Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (8 page)
(I hope I dream about you tonight, I want to scream out your name in the middle of sleep, and then the secret will be out and I won’t hide you anymore!
You are a woman who must be revealed!)
You are a woman who must be revealed!)
Yair
June 5
Miriam, salutations:
About six days ago I sent a letter to you at school, as usual, and have not since received a reply.
I suppose it is just a matter of time.
Perhaps you are busy toward the end of the school year with the report cards and all (already?), but I still thought I’d check to see if you sent any response.
I am in a bit of a stupid state right now because of the ever-present possibility that you, for some reason, have decided not to answer me and to disappear.
Maybe because of my last letter.
Maybe because something in your life suddenly changed.
But I am certain that even in such a case you would have written, wouldn’t you?
Perhaps you are busy toward the end of the school year with the report cards and all (already?), but I still thought I’d check to see if you sent any response.
I am in a bit of a stupid state right now because of the ever-present possibility that you, for some reason, have decided not to answer me and to disappear.
Maybe because of my last letter.
Maybe because something in your life suddenly changed.
But I am certain that even in such a case you would have written, wouldn’t you?
I just started to worry a little bit—because I bring my letters to the mailbox at the school gate (perhaps you’ve already noticed that there’s no postmark), but maybe the internal mail system has problems and the letter never reached your box.
If so, whom did it reach?
Or perhaps there was something else that made you angry.
I’m trying to think aloud—perhaps it is your claim that I am, again, slowly reassembling reality into a series of words and being completely satisfied with them, unstitching you here, embroidering you there.
I’m trying to think aloud—perhaps it is your claim that I am, again, slowly reassembling reality into a series of words and being completely satisfied with them, unstitching you here, embroidering you there.
Well, as you can see, I am starting to make a mess, so please—so I can at least know how I figure in the hierarchy of your department of affections.
Just do me a favor and don’t hesitate to write the whole truth; I mean, I can certainly understand, if that miserable letter did reach you, that you’ve decided that you don’t want to have anything to do with such a person.
Here, I even wrote the words for you, to save you polite contortions, you don’t need to worry about me or to pity me—I am a lot stronger and tougher than it may seem to you (it really is hard to break me).
Just do me a favor and don’t hesitate to write the whole truth; I mean, I can certainly understand, if that miserable letter did reach you, that you’ve decided that you don’t want to have anything to do with such a person.
Here, I even wrote the words for you, to save you polite contortions, you don’t need to worry about me or to pity me—I am a lot stronger and tougher than it may seem to you (it really is hard to break me).
Here, I’m inviting you to tell me everything you felt when you saw how I allowed myself to expose myself like this in front of you without knowing almost anything about you.
Without a single thing connecting the two of us in reality, I suddenly jump and expose the armpits of my soul to you in an obscene striptease.
Isn’t that what happened?
Isn’t it?
Admit it, why not, admit something for once!
Without a single thing connecting the two of us in reality, I suddenly jump and expose the armpits of my soul to you in an obscene striptease.
Isn’t that what happened?
Isn’t it?
Admit it, why not, admit something for once!
I mean, you stood at a distance in such a way, screening me with your arms crossed, with questioning suspicion, a bit frightened, and a bit amused with this one-man band that just marched through you.
While I was completely dizzy from your last letter, with the photos from Ramat Rakhel.
Perhaps you forgot the intimate things you wrote there, even the tiny fact that for the first time you wrote the word “us.”
Yes, we are both people of words—and then your sudden realization that, perhaps, I am a person who actually suffocates inside words.
Do you remember?
(Because I remember every word.) Meaning that perhaps I feel a little “claustrophobia in ‘their’ words” and that perhaps, because of this suffocation, I sometimes gasp out this way, swallowing …
While I was completely dizzy from your last letter, with the photos from Ramat Rakhel.
Perhaps you forgot the intimate things you wrote there, even the tiny fact that for the first time you wrote the word “us.”
Yes, we are both people of words—and then your sudden realization that, perhaps, I am a person who actually suffocates inside words.
Do you remember?
(Because I remember every word.) Meaning that perhaps I feel a little “claustrophobia in ‘their’ words” and that perhaps, because of this suffocation, I sometimes gasp out this way, swallowing …
This is the kind of relief I felt, as if you had come, giving me permission to breathe differently; and then, out of fugitive happiness, without shame, without guarding myself, and excited, and intoxicated from you, and from us—
Listen.
It’s a waste of ink.
I’m letting you go.
It’s a waste of ink.
