The Book of Intimate Grammar (29 page)
Read The Book of Intimate Grammar Online
Authors: David Grossman
Unthinkingly Aron blurts out, “The saltcellar.”
A terrible silence follows.
You can hear the drumming of the rain.
Papa bulges invincibly.
“What did you say?”
You can hear the drumming of the rain.
Papa bulges invincibly.
“What did you say?”
Aron is silent.
He turns pale.
Caught out.
The quivering inside him has stopped, the pleasure has vanished.
He turns pale.
Caught out.
The quivering inside him has stopped, the pleasure has vanished.
“Repeat what you just said.”
“Here, take it, Papa.”
He holds the saltcellar upside down.
He dare not turn it right side up.
It trickles into his hand.
He holds the saltcellar upside down.
He dare not turn it right side up.
It trickles into his hand.
“What’s that you call it?”
“It’s … a saltcellar.”
“Now listen here, Mr.
Inallectual: you open your ears and hear me good: I say we call it ‘the salt whatzit.’”
Inallectual: you open your ears and hear me good: I say we call it ‘the salt whatzit.’”
“Okay.
Here, take it.”
Here, take it.”
“No.
First repeat after me: ‘the salt whatzit.’”
First repeat after me: ‘the salt whatzit.’”
“Please, Papa, take it.”
His whiny voice, his boy-soprano shame.
He is pouting and the tears well in his eyes.
The salt trickles out on the table.
Mama is silent.
Yochi is silent.
His whiny voice, his boy-soprano shame.
He is pouting and the tears well in his eyes.
The salt trickles out on the table.
Mama is silent.
Yochi is silent.
“You say ‘the salt whatzit’ or so help me, I’ll take my belt with the brass buckle to you.”
“Say it already!”
shrieks Mama, who only a moment ago was gloating at the sink.
“God in heaven!
Say it already so we can have some quiet!”
shrieks Mama, who only a moment ago was gloating at the sink.
“God in heaven!
Say it already so we can have some quiet!”
Aron tries.
He really does, but he can’t.
The words just won’t come out of him.
His lips twist and tremble.
Let me go, Mr.
Lion, and one day I shall help you in return; how can a mouse like you help the king of beasts; I have a plan: I’ll win the lottery, I’ll win the Toto, you won’t have to work so hard at the workers’ council anymore, I’ll save our home, the light will shine again.
Yochi watches pityingly.
Her mouth is full.
Papa cages him in, his face swelling ever larger.
He really does, but he can’t.
The words just won’t come out of him.
His lips twist and tremble.
Let me go, Mr.
Lion, and one day I shall help you in return; how can a mouse like you help the king of beasts; I have a plan: I’ll win the lottery, I’ll win the Toto, you won’t have to work so hard at the workers’ council anymore, I’ll save our home, the light will shine again.
Yochi watches pityingly.
Her mouth is full.
Papa cages him in, his face swelling ever larger.
“Let him be, Moshe!”
screams Mama, throwing down the drumstick.
“Never mind all the food I cooked.
What do you want with him?
Eat and be quiet!”
screams Mama, throwing down the drumstick.
“Never mind all the food I cooked.
What do you want with him?
Eat and be quiet!”
“I won’t have him laughing at me!
What does he think, he can laugh at me in my own house?
He won’t eat his dinner, our food’s not good enough for him!
And the way he talks, just like a girl, tatee-tatee-tata!
Thinks he can look down on me, like a, like some damned commissar.
And I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut.
You say ‘the salt whatzit’ right now or else!”
What does he think, he can laugh at me in my own house?
He won’t eat his dinner, our food’s not good enough for him!
And the way he talks, just like a girl, tatee-tatee-tata!
Thinks he can look down on me, like a, like some damned commissar.
And I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut.
You say ‘the salt whatzit’ right now or else!”
