Everything Is Illuminated (32 page)

Grandfather said. “He says open the fucking box.”

Jonathan dislodged the ribbon, which was wrapped many times around in case, and opened it. Perhaps we were anticipating it to be a bomb, because when it did not explode, we were all flabbergasted. “That wasn’t so bad,” Jonathan said. “That was not so bad,” I told Grandfather.

“This is what I said,” he told me. “I said it would not be so bad.” We looked into the box. Its ingredients appeared very much similar to those in the remains box, except there were perhaps more. “Of course we were supposed to open it,” Jonathan said. He looked at me and laughed, and then I laughed, and then Grandfather laughed. We laughed because we knew how witless we had been when we were shitting bricks about opening the box. And we laughed because there was so much that we did not know, and we knew that there was so much we did not know.

“Let us search,” Grandfather said, and he moved his hand through the box marked in case like a child reaching into a box of gifts. He excavated a necklace. “Look,” he said. “It’s pearl, I think,” Jonathan said.

“Real pearl.” The pearls, if they were real pearls, were very dirty, and yellow, and there were pieces of dirt stranded amid them, like food amid teeth. “It appears very aged,” Grandfather said. I told this to Jonathan.

“Yes,” he harmonized. “And dirty. I bet it was buried.” “What does it mean buried?” “Put in the ground, like a dead body.” “Yes, I know this thing. It could be similar like the ring in the remains box.” “Right.”

Grandfather held the necklace to the candle on our table. The pearls, if they were real pearls, had many taints, and were no longer resplendent.

He tried to clean them with his thumb, but they remained dirty. “It is a beautiful necklace,” he said. “I purchased one very much similar to this for your grandmother when we first became in love. This was many years ago, but I remember what it looked like. It obligated all of my currency to purchase it, so how could I forget?” “Where is it now?” I asked.

“At home?” “No,” he said, “she is still wearing it. It is not a thing. Just how she desired it to be.” He put the necklace on the table, and I could perceive that the necklace did not make him melancholy, as it might be anticipated, but it made him a very contented person. “Now you,” he told me, and punched my back in a manner that was not intended to hurt me, but did nonetheless. “He says I should choose something,” I told Jonathan, because I desired to discover how he would answer to the notion that Grandfather and I had the same privilege as he did to investigate the box. “Go ahead,” he said. So I inserted my hand into in case.

I felt many abnormal things, and could not tell what they were. We did not say it, but it was part of our game that you could not view in the box when you were selecting the thing to excavate. Some of the things that my hand touched were smooth, like marble or stones from the beach. Other things that my hand touched were cold, like metal, or warm, like fur. There were many pieces of paper. I could be certain of that without witnessing them. But I could not know if these papers were photographs or notes or pages from a book or magazine. I excavated what I excavated because it was the largest thing in the box. “Here,” I said, and removed a piece of paper that was in a coil and fastened with white string. I removed the string and unrolled the paper on the table.

Jonathan restrained one end, and I restrained the other. It was marked map of the world, 1791. Even though the shapes of the land were some amount different, it remained to appear very much like the world as we currently know it. “This is a premium thing,” I said. A map such as that one is worth many hundreds, and as luck will have it, thousands of dollars. But more than this, it is a remembrance of that time before our planet was so small. When this map was made, I thought, you could live without knowing where you were not living. This made me think of Trachimbrod, and how Lista, the woman we desired so much to be Augustine, had not ever heard of America. It is possible that she is the last person on earth, I reasoned, who does not know about America. Or it is so nice to think so. “I love it,” I told Jonathan, and I must confess that I had no notions when I told him this. It is only that I loved it. “You can have it,” he said. “This is not a true thing.” “Take it. Enjoy it.” “You cannot give this to me. The items must remain together,” I told him. “Go on,”

he said. “It’s yours.” “Are you certain?” I asked, because I did not desire him to feel burdened to present it to me. “I’m positive. It can be a memento of our trip.” “Memento?” “Something to remind you.” “No,” I said. “I will give it to Little Igor, if that is acceptable with you,” because I knew that the map was a thing that Little Igor would love also. “Tell him to enjoy it,” Jonathan said. “It can be his memento.”