I’m letting you go.
June 6
One little addition, even though: just for you to know that if this is how you saw me, you were not alone.
You might not have noticed but I was standing right there beside you from the first letter I wrote you, with my arms crossed high on my chest.
What were you thinking?
I was standing there on the side, too, of course I was, screening this eruption of mine exactly as you were—anyway, it’s important for me to tell you.
All the rest is unnecessary, isn’t it?
You might not have noticed but I was standing right there beside you from the first letter I wrote you, with my arms crossed high on my chest.
What were you thinking?
I was standing there on the side, too, of course I was, screening this eruption of mine exactly as you were—anyway, it’s important for me to tell you.
All the rest is unnecessary, isn’t it?
Then why can’t I stop?
Write to me, anything that comes into your mind, just don’t leave me this way; I went just now, again, for the fourth time today, to the mailbox.
Enough of this, come on, you owe me at least this, that we should stand together for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, and look at it, and condemn it together for the last time, that internal organ of mine that suddenly burst out and made exception, a glandular dance.
Stop!
Two hand claps of the director and set change: let’s be, for one minute, like two camels, of all things; camels suit me right now, so why not?
It came to me, I’m sharp and original even in my roughest moments—a camel-couple with long, humorless, camel-y faces, a pair of mature camels, a male and a female, sober and chewing on boredom and knowing full well our place in a caravan that’s progressing, heel by toe, just as it should.
Until, suddenly, one bizarre donkey foal jumps out of the procession.
Maybe it just looks like a foal.
Maybe it is even a hybrid of a camel and a clown’s hat—nature made a mistake—with donkey’s ears and a little camel-y hunchback, and this infantile weirdo is breaking into a fool’s jig; get back, Miriam!
because disgusting rivers are flowing out of all his orifices, grab a coat, a sweater at least (!), so that the shedding layers of his slightly overexcited soul will not soil you, for God’s sake.
Two hand claps of the director and set change: let’s be, for one minute, like two camels, of all things; camels suit me right now, so why not?
It came to me, I’m sharp and original even in my roughest moments—a camel-couple with long, humorless, camel-y faces, a pair of mature camels, a male and a female, sober and chewing on boredom and knowing full well our place in a caravan that’s progressing, heel by toe, just as it should.
Until, suddenly, one bizarre donkey foal jumps out of the procession.
Maybe it just looks like a foal.
Maybe it is even a hybrid of a camel and a clown’s hat—nature made a mistake—with donkey’s ears and a little camel-y hunchback, and this infantile weirdo is breaking into a fool’s jig; get back, Miriam!
because disgusting rivers are flowing out of all his orifices, grab a coat, a sweater at least (!), so that the shedding layers of his slightly overexcited soul will not soil you, for God’s sake.
This is the exact way I see the “performance” to which I’ve condemned myself before you with that letter; actually, with all of them.
From the beginning.
Don’t know what happened to me.
In one moment my heart overflowed and flooded into the wide spaces in my brain.
What actually happened?
I remember seeing you, there were people around you, there was a lively discussion and you didn’t participate.
Suddenly your lips sank and you smiled a strange smile, a sorrowful smile, no harder than that, the smile of a person who has found out that very minute that she has lost her last hope, the hope for her soul, no less, but who knows that from now on, this is the way it has to be, and that she will have to go on living with that loss … and that was the moment I entered your life.
A kind of odd, unhappy moment, but I didn’t even have time to think about it, because in that moment I saw my name lying on the bottom of your smile and I leaped.
On the other hand, perhaps my name wasn’t written there, perhaps I so wanted you to know that I could see it and that you weren’t alone that I jumped too quickly.
This is not new for me, either; you should know, I have a long gloomy history of such unripe leaps—in work, and in my life, and in family matters, it was already happening in school, and in the army, and in letters to the editor—in any place I felt that something was being held back or blocked; no matter what the reason was, whether because of opacity or cowardice
or stupidity or simply because “you just don’t do that.”
In such a moment, I always rebel, on purpose, out of spite (says my father)—not true, when I rebel it’s a rescue mission—I thought you understood, it is you who first dared to write the word “wish”—and then I am flooded, at once, you saw it.
And damn the name of the laws of nature and society that determine, let’s say, that a certain person’s soul must be satisfied with only its separate existence, alone, within his own skin.
From the beginning.
Don’t know what happened to me.
In one moment my heart overflowed and flooded into the wide spaces in my brain.
What actually happened?
I remember seeing you, there were people around you, there was a lively discussion and you didn’t participate.