“Nu, Aron, say ‘the salt whatzit’ already, so we can eat in peace!”
shouts Mama, and Aron gives her a long look; he really does feel sorry for her, slaving in the kitchen all day to feed him so he can grow up and be normal.
He shuts his ears from inside, Aroning slowly down, till suddenly they’re speaking a language he doesn’t understand, these strangers from far, far away, and he vows to stay with them, to help
them cope, to bring a little sunshine into their trying lives; see them scowl as they tell him the news of some terrible disaster, some evil, hateful person has hurt them.
Saltcellar, thinks Aron, somersaultcellar, his heart leaps: what a funny word, but something has happened meanwhile, a wicked emperor captured Mama and Papa, and he’s threatening to execute them unless Aron swallows a bite of the “birdy” in his defiant mouth; he swivels his head from side to side.
Locks his lips.
A heavy hand, red and hairy, squeezes his cheeks together, forces his mouth open, and thrusts the wing inside.
Okay, maybe it’ll accidentally knock out his milk tooth.
And his poor, poor parents, tied to the stake, they know he took a vow, they’d never ask him to do such an ignoble thing.
His eyes blur with tears.
I’ll do it for your sake, he whispers, with the tender flesh between his teeth, and he takes a bite of this once living chicken and chews it and swallows it, and the drum in his tummy spins the yellow meat around.
But don’t worry, he bravely reassures his weeping parents as the emperor’s men untie their fetters, they may defile my lips, they may defile my body, but the essence of me will be pure forever.
Long live the saltcellar, long live the somersaultcellar, and Aron, with a chicken wing sticking out of his mouth, flies blissful as a light beam, in the radiant splendor of his word.
shouts Mama, and Aron gives her a long look; he really does feel sorry for her, slaving in the kitchen all day to feed him so he can grow up and be normal.
He shuts his ears from inside, Aroning slowly down, till suddenly they’re speaking a language he doesn’t understand, these strangers from far, far away, and he vows to stay with them, to help
them cope, to bring a little sunshine into their trying lives; see them scowl as they tell him the news of some terrible disaster, some evil, hateful person has hurt them.
Saltcellar, thinks Aron, somersaultcellar, his heart leaps: what a funny word, but something has happened meanwhile, a wicked emperor captured Mama and Papa, and he’s threatening to execute them unless Aron swallows a bite of the “birdy” in his defiant mouth; he swivels his head from side to side.
Locks his lips.
A heavy hand, red and hairy, squeezes his cheeks together, forces his mouth open, and thrusts the wing inside.
Okay, maybe it’ll accidentally knock out his milk tooth.
And his poor, poor parents, tied to the stake, they know he took a vow, they’d never ask him to do such an ignoble thing.
His eyes blur with tears.
I’ll do it for your sake, he whispers, with the tender flesh between his teeth, and he takes a bite of this once living chicken and chews it and swallows it, and the drum in his tummy spins the yellow meat around.
But don’t worry, he bravely reassures his weeping parents as the emperor’s men untie their fetters, they may defile my lips, they may defile my body, but the essence of me will be pure forever.
Long live the saltcellar, long live the somersaultcellar, and Aron, with a chicken wing sticking out of his mouth, flies blissful as a light beam, in the radiant splendor of his word.
They ate in perfect silence again.
Aron swallowed.
But he never betrayed himself, he never said “the salt whatzit.”
Papa sat down, growling with malevolence.
Staring at the heaping plate.
Yochi’s foot touched Aron’s reassuringly.
Forks scraped.
In a gnarly, tearful voice Mama asked Papa if he wanted more, the chicken came out so good today.
With great effort Papa raised his head.
He stared at her in horror.
Slowly he turned to the clock on the wall.
His bull neck reappeared between his shoulders.
Shutting his eyes, he nodded in reply.
Aron swallowed.
But he never betrayed himself, he never said “the salt whatzit.”
Papa sat down, growling with malevolence.
Staring at the heaping plate.
Yochi’s foot touched Aron’s reassuringly.
