Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (50 page)
Here, listen to this real something that you didn’t know before: Every night before he goes to sleep, Yokhai comes to me and snuggles up against my heart, and I quietly sing Polish songs to him, without understanding a single word in them.
They are songs my father used to sing to me.
It calms him down.
His body is sometimes attacked by such strong storms that he shakes, especially when he’s tired, and talk doesn’t help him then.
Even the pills don’t always help.
But songs in Polish do.
This language, alien to both of us.
They are songs my father used to sing to me.
It calms him down.
His body is sometimes attacked by such strong storms that he shakes, especially when he’s tired, and talk doesn’t help him then.
Even the pills don’t always help.
But songs in Polish do.
This language, alien to both of us.
And tomorrow is our weekly day of fun.
As you know.
We will go, as usual, to the junkyard by Abu-Gosh.
I will drink tea with Nadji, and watch as Yokhai goes crazy with a sledgehammer on the old rusty cars.
It’s not easy for me to see the extent of the destructive forces and violence that are in my child.
But it seems to clean him out for a whole week.
As you know.
We will go, as usual, to the junkyard by Abu-Gosh.
I will drink tea with Nadji, and watch as Yokhai goes crazy with a sledgehammer on the old rusty cars.
It’s not easy for me to see the extent of the destructive forces and violence that are in my child.
But it seems to clean him out for a whole week.
You also know that exactly one month from today he is supposed to go through surgery, to repair the little defect his heart has struggled with since birth.
Truly, God was not lazy when He made him, was He?
The number of surgeries this child has already undergone—well, never mind.
We will slowly, slowly repair whatever didn’t work naturally.
I only hope that I can recover a little bit before January, so that I can endure whatever follows (I think that tomorrow I will bring one more sledgehammer to Abu-Gosh).
Enough.
I’m chattering on to keep from hearing what I’m feeling, to keep from hearing whether drops of rain have already started to fall.
Why did you choose the rain over anything else?—you’re such a bastard.
Truly, God was not lazy when He made him, was He?
The number of surgeries this child has already undergone—well, never mind.
We will slowly, slowly repair whatever didn’t work naturally.
I only hope that I can recover a little bit before January, so that I can endure whatever follows (I think that tomorrow I will bring one more sledgehammer to Abu-Gosh).
Enough.
I’m chattering on to keep from hearing what I’m feeling, to keep from hearing whether drops of rain have already started to fall.
Why did you choose the rain over anything else?—you’re such a bastard.
I see this letter is taking me to a place I didn’t mean to go.
I didn’t want to fight with you, I didn’t want to bargain.
It’s too painful.
I was hoping that I had already found a way to be more balanced inside myself, in front of you.
But when I address you again, and you aren’t there, that insulting voice returns, with the feeling of just having missed a—I’ll stop here.
I am not willing to hear myself this way.
(And still, to my sorrow, incapable of erasing something that comes from me to you.)
I didn’t want to fight with you, I didn’t want to bargain.
It’s too painful.
I was hoping that I had already found a way to be more balanced inside myself, in front of you.
But when I address you again, and you aren’t there, that insulting voice returns, with the feeling of just having missed a—I’ll stop here.
I am not willing to hear myself this way.
(And still, to my sorrow, incapable of erasing something that comes from me to you.)
You gave me so much pleasure, and hurt me so very badly.
Never in my life have I known such pleasure and pain, and so mixed in with each
other.
I promise not to write to you anymore, and will not try to make any attempts to contact you.
I will never bother you again.
With a heavy heart, I will close the gate I so gladly opened for you.
Never in my life have I known such pleasure and pain, and so mixed in with each
other.
I promise not to write to you anymore, and will not try to make any attempts to contact you.
I will never bother you again.
With a heavy heart, I will close the gate I so gladly opened for you.
But if you decide to come to me anyway, I want you to know where I am right now.
If you come, I need for you to be there completely, with your most sensitive understanding; I need for you to flow into me completely, unstintingly.
