to them by the split rock.
I’m breathless, so I ask them with my eyes, with my hands, with my teeth,
Why
?
They laugh at me—one of them has huge pimples on his forehead, the other is trying to grow a little beard.
They are older than I thought, maybe seventeen, and they start playing with me, turning me around, making obscene gestures as they dance in front of me, poking me from behind, on my back, the back of my neck.
All of it is silent, and I don’t know why I don’t yell for help.
I just know I have to get away.
But then they begin to imitate Yokhai, his walk, his blinking.
I choose the larger of the two—he is a head taller than I am, and I wait for him to come close to me.
And then, with the whole of my palm, I slap him.
I slap him so hard I fall—but apparently he falls as well.
I get up first, being at least more practiced in these situations, and the other guy backs off a little.
So I pick up a thick piece of wood that had been left there and swing it in his face.
The one on the ground is actually screaming in pain, holding his face and screaming.
Soon the other one will scream, too.
I will kill them and throw their bodies in a well.
The other bends to pick up a stone, and I slam him behind his knees with all the strength I don’t have.
He falls for what seems like a long time and howls in pain.
My mind finally starts to clear as he is lying at my feet, begging me not to hurt him.
I still need to do something to the bastard—but Yokhai is alone, I left him alone again!
I run to him, leaving them behind.
They curse and stones fall close to me—but not a single one hits me.
That’s it.
That’s the whole story.
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