Forks scraped.
In a gnarly, tearful voice Mama asked Papa if he wanted more, the chicken came out so good today.
With great effort Papa raised his head.
He stared at her in horror.
Slowly he turned to the clock on the wall.
His bull neck reappeared between his shoulders.
Shutting his eyes, he nodded in reply.
Two kitchen walls; the wall in the hallway; the little storage loft over the bathroom; the wall between the kitchen and the pantry; half the wall between the hallway and the salon … The neighbors, expert by now at deciphering Papa’s moods, recognized the difference instantly: after a long spell of fatigue, Papa was back to his old self again, smashing the walls with renewed vigor, till they crumbled into dust.He shattered the bathroom and, one by one, knocked out the delicate tiles, cracking the basin in the process as well as the laundry rack and the ornamental mirror where Edna had beheld herself rising from the bath.
It was difficult for him to be careful, to curb his ambitions.
His flexing smithy muscles twisted over his back and shoulders and ripped through his dark blue work shirt.
Once when he needed some wooden beams and Edna pointed to a stack of doors, he sawed up two of them without a moment’s hesitation.
During most of the next few days he worked on Og, the giant ladder, demolishing the storage loft in the hallway, indifferent to the peculiar rain of picture postcards and maps of distant lands, high-school papers and university notebooks, gaudy albums and collections of trading cards and silver foil and “gold stars,” and frilly dresses, and broken dolls, and little red shoes, and a cuddly teddy bear with a faint smell of urine, and scores of black-and-white photos pelting down on his back like arrows.
For three hours a day the building project trembled, the Boteneros, the Smitankas, the Kaminers, the Strashnovs; the plaster crumbled in their apartments, the
furniture jiggled like herons aflutter in an aviary as the beating wings of their migrant friends pass overhead, and the dust from the ruins of Edna’s apartment fell upon the dying grass and the laundry lines on their balconies, but no one dared complain to Papa, right, that’s all they needed, he looked like a wild beast; poor Hinda, she must be made of steel to put up with a man like that.
And a terrible thing happened in the building one morning: Esther Kaminer, wife of Avigdor Kaminer, did not wake up: she went to sleep a healthy woman and never opened her eyes again.
All the neighbors, except for Papa and Edna Bloom, came outside and bowed their heads as the diminutive body was lifted into the ambulance.
In the fifteen years since the project was constructed this was the first time anyone had died there.
Avigdor Kaminer stood by, arms dangling, and the onlookers watched his hunched figure full of pity and concern: who would take care of him now that she was gone, who would keep him going?
She fought like a tiger over him.
Mama, who had a soft spot for Esther Kaminer, came home feeling suddenly old.
It was a dreadful blow.
But she gritted her teeth and baked a torte and a sesame cake so poor Kaminer would have something to serve his guests during the seven days of mourning; he’s as helpless as a baby, doesn’t even know how to fix himself a cup of tea, how will he manage with the laundry, how will he manage with the ironing?
She heaved a sigh, remembering Mamchu, of all people, with a vague irritation; maybe there was a link here, between poor Esther Kaminer and Mamchu holding on to life like an animal, to the point of indecency.
Some people just don’t know when their time has come, she grumbled, watching the margarine melt in the frying pan, and again with a pang she remembered Grandma Lilly, whose very survival seemed to clog the bowels of death and upset the laws of the universe.
All the neighbors, except for Papa and Edna Bloom, came outside and bowed their heads as the diminutive body was lifted into the ambulance.
In the fifteen years since the project was constructed this was the first time anyone had died there.
Avigdor Kaminer stood by, arms dangling, and the onlookers watched his hunched figure full of pity and concern: who would take care of him now that she was gone, who would keep him going?
She fought like a tiger over him.
Mama, who had a soft spot for Esther Kaminer, came home feeling suddenly old.
It was a dreadful blow.
