Read The Book of Intimate Grammar Online
Authors: David Grossman
The Book of Intimate Grammar (28 page)
He turned his head obediently.
Following her.
She didn’t even notice.
She just kept digging, muttering to herself.
And what a voice.
Baaaa!
Like a bull!
When he talked I could feel the rumbling in my stomach!
Would you mind explaining, just so I’ll know, why your voice still goes peep-peep-peep, while his has changed already.
And now you’re turning into a vegetarian.
As if one dowry wasn’t enough.
Look at those spindle legs.
How do you expect to grow on lettuce and carrots?
She wiped her finger on the kangaroo apron.
Spreading the harvest around in little swirls.
Suddenly she noticed his watchful, scientific gaze.
Jumped up.
Hid the apron behind her back, suspicious of an affront here.
“Go look at yourself, Helen Keller Kleinfeld.”
Following her.
She didn’t even notice.
She just kept digging, muttering to herself.
And what a voice.
Baaaa!
Like a bull!
When he talked I could feel the rumbling in my stomach!
Would you mind explaining, just so I’ll know, why your voice still goes peep-peep-peep, while his has changed already.
And now you’re turning into a vegetarian.
As if one dowry wasn’t enough.
Look at those spindle legs.
How do you expect to grow on lettuce and carrots?
She wiped her finger on the kangaroo apron.
Spreading the harvest around in little swirls.
Suddenly she noticed his watchful, scientific gaze.
Jumped up.
Hid the apron behind her back, suspicious of an affront here.
“Go look at yourself, Helen Keller Kleinfeld.”
It took five days, by fits and starts, to tear down the walls in the kitchen and the hallway.Edna, meanwhile, went off to visit her parents in Bat Yam, where, much to the astonishment of her aged mother, she asked for instruction in the spellcraft of Hungarian cooking.
Sitting beside her in their dingy grocery store, she recorded her mother’s every wise, long-suffering word, with notes in the margins, and joked with her father as never before.
In the evening the three of them went out to a restaurant.
They asked no questions, were loath to interfere.
Though they must have sensed something was amiss, they were too kind to spoil their daughter’s pleasure.
Edna gazed at them through eyes of love, cherishing their meekness, the old cobwebs of intimacy, the crumbs of merriment they allowed themselves.
For thirty-seven years, since arriving in Israel, they had lived behind the store counter, and the only way Edna could envisage them was huddled together in the back like frightened sheep.
And then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, she began to tell them things: about a romantic episode in Portugal eight years before with the banjo player from a little club, and their night together, which was more like a year; he was ready to give up everything and marry her, he was so foolishly smitten he asked for her ring as a keepsake, yes, the little red one they’d given her when she turned eighteen, and now she had a little diamond in Portugal … She shrugged with regret, with disillusionment, and they nodded silently, staring down at the plastic tablecloth.
She’d written him several postcards,
first in English and, when he didn’t reply, in Hebrew; she laughed, not because she missed him, but because she missed the person she had been with him, and maybe too, she realized only now, as she spoke, because she longed to transport a part of herself to a more lovely site.
And then she told them of her years at the university, about her disappointments there, strange that she had never shared this with them before, and they could hear what she left untold, the story of acquaintances never made, friendships never formed; she had felt like a little mouse among the sophisticated students with their silver tongues, but when she needed blood after her operation, nobody came forward except you, Father, you took the bus all the way to Jerusalem and gave your blood … She clasped his hand on the checkered tablecloth and held it there, small and twisted, dry and furrowed, but soft and warm inside.
And when her tears stopped flowing, they began to reminisce about her childhood, evoking a past she had been afraid to remember: the arduous journey by boat and train, and the many lands they had fared through, so happy together they were almost reluctant to arrive at their destination, and how delighted Edna had been at sea, our little princess, Nona del Mar, the captain called her, and in Italy a street singer fell in love with her and serenaded her for an hour as she stood before him in a wide-brimmed hat, a three-year-old beauty with yellow curls, and in Athens a gendarme took her for a ride on his shiny black horse, but the horse bolted, it was a wonder the gendarme managed to draw rein … The light glowed softly over the table as they exchanged their airy offerings.