“You,” I told Jonathan, because it was now his opportunity to excavate from in case. He turned his head away from the box and inserted his hand. He did not require a long amount of time. “Here,” he said, and removed a book. He placed it on the table. It appeared very old. “What is it?” he asked. I moved the dust off of the cover. I had never previous witnessed a book similar to it. The writing was on both covers, and when I unclosed it, I saw that the writing was also on the insides of both covers, and, of course, on every page. It was as if there was not sufficient room in the book for the book. Along the side was marked in Ukrainian, The Book of Past Occurrences. I told this to Jonathan. “Read me something from it,”

he said. “The beginning?” “Anywhere, it doesn’t matter.” I went to a page in the middle and selected a part from the middle of the page to read. It was very difficult, but I translated into English while I read.

“ ‘The shtetl was colorful with the actions of its residents,’ ” I told him,

“ ‘and because every color was used, it was impossible to perceive what had been handled by humans and what was of nature’s hands. Getzel G, there were rumors, must have played everyone’s fiddle — even though he did not know how to play the fiddle! — because the strings were the color like his fingers. People whispered that Gesha R was trying to be a gym-nast. This is how the Jewish/Human fault line was yellow like her hands.

And when the red of a schoolgirl’s face was wronged for the red of a holy man’s fingers, the schoolgirl was called names.’ ” He secured the book and examined it while I told Grandfather what I had read. “It’s wonderful,” Jonathan said, and I must confess that he examined it in a fashion similar to how Grandfather examined the photograph of Augustine.

(You may understand this as a gift from me to you, Jonathan. And just as I am saving you, so could you save Grandfather. We are merely two paragraphs away. Please, try to find some other option.)

“Now you,” Jonathan said to Grandfather. “He says it is now you,” I told him. He turned his head away from the box and inserted his hand.

We were similar to three children. “There are so many things,” he told me. “I do not know which thing to take.” “He does not know which to take,” I told Jonathan. “There’s time for all of them,” Jonathan said.

“Perhaps this one,” Grandfather said. “No, this one. It feels soft and nice. No, this one. This one has pieces that move.” “There is time for all of them,” I told him, because remember where we are in our story, Jonathan. We still thought we possessed time. “Here,” Grandfather said, and excavated a photograph. “Ah, a simple one. Too unfortunate. I thought it felt like something different.”

He placed the photograph on the table without examining it. Also I did not examine it, because why should I, I reasoned. Grandfather was correct, it appeared very simple, and ordinary. There were likely one hundred photographs of this manner in the box. The rapid view that I presented it showed me nothing abnormal. It was three men, or perhaps four. “Now you,” he told me, and I turned my head and inserted my hand. Because my head was turned to not view in the box, I was witnessing Jonathan while my hand investigated. A soft thing. A rough thing.

Jonathan moved the photograph to his face, not because he was an interested person, but because there was nothing else to do at the moment while I searched the box. This is what I remember. He ate a hand of peanuts, and let a handful descend to the floor for Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior. He made a petite drink from his vodka. He looked away from the photograph for a moment. I felt a feather and a bone. Then I remember this: he looked at the photograph again. I felt a smooth thing. A petite thing. He looked away from the photograph. He looked at it again. He looked away. A hard thing. A candle. A square thing. A prick from a pin.

“Oh my God,” he said, and he held the photograph up to the light of the candle. Then he put it down. Then he held it again, and this time put it close to my face so that he could observe both the photograph and my face at the same time. “What is he doing?” Grandfather asked. “What are you doing?” I asked him. Jonathan placed the photograph on the table. “It’s you,” he said.

I removed my hand from the box.

“Who is me?” “The man in this picture. It’s you.” He gave me the photograph. This time I examined it with much scrutiny. “What is it?”