But she gritted her teeth and baked a torte and a sesame cake so poor Kaminer would have something to serve his guests during the seven days of mourning; he’s as helpless as a baby, doesn’t even know how to fix himself a cup of tea, how will he manage with the laundry, how will he manage with the ironing?
She heaved a sigh, remembering Mamchu, of all people, with a vague irritation; maybe there was a link here, between poor Esther Kaminer and Mamchu holding on to life like an animal, to the point of indecency.
Some people just don’t know when their time has come, she grumbled, watching the margarine melt in the frying pan, and again with a pang she remembered Grandma Lilly, whose very survival seemed to clog the bowels of death and upset the laws of the universe.
But the others blamed Papa and Edna Bloom in their hearts, him on account of the sledgehammer which must have jolted Esther’s internal plumbing—why, even a healthy person could break down from all that hammering day after day—and Edna they blamed on account of the air of repression she broadcast to the entire neighborhood.
Mrs.
Pinkus, the divorcée with the spotty face who never paid her house dues, lost control one time when Edna passed her on the stairway, looking pale and fragile with her new hair swirling around her brow like flames, and screamed at her, Stop the torture already, give in and be done with it
—you think you have a diamond growing there, if you can’t satisfy him, pass him on to them that can.
Edna stared silently at the hysterical woman and dizzily grabbed hold of the banister.
If only he’d dare, she mused, tearing herself away from Mrs.
Pinkus’s distorted face and trudging numbly up to her apartment.
Why doesn’t he, though, what is he afraid of?
Her thoughts were thick and murky, filling up her head.
What is he afraid of?
A fine thread of blood trickled out behind her as she carried her heavy basket with tomorrow’s dinner up the stairs.
At the Atiases’ door she stopped to catch her breath.
Maybe he was shy.
But why should he be shy with her?
A sealed letter with Mr.
Lombroso’s signature had been lying under her bed for days, her bank clerk notified her sternly but with secret satisfaction that her account had been closed, red paper birds from the electric company and the gas people glided through the apartment, or glued themselves to the door, but she could always cook on the old Primus, and when she ran out of money for kerosene she could saw up the doors and the furniture and make a bonfire in the middle of the living room, and throw in her
National Geographics,
arranged and catalogued according to subject, the glory of her modest enterprise, and the oversized pages of her art books, born for burning, and her wooden sculptures and dolls from around the world.
She started to climb the stairs again, shuffling her feet, how did everything get so complicated, wake up, save your soul, but where does he go when the hammering begins, as if she no longer existed for him, disappearing into the wall, forgetting all about her, all about her; she laughed out loud, shattered like a bottle on the prow of his ship as he sailed into the distance.
And she leaned against the door of her apartment and saw the rash that had broken out over her slender legs.
From hunger maybe.
But food didn’t satisfy her anymore.
Mrs.
Pinkus, the divorcée with the spotty face who never paid her house dues, lost control one time when Edna passed her on the stairway, looking pale and fragile with her new hair swirling around her brow like flames, and screamed at her, Stop the torture already, give in and be done with it
—you think you have a diamond growing there, if you can’t satisfy him, pass him on to them that can.
Edna stared silently at the hysterical woman and dizzily grabbed hold of the banister.
If only he’d dare, she mused, tearing herself away from Mrs.
Pinkus’s distorted face and trudging numbly up to her apartment.
Why doesn’t he, though, what is he afraid of?
Her thoughts were thick and murky, filling up her head.
What is he afraid of?
A fine thread of blood trickled out behind her as she carried her heavy basket with tomorrow’s dinner up the stairs.
At the Atiases’ door she stopped to catch her breath.
Maybe he was shy.
But why should he be shy with her?
A sealed letter with Mr.