I need it terribly, as one needs air to breathe.
If you come, I need for you to be there completely, with your most sensitive understanding; I need for you to flow into me completely, unstintingly.
I need it terribly, as one needs air to breathe.
There’s no point to any of this if you can’t give me all of yourself.
Really.
So you shouldn’t come, because then I was wrong about you, clearly.
Really.
So you shouldn’t come, because then I was wrong about you, clearly.
(But if you are the man who called out to me, and roared and brayed and howled, then you will understand.)
Yours,
Miriam
Miriam
Yair, you have to hear what happened.
I wrote my name, and then I heard you calling for me.
I simply heard you calling out my name.
I wrote my name, and then I heard you calling for me.
I simply heard you calling out my name.
At first I was certain it was coming from outside the house, but the street was empty.
So I automatically sat down and dialed your work number.
Forgive me, I had no control over the decision—it simply wasn’t given to my will.
I spoke to your secretary, and heard a few voices in the background and music from the radio.
I tried to pick out your voice, and the secretary was asking me to talk, already.
I asked for a messenger to come and pick up a book from me.
I stressed that it must be delivered directly into your hands.
My voice was shaking.
She said, He’ll be at your home in ten minutes, ma’am.
Even when she was urging me to speak, there was no mockery in her voice.
So I automatically sat down and dialed your work number.
Forgive me, I had no control over the decision—it simply wasn’t given to my will.
I spoke to your secretary, and heard a few voices in the background and music from the radio.
I tried to pick out your voice, and the secretary was asking me to talk, already.
I asked for a messenger to come and pick up a book from me.
I stressed that it must be delivered directly into your hands.
My voice was shaking.
She said, He’ll be at your home in ten minutes, ma’am.
Even when she was urging me to speak, there was no mockery in her voice.
I thought, That woman who is working for you perhaps is especially perceptive to women’s voices, even if she is a nice little Beit Ya’akov graduate.
So I’m sitting at my table waiting for the doorbell to ring.
I truly have no idea why I so suddenly dialed your number.
It went against my every intention.
I truly have no idea why I so suddenly dialed your number.
It went against my every intention.
Ten minutes now.
What more do I have to tell you?
What more do I have to tell you?
Perhaps—that today, there was actually a stretch of more than twenty minutes when I didn’t think of you.
That I didn’t hear a word that reminded me of you.
That I told myself that perhaps healing from you would be a quick matter, like everything else associated with you.
That I didn’t hear a word that reminded me of you.
That I told myself that perhaps healing from you would be a quick matter, like everything else associated with you.
That in the middle of my morning class, my heart suddenly went out to you with such force that I could hardly continue speaking.
Because in that moment I remembered how they used to call you “Yeery” and thought that the nickname doesn’t at all suit you; I thought of how many years you were called that, and it became so urgent for me to tell you that you shouldn’t allow anyone to call you that!
Don’t put up with it!
Not from anyone!
There is too much emptiness, flimsiness, to the name that is so unlike you.
Yeery, Yeery.
It just doesn’t fit.
Don’t put up with it!
Not from anyone!
There is too much emptiness, flimsiness, to the name that is so unlike you.
Yeery, Yeery.
It just doesn’t fit.
(Meery)
(Nobody ever called me that.)
(Nobody ever called me that.)
I am regretting calling so much.
I thought I could hold myself back, but that strange, depressing matter of the rain not falling—it’s beyond my strength to bear.
He is probably already riding to me.
And what will I give him?
What book?
Because of Yokhai, all the books that are precious to me are packed up in the shed.
I thought I could hold myself back, but that strange, depressing matter of the rain not falling—it’s beyond my strength to bear.
He is probably already riding to me.
And what will I give him?
What book?
Because of Yokhai, all the books that are precious to me are packed up in the shed.
I wish I knew how to fill this sudden silence.
This isn’t anything like fall, is it?
It’s a new season, dry, white and cold (yes, perhaps we should try chatting about the weather) … It truly isn’t a laughing matter; all the fields have dried up around the village, and someone in the grocery store told me that foxes and jackals have been coming out at night into the gardens to drink from the hoses.