Grandfather asked. There were four people in the photograph, two men, a woman, and a baby that the woman was holding. “The one on the left,”

Jonathan said, “here.” He put his finger beneath the face of the man, and I must confess, there could be nothing truthful to do but admit, he looked like me. It was as if a mirror. I know that this is an idiom, but I am saying it without any meaning other than the words. It was as if a mirror.

“What?” Grandfather asked. “A moment,” I said, and held the photograph to the light of the candle. The man even stood in the same potent manner as I stand. His cheeks appeared like mine. His eyes appeared like mine. His hairs, lips, arms, legs, they all appeared like mine. Not even like mine. They were mine. “Tell me,” Grandfather said, “what is it?” I presented him the photograph, and to write the rest of this story is the most impossible thing.

At first he examined it to see what it was a photograph of. Because he was looking down to view the photograph, which was on the table, I could not see what his eyes were performing. He looked up from the photograph and viewed Jonathan and me, and he smiled. He even moved his shoulders up, as a child will sometimes do. He made a small laugh and then picked up the photograph. He held it to his face with one hand and held the candle to his face with the other. It made many shadows where his skin had folds, which were many more places than I had before observed. This time I could see his eyes voyage this and that over the photograph. They stopped on each person, and witnessed each person from feet to hairs. Then he looked up again and smiled again at Jonathan and me, and he also moved his shoulders like a child again.

“It looks like me,” I said.

“Yes it does,” he said.

I did not look at Jonathan, because I was certain that he was looking at me. So I looked at Grandfather, who was investigating the photograph, although I am certain that he could feel that I was viewing him.

“Exactly like me,” I said. “He also observed this,” I said of Jonathan, because I did not want to be alone in this observation.

(Here it is almost too forbidding to continue. I have written to this point many times, and corrected the parts you would have me correct, and made more funnies, and more inventions, and written as if I were you writing this, but every time I try to persevere, my hand shakes so that I can no longer hold my pen. Do it for me. Please. It is now yours.) Grandfather concealed his face behind the photograph.

(And this does not seem to me like such a cowardly thing to do, Jonathan. We would also conceal our faces, yes? In truth, I am certain that we would.)

“The world is the smallest thing,” he said.

(He laughed at this moment, as you remember, but you cannot include that in the story.)

“It looks so much like me,” I said.

(And here he put his hands under the table, you will remember, but this is a detail which will make him appear weak, and is it not enough that we are writing this at all?)

“Like a combination of your father, your mother, Brezhnev, and yourself.”

(It was not wrong to make a funny here. It was the right thing to do.) I smiled.

“Who do you think it is?” I asked.

“Who do you think it is?” he asked.

“I do not know.”

“You do not have to present not-truths to me, Sasha. I am not a child.”

(But I do. That is what you always fail to understand. I present not-truths in order to protect you. That is also why I try so inflexibly to be a funny person. Everything is to protect you. I exist in case you need to be protected.)

“I do not understand,” I said. (I understand.)

“You do not?” he asked. (You do.)

“Where was the photograph made?” I asked. (There must be some explanation.)

“In Kolki.”

“Where you were from?” (You always said Odessa . . . To fall in love . . .)

“Yes. Before the war.” (This is the way things are. This is, in truth, what it is like.)

“Jonathan’s grandmother?”

“I do not know her name, and I do not want to know her name.”

(I must inform you, Jonathan, that I am a very sad person. I am always sad, I think. Perhaps this signifies that I am not sad at all, because sadness is something lower than your normal disposition, and I am always the same thing. Perhaps I am the only person in the world, then, who never becomes sad. Perhaps I am lucky.)

“I am not a bad person,” he said. “I am a good person who has lived in a bad time.”

“I know this,” I said. (Even if you were a bad person, I would still know that you are a good person.)

“You must inform all of this to him as I inform it to you,” he said, and this surprised me very much, but I did not ask why, or ask anything. I only did as he commanded. Jonathan opened his diary and commenced to write. He wrote every word that was spoken. Here is what he wrote:

“Everything I did, I did because I thought it was the correct thing to do.”

“Everything he did, he did because he thought it was the correct thing to do,” I translated.