Lombroso’s signature had been lying under her bed for days, her bank clerk notified her sternly but with secret satisfaction that her account had been closed, red paper birds from the electric company and the gas people glided through the apartment, or glued themselves to the door, but she could always cook on the old Primus, and when she ran out of money for kerosene she could saw up the doors and the furniture and make a bonfire in the middle of the living room, and throw in her
National Geographics,
arranged and catalogued according to subject, the glory of her modest enterprise, and the oversized pages of her art books, born for burning, and her wooden sculptures and dolls from around the world.
She started to climb the stairs again, shuffling her feet, how did everything get so complicated, wake up, save your soul, but where does he go when the hammering begins, as if she no longer existed for him, disappearing into the wall, forgetting all about her, all about her; she laughed out loud, shattered like a bottle on the prow of his ship as he sailed into the distance.
And she leaned against the door of her apartment and saw the rash that had broken out over her slender legs.
From hunger maybe.
But food didn’t satisfy her anymore.
And one night the telephone rang at the Kleinfelds’.
Mama picked up the receiver, and, vey-is-mir, turned very white.
Then she sent Aron to fetch Papa from What’s-her-name’s and sank down on the Pouritz.
Mama, Mama, who was it, what happened?
But only her finger moved, waving at him.
Go already, bring him home right now even if he’s in the middle of Kol Nidre.
Mama picked up the receiver, and, vey-is-mir, turned very white.
Then she sent Aron to fetch Papa from What’s-her-name’s and sank down on the Pouritz.
Mama, Mama, who was it, what happened?
But only her finger moved, waving at him.
Go already, bring him home right now even if he’s in the middle of Kol Nidre.
He climbed the stairs of Entrance A, which reverberated to Papa’s blows, four flights up, slowly, cautiously, his legs wide apart, every footfall hurting more, stirring the mush in his tummy.
He stopped and coughed in front of the door, to announce his presence, as usual, and
knocked softly.
And knocked again, a little harder; it was impossible to hear anything with all the noise.
And again he coughed, and rang the bell, but didn’t hear it ring.
Maybe the electricity had been cut off.
What to do now, he couldn’t go home, he couldn’t just open the door.
Till finally he dared, he closed his eyes and opened the door a narrow crack, and then he knew, he was certain that when he opened his eyes he would see Papa’s arms dangling to the floor, and the dirty smile smeared over his face, while some ingenious machine produced the sounds of hammering.
But all he found was a cloud of dust, behind which he dimly discerned his papa’s bare back, as he smashed the wall of the bathroom down the hall.
He stopped and coughed in front of the door, to announce his presence, as usual, and
knocked softly.
And knocked again, a little harder; it was impossible to hear anything with all the noise.
And again he coughed, and rang the bell, but didn’t hear it ring.
Maybe the electricity had been cut off.
What to do now, he couldn’t go home, he couldn’t just open the door.
Till finally he dared, he closed his eyes and opened the door a narrow crack, and then he knew, he was certain that when he opened his eyes he would see Papa’s arms dangling to the floor, and the dirty smile smeared over his face, while some ingenious machine produced the sounds of hammering.
But all he found was a cloud of dust, behind which he dimly discerned his papa’s bare back, as he smashed the wall of the bathroom down the hall.
The house was in ruins.
Bricks jutted out like bones from the walls still standing.
Extended cracks crawled over the ceiling, and the floor was littered with plaster and dust and newspapers and electric wires and leftover food.
Four or five doors were stacked against a wall, leaning on each other’s backs, hugging in silence.
Bricks jutted out like bones from the walls still standing.
Extended cracks crawled over the ceiling, and the floor was littered with plaster and dust and newspapers and electric wires and leftover food.
Four or five doors were stacked against a wall, leaning on each other’s backs, hugging in silence.
But when he glanced around the ruins he discovered Edna: doubled over in a swoon on one of her lacerated armchairs, a shabby blanket wrapped around her.
Her face was dusty white like a death mask, and the crown of her head glowed red.
Her face was dusty white like a death mask, and the crown of her head glowed red.
Aron took a few steps forward, went limp at the sight, and sank to the floor in the corner by the piano.