And yesterday a flock of storks (that had left two months ago!) reappeared here, as if they had gotten confused, returning during the wrong season.
They hovered around the dry dam all day and seemed lost, tortured.
I was horrified—the whole cycle of nature is falling apart.
Perhaps they are waiting for us, for you and me; someone is stopping everything for us.
It’s a new season, dry, white and cold (yes, perhaps we should try chatting about the weather) … It truly isn’t a laughing matter; all the fields have dried up around the village, and someone in the grocery store told me that foxes and jackals have been coming out at night into the gardens to drink from the hoses.
And yesterday a flock of storks (that had left two months ago!) reappeared here, as if they had gotten confused, returning during the wrong season.
They hovered around the dry dam all day and seemed lost, tortured.
I was horrified—the whole cycle of nature is falling apart.
Perhaps they are waiting for us, for you and me; someone is stopping everything for us.
He is riding toward me—I think I can even see him, between the trees and the bends in the road; I can see almost his entire trek from here on the balcony, can follow him as he comes to me from you.
I’ll find a book in a minute and put this letter between the pages (I’ll write “Private and Personal” on it, don’t worry).
How strange to think that right at this moment a person is driving from you to me.
A thread.
I’ll find a book in a minute and put this letter between the pages (I’ll write “Private and Personal” on it, don’t worry).
How strange to think that right at this moment a person is driving from you to me.
A thread.
I dreamed about Yokhai last night, that he went back to talking.
A week ago he successfully counted up to four in class, and we had a big celebration.
I guess I let myself have this dream because of it: He and I are walking through a huge desert.
There isn’t a living soul around us,
and the sun beats down hard.
He stumbles, and I take him in my arms, I see his lips have become dry and cracked, and he then lifts his head with one last effort and tells me, “You should know that I understood your every word the entire time.
I wish to inform you that it was you who did not understand.”
A week ago he successfully counted up to four in class, and we had a big celebration.
I guess I let myself have this dream because of it: He and I are walking through a huge desert.
There isn’t a living soul around us,
and the sun beats down hard.
He stumbles, and I take him in my arms, I see his lips have become dry and cracked, and he then lifts his head with one last effort and tells me, “You should know that I understood your every word the entire time.
I wish to inform you that it was you who did not understand.”
Listen: I’m wrapping up my cookbook for you.
It isn’t any old cookbook.
Anna wrote it by hand, for my thirtieth birthday (she worked on it all through her pregnancy).
Three hundred and sixty-five recipes.
Keep it.
If you won’t have my soup, at least take the recipe.
It isn’t any old cookbook.
Anna wrote it by hand, for my thirtieth birthday (she worked on it all through her pregnancy).
Three hundred and sixty-five recipes.
Keep it.
If you won’t have my soup, at least take the recipe.
The doorbell is ringing.
Ten minutes, on the dot.
Ten minutes, on the dot.
You really are on time.
(Horrifying!)
(Horrifying!)
I think she can already recognize my voice—but what do I care?
Are we agreed now?
I come to you in words, and you, on a motorcycle?
I come to you in words, and you, on a motorcycle?
Again, I couldn’t hold myself back.
This morning was so gray and windy.
Amos brought home a huge pile of firewood; on my owl I discovered that I wrote in some moment of prescient clarity earlier this week, “Call chimney man.”
This morning was so gray and windy.
Amos brought home a huge pile of firewood; on my owl I discovered that I wrote in some moment of prescient clarity earlier this week, “Call chimney man.”
On the radio they promised that it will come down in two days at the latest.
The first rain.
Their language became mine for the length of three words: the first rain.
The first rain.
Their language became mine for the length of three words: the first rain.
I at least had the presence of mind to prepare a small package beforehand, so I would have something to give the messenger.
You’ll see for yourself.
You’ll see for yourself.
What about you?
Why don’t you send a note with the messenger?