Suddenly your lips sank and you smiled a strange smile, a sorrowful smile, no harder than that, the smile of a person who has found out that very minute that she has lost her last hope, the hope for her soul, no less, but who knows that from now on, this is the way it has to be, and that she will have to go on living with that loss … and that was the moment I entered your life.
A kind of odd, unhappy moment, but I didn’t even have time to think about it, because in that moment I saw my name lying on the bottom of your smile and I leaped.
On the other hand, perhaps my name wasn’t written there, perhaps I so wanted you to know that I could see it and that you weren’t alone that I jumped too quickly.
This is not new for me, either; you should know, I have a long gloomy history of such unripe leaps—in work, and in my life, and in family matters, it was already happening in school, and in the army, and in letters to the editor—in any place I felt that something was being held back or blocked; no matter what the reason was, whether because of opacity or cowardice
or stupidity or simply because “you just don’t do that.”
In such a moment, I always rebel, on purpose, out of spite (says my father)—not true, when I rebel it’s a rescue mission—I thought you understood, it is you who first dared to write the word “wish”—and then I am flooded, at once, you saw it.
And damn the name of the laws of nature and society that determine, let’s say, that a certain person’s soul must be satisfied with only its separate existence, alone, within his own skin.
Or alone, within his own pit.
It’s silly to keep on explaining (and I can’t stop), but it is always this way.
Somewhere, very close, something is building up, someone is begging to burst out already, something that will suffocate if it doesn’t crack, and even though I don’t know its being, its choked scream is clear to me.
You asked me what kind of music I listen to when I’m at home and when I am at work, and especially when I am writing to you.
You asked as if you assumed that I am always surrounded by music.
I’m sorry to disappoint you, I’m not very musical.
I am, in my opinion, dysmusical (all in all, I went and bought the
Children’s Corner
by Debussy and I listened to it in my car again and again, and, of course, Emma Kirkby singing Monteverdi, and perhaps someday I’ll understand what you said).
But I always listen to that scream and immediately understand it, not with my ears but with my stomach, my pulse, my womb, and you hear it, too.
You heard me this way, so why, suddenly, don’t you hear it?
Somewhere, very close, something is building up, someone is begging to burst out already, something that will suffocate if it doesn’t crack, and even though I don’t know its being, its choked scream is clear to me.
You asked me what kind of music I listen to when I’m at home and when I am at work, and especially when I am writing to you.
You asked as if you assumed that I am always surrounded by music.
I’m sorry to disappoint you, I’m not very musical.
I am, in my opinion, dysmusical (all in all, I went and bought the
Children’s Corner
by Debussy and I listened to it in my car again and again, and, of course, Emma Kirkby singing Monteverdi, and perhaps someday I’ll understand what you said).
But I always listen to that scream and immediately understand it, not with my ears but with my stomach, my pulse, my womb, and you hear it, too.
You heard me this way, so why, suddenly, don’t you hear it?
Oh well, what’s the point.
Besides what you decide.
For me, it’s just important for you to know that I understand exactly what is happening inside me now, and what you think of me.
Why, it’s a regular torture, Miriam, that I am always both, the one standing with a stern face, arms crossed over my chest—and the one who is suddenly gutted and falls and falls, and while falling is still arguing with the stern one, screaming on the way to his doom, Let me live!
Let me feel!
Let me make mistakes!
Besides what you decide.
For me, it’s just important for you to know that I understand exactly what is happening inside me now, and what you think of me.
Why, it’s a regular torture, Miriam, that I am always both, the one standing with a stern face, arms crossed over my chest—and the one who is suddenly gutted and falls and falls, and while falling is still arguing with the stern one, screaming on the way to his doom, Let me live!
Let me feel!
Let me make mistakes!
But I am certainly, undoubtedly, the other one as well.
What can you do?
The pursed lips that spit out in disgust, You already know how it will end, you will return to me, crawling, as usual, says he dryly (he has symptoms of dehydration in his tissues).
And the donkey foal continues screaming all the while—because, Miriam, maybe he will succeed just once—by mistake of course, because, by imperial decree, such acts of compassion could happen only by mistake.
But maybe he will finally hit the target, just once—no!
Touch the target, touch, touch one alien soul, actually touch, soul to soul, tissue to tissue.
One single time, one soul out
of the four billion Chinese in the world (in this situation, suddenly everyone seems Chinese) will crack open in front of him and yield its harvest—
What can you do?