The outer walls and a few supporting pillars were left, but the apartment seemed bleak, exposed to raging winter winds.
He shivered.
Soon it will be spring, he thought, but who knows, maybe spring won’t come this year, winter might go on forever, orbiting around itself … The persistent pounding penetrated his stomach and head now, and he let it in, a little top-heavy, but he had a job to do, he had been sent for a purpose; wake up, shake an arm or a leg, show you’re alive, but first, rest here, unwind from your rigorous journey, let yourself go a little, who knows, maybe now at last, but he was tight as a fist from head to toe; and he leaned against the wall, yielding to the hammer blows, to their dull reverberation inside him, and he realized that this wasn’t it either; the hammering was loud, true, but it didn’t sound right somehow, it lacked spirit, maybe Papa wasn’t up to more than that, too bad, too bad, and he shut his eyes, sliding down the wall, taking a breather; let’s see now, where were we, this Saturday the Jerusalem Hapoel team is playing Hapoel Haifa and he bet 2—0, but now he regrets his betrayal of the home team, he should have bet
at least a tie score, and in tomorrow’s paper the winners of the Blueband contest will be announced, and he sent in ten wrappers; he dozes, organizing next week’s missions in his head: to snatch three pounds out of Mama’s wallet again and buy a lottery ticket, how come he never even won the small purse, or at least let him find the white Valiant, license number 327—933, that was stolen in Jerusalem, or the German shepherd with the brown collar who answers to the name of Flash, generous reward for the honest finder, that would be okay too, and in the afternoon paper it said Coca-Cola will be opening a plant in Israel this year, maybe they’ll have a contest for a Hebrew slogan, how about “From Dan to Elat, Coca-Cola hits the spot,” though maybe he wouldn’t have to wait that long if he won the lottery first, or the Toto, or even the “Find the Seven Differences”; he was getting closer all the time, he could feel it in his bones, why, one of his letters or postcards or bottle caps or Popsicle sticks had probably just arrived at the editor’s desk or at the factory where the boss opens the envelope and reads the entry, and a wide grin spreads over his face, his gold tooth positively gleams with joy, and he stands up and beckons the workers; they leave their cumbersome machines that go up and down, pounding, groaning.
“Folks, we have a winner!”
shouts the boss, jumping on his big black top hat, crushing it in jubilation.
At long last, somebody’s found the answer!
It’s incredible!
Like a ray of light straight to the core of the problem!
We have been redeemed!”
And the workers return to the production line, their voices lifting in a mighty song, and the machines steam up, shooting sparks through their pistons, flamboyant fireworks in the air.
Aron trembled, he thought he heard a scream in his ear, he opened his eyes, looked around; Papa was still pounding down the hall, boom, groan, boom, groan, but Aron could no longer believe, and he knew he had missed a unique opportunity.
The outer walls and a few supporting pillars were left, but the apartment seemed bleak, exposed to raging winter winds.
He shivered.