Or simply come as a messenger yourself, for once?
You will take off your helmet, and I will see that it is you and … you’ll see how simple it can be.
Why don’t you send a note with the messenger?
Or simply come as a messenger yourself, for once?
You will take off your helmet, and I will see that it is you and … you’ll see how simple it can be.
What shall I tell you today?
(The truth is, I already thought about what I would tell you, and fill these horrible minutes with.)
I dreamed about you again last night.
My nights are full of dreams now.
We were together, in a tall building somewhere.
I was close to you in the dream, I could see you and hear you beside me, but I couldn’t touch you.
My nights are full of dreams now.
We were together, in a tall building somewhere.
I was close to you in the dream, I could see you and hear you beside me, but I couldn’t touch you.
You were standing on top of the railing of the balcony (the word “balcony” recurs throughout the dream, again and again, like a song of
mourning, “balcony,” “balcony”); I suddenly see that you intend to jump, headfirst, onto the back terrace.
I try to stop you, warning you that there is no water there.
Even though I see everything happening in front of my eyes, you can’t hear my voice (or perhaps I am incapable of making a sound).
mourning, “balcony,” “balcony”); I suddenly see that you intend to jump, headfirst, onto the back terrace.
I try to stop you, warning you that there is no water there.
Even though I see everything happening in front of my eyes, you can’t hear my voice (or perhaps I am incapable of making a sound).
You jump, headfirst, onto the terrace, and I hear you mumble to yourself, “I knew this is what was going to happen.”
“I couldn’t stop him,” I tell myself, and my heart breaks.
Your fall ends—and I see you lying on the ground, your body naked; you are lying on your side, and your head is swollen, probably from the collision.
You don’t move, but I can hear you muttering to yourself over and over, “In spite of everything, I only broke a few teeth and have a mild concussion.
That’s all.”
You don’t move, but I can hear you muttering to yourself over and over, “In spite of everything, I only broke a few teeth and have a mild concussion.
That’s all.”
I am relieved that you are alive, but the fact that I remained on the balcony, above you, causes me terrible pain and suffering (until now).
And here he is, at the door.
Perhaps this time?
Perhaps this time?
Twenty-four hours have passed.
It seems as if I haven’t moved from my place.
I mean, I did, I went through all the necessary motions.
I fed others and dressed, I cooked and scheduled Yokhai’s bus pickups.
I played hostess when a couple of our friends who live in America paid us a surprise visit on their vacation home; I was friendly and amusing.
I cannot understand how I managed to get through such a show; and now, sitting down, the pen practically floats into my hand, and I feel that I haven’t stopped writing you for one moment of the whole day that has just passed.
The day closed and opened, as if the outside world blinked … and I am still sitting in my rocking chair, waiting for Yokhai to come home from his treatment.
Night falls, the rain stands still in the air, and I am writing to you.
Sometimes I discover a page under my hand; but most of the time there is none.
It seems as if I haven’t moved from my place.
I mean, I did, I went through all the necessary motions.
I fed others and dressed, I cooked and scheduled Yokhai’s bus pickups.
I played hostess when a couple of our friends who live in America paid us a surprise visit on their vacation home; I was friendly and amusing.
I cannot understand how I managed to get through such a show; and now, sitting down, the pen practically floats into my hand, and I feel that I haven’t stopped writing you for one moment of the whole day that has just passed.
The day closed and opened, as if the outside world blinked … and I am still sitting in my rocking chair, waiting for Yokhai to come home from his treatment.
Night falls, the rain stands still in the air, and I am writing to you.
Sometimes I discover a page under my hand; but most of the time there is none.
If only I could fall asleep now and wake on a day when it doesn’t hurt any longer.
But I wake up night after night at three—exactly the hour you ran around me—and I cannot go back to sleep.
Why?
I have no baby to keep me awake at these hours.
But I wake up night after night at three—exactly the hour you ran around me—and I cannot go back to sleep.
Why?
I have no baby to keep me awake at these hours.
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