The pursed lips that spit out in disgust, You already know how it will end, you will return to me, crawling, as usual, says he dryly (he has symptoms of dehydration in his tissues).
And the donkey foal continues screaming all the while—because, Miriam, maybe he will succeed just once—by mistake of course, because, by imperial decree, such acts of compassion could happen only by mistake.
But maybe he will finally hit the target, just once—no!
Touch the target, touch, touch one alien soul, actually touch, soul to soul, tissue to tissue.
One single time, one soul out
of the four billion Chinese in the world (in this situation, suddenly everyone seems Chinese) will crack open in front of him and yield its harvest—
And so he falls and screams in his breaking, reedy voice, which continues to change throughout his life.
Then again, it appears, of course, that around every such scream are ten wise, learned, moderate, and impartial men; and they consult and request to confirm whether we had crossed that bridge too soon—perhaps this was just one of your flimsy ideas (so they tell me, dryly, with dry lips)—one of those ideas that ripen only in nightly darkness and evaporate in the light of day, meaning—just another damaged crossbreed that might be born deformed and defective.
And I … you should see me there.
Actually, you did see it.
This is what probably repulsed you.
Because I know exactly how I look in those moments, when I plead with them for no less than to take complete pity on me.
Why lie, Miriam?
I know, in my deepest depths, that if it was in their power to do so, they would never approve of me either, just as you haven’t (“is not entitled to official stamp of authorization,” they would have determined).
So I run between them, almost hysterical, begging them to consent to see what I am seeing, that at least one of them could see it as I do, because if one other can see it—just another one is enough, you don’t need any more than that—suddenly it will exist and be, and be redeemed, and then something in me will be “authorized.”
But just try to explain something like that to
them.
Actually, you did see it.
This is what probably repulsed you.
Because I know exactly how I look in those moments, when I plead with them for no less than to take complete pity on me.
Why lie, Miriam?
I know, in my deepest depths, that if it was in their power to do so, they would never approve of me either, just as you haven’t (“is not entitled to official stamp of authorization,” they would have determined).
So I run between them, almost hysterical, begging them to consent to see what I am seeing, that at least one of them could see it as I do, because if one other can see it—just another one is enough, you don’t need any more than that—suddenly it will exist and be, and be redeemed, and then something in me will be “authorized.”
But just try to explain something like that to
them.
And then I can’t take it anymore (I am documenting the whole process for you here), and the moment of fuck-it-all arrives.
The moment when I finally think, for example, What am I worth if I’m not sending these?
My soul swells to you, and I’m flying, just as I flew to you, here, even now, it is me there, flying, continuing to fly to you, to whoever agrees to believe with me, look, laugh.
It’s me, the weak fuse in the network—every network, every bond, every touch, every tension, every friction—or any possible combination of me with those—and with you.
And now, as I watch it sink and sputter between us, I am asking you, again, one final time, to believe in us.
Perhaps we will touch a gold vein, by chance—we almost did, already, there were a few moments of light, and I have gotten used to your annoying High Court integrity (and also to your funny confusion of words when you’re excited).
And where will I again find such a childish, mature woman who is capable of meditating
on Adam and Eve’s first lovemaking, taking such pleasure in how naturally they discovered what is good to do, and what happiness and delight it is to discover only by way of nature …
The moment when I finally think, for example, What am I worth if I’m not sending these?
My soul swells to you, and I’m flying, just as I flew to you, here, even now, it is me there, flying, continuing to fly to you, to whoever agrees to believe with me, look, laugh.
It’s me, the weak fuse in the network—every network, every bond, every touch, every tension, every friction—or any possible combination of me with those—and with you.
And now, as I watch it sink and sputter between us, I am asking you, again, one final time, to believe in us.
Perhaps we will touch a gold vein, by chance—we almost did, already, there were a few moments of light, and I have gotten used to your annoying High Court integrity (and also to your funny confusion of words when you’re excited).
And where will I again find such a childish, mature woman who is capable of meditating
on Adam and Eve’s first lovemaking, taking such pleasure in how naturally they discovered what is good to do, and what happiness and delight it is to discover only by way of nature …
You see, I remember everything.
I may be destroying all evidence of your existence—I’m forced to, by the Sanctity of the Bond, and the rest—but you exist inside me in a way that scares me, because what am I going to do now, surrounded by this entire new existence that doesn’t want me?!
I may be destroying all evidence of your existence—I’m forced to, by the Sanctity of the Bond, and the rest—but you exist inside me in a way that scares me, because what am I going to do now, surrounded by this entire new existence that doesn’t want me?!
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