Soon it will be spring, he thought, but who knows, maybe spring won’t come this year, winter might go on forever, orbiting around itself … The persistent pounding penetrated his stomach and head now, and he let it in, a little top-heavy, but he had a job to do, he had been sent for a purpose; wake up, shake an arm or a leg, show you’re alive, but first, rest here, unwind from your rigorous journey, let yourself go a little, who knows, maybe now at last, but he was tight as a fist from head to toe; and he leaned against the wall, yielding to the hammer blows, to their dull reverberation inside him, and he realized that this wasn’t it either; the hammering was loud, true, but it didn’t sound right somehow, it lacked spirit, maybe Papa wasn’t up to more than that, too bad, too bad, and he shut his eyes, sliding down the wall, taking a breather; let’s see now, where were we, this Saturday the Jerusalem Hapoel team is playing Hapoel Haifa and he bet 2—0, but now he regrets his betrayal of the home team, he should have bet
at least a tie score, and in tomorrow’s paper the winners of the Blueband contest will be announced, and he sent in ten wrappers; he dozes, organizing next week’s missions in his head: to snatch three pounds out of Mama’s wallet again and buy a lottery ticket, how come he never even won the small purse, or at least let him find the white Valiant, license number 327—933, that was stolen in Jerusalem, or the German shepherd with the brown collar who answers to the name of Flash, generous reward for the honest finder, that would be okay too, and in the afternoon paper it said Coca-Cola will be opening a plant in Israel this year, maybe they’ll have a contest for a Hebrew slogan, how about “From Dan to Elat, Coca-Cola hits the spot,” though maybe he wouldn’t have to wait that long if he won the lottery first, or the Toto, or even the “Find the Seven Differences”; he was getting closer all the time, he could feel it in his bones, why, one of his letters or postcards or bottle caps or Popsicle sticks had probably just arrived at the editor’s desk or at the factory where the boss opens the envelope and reads the entry, and a wide grin spreads over his face, his gold tooth positively gleams with joy, and he stands up and beckons the workers; they leave their cumbersome machines that go up and down, pounding, groaning.
“Folks, we have a winner!”
shouts the boss, jumping on his big black top hat, crushing it in jubilation.
At long last, somebody’s found the answer!
It’s incredible!
Like a ray of light straight to the core of the problem!
We have been redeemed!”
And the workers return to the production line, their voices lifting in a mighty song, and the machines steam up, shooting sparks through their pistons, flamboyant fireworks in the air.
Aron trembled, he thought he heard a scream in his ear, he opened his eyes, looked around; Papa was still pounding down the hall, boom, groan, boom, groan, but Aron could no longer believe, and he knew he had missed a unique opportunity.
But it really was a scream.
Mama was calling him from down the stairs.
He had completely forgotten his errand.
How could he stop Papa in the middle?
Mama yelled his name again.
God knows what the urgent thing whoever it was had called about.
Mama did turn white as a wall.
She did clutch her heart.
Aron shuddered: maybe Grandma was dead.
Mama was calling him from down the stairs.
He had completely forgotten his errand.
How could he stop Papa in the middle?
Mama yelled his name again.
God knows what the urgent thing whoever it was had called about.
Mama did turn white as a wall.
She did clutch her heart.
Aron shuddered: maybe Grandma was dead.
He let out a whimper of grief: His own dear grandma—how … but … it can’t be … and then quickly restrained himself; yes, when it comes it comes, the will of heaven, here today, gone tomorrow, he mumbled as if in prayer, but deep inside he felt a disagreeable chill.
And you, what did you ever do for Grandma?
Me?
I spent loads of time with her.
Oh sure, in the beginning, when it was all new and exciting.
And I took her clothes and her shoes and her braid out of the trash bin and hid them in the furnace room.
Traitor, deserter, did you once ask Yochi to take you there?
Well no, but I thought of going, I even had a little present for her: a little red mirror.
Right, presents you’re good at, and writing sentimental cards to go with them, but when it comes to action, you’re as bad as the others, you traitor, you lousy traitor.
Some such muttering went on inside him, though both the plaintiff and the defendant were hollow, false, and what he was really thinking about was the beard Papa would have to grow during the seven days of mourning.
And you, what did you ever do for Grandma?
Me?
I spent loads of time with her.
Oh sure, in the beginning, when it was all new and exciting.
And I took her clothes and her shoes and her braid out of the trash bin and hid them in the furnace room.
Traitor, deserter, did you once ask Yochi to take you there?
Well no, but I thought of going, I even had a little present for her: a little red mirror.
Right, presents you’re good at, and writing sentimental cards to go with them, but when it comes to action, you’re as bad as the others, you traitor, you lousy traitor.
Some such muttering went on inside him, though both the plaintiff and the defendant were hollow, false, and what he was really thinking about was the beard Papa would have to grow during the seven days of mourning.
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NorthangerAlibiInterior by James, Jenni