Once a week we go to a movie.
But why didn’t you tell me?
she asked, amazed.
You would have laughed at us, two old-timers out on a date … What sort of films do you like?
she asked them eagerly.
Well, probably not the sort you like, just simple entertainment for folks like us.
Tell me, tell me, tell me, she entreated, anticipating further revelations; sheepishly they named a few.
What do you know!
she exclaimed with tears in her eyes, I saw those too.
And later that night, back at their tiny apartment, they embraced in their overcoats, tremulous with emotion, with the joy of meeting and the joy of parting.
But Mama was not about to sit idly by.
It was more difficult in her case, though, having to begin from the beginning in an area where she had earned much glory and self-esteem.
Not that she would stoop to buying a cookbook; there wasn’t a woman on earth whose tutelage in the culinary arts she was prepared to accept,
pshee!
Instead, she rallied
her senses in a sly campaign of espionage: memories overwhelmed her as she set off once more on shopping expeditions to out-of-the-way markets, to remote and tiny stores in neighborhoods she would not have set foot in as a rule.
Cleverly, wisely, for she was nobody’s fool, she scarcely altered her cooking style, at least, not all at once: with the subtlety of an artist she seasoned her chicken soup, a dash of coriander, a hint of Indian curry, in minuscule amounts at first, like drops of precious perfume, and then more boldly, with a reckless flourish, almost grateful to What’s-her-name for kindling this rivalry and her blood … Slowly but surely she varied the menus; she was cooking with more than her hands again, as she had for her starving refugee long ago in their home in the old neighborhood: she cooked with her heart and soul, serving up vegetable side dishes with the chicken, grape leaves stuffed with spicy rice, stuffed cabbage and peppers, and even tomatoes.
And she garnished every course with a ribbon of cucumber or pimiento, just for the beauty of it; we’re not animals, you know.
And she invested much of the pay from Edna in a variety of fancy foods.
Suddenly the dinner dishes came alive, evoking colorful market stalls.
And a dying winter pressed its pallid face against the window, watching them with famished eyes.
It was more difficult in her case, though, having to begin from the beginning in an area where she had earned much glory and self-esteem.
Not that she would stoop to buying a cookbook; there wasn’t a woman on earth whose tutelage in the culinary arts she was prepared to accept,
pshee!
Instead, she rallied
her senses in a sly campaign of espionage: memories overwhelmed her as she set off once more on shopping expeditions to out-of-the-way markets, to remote and tiny stores in neighborhoods she would not have set foot in as a rule.
Cleverly, wisely, for she was nobody’s fool, she scarcely altered her cooking style, at least, not all at once: with the subtlety of an artist she seasoned her chicken soup, a dash of coriander, a hint of Indian curry, in minuscule amounts at first, like drops of precious perfume, and then more boldly, with a reckless flourish, almost grateful to What’s-her-name for kindling this rivalry and her blood … Slowly but surely she varied the menus; she was cooking with more than her hands again, as she had for her starving refugee long ago in their home in the old neighborhood: she cooked with her heart and soul, serving up vegetable side dishes with the chicken, grape leaves stuffed with spicy rice, stuffed cabbage and peppers, and even tomatoes.
And she garnished every course with a ribbon of cucumber or pimiento, just for the beauty of it; we’re not animals, you know.
And she invested much of the pay from Edna in a variety of fancy foods.
Suddenly the dinner dishes came alive, evoking colorful market stalls.
And a dying winter pressed its pallid face against the window, watching them with famished eyes.
It’s a heavy gray dinner hour.
Aron tries to swallow, but he can’t.
He just can’t.
The food sticks in his throat.
He mustn’t, mustn’t, put any more in.
There’s no room left.
Through lowered lids he peeks at Papa.
At his slowly grinding jaws.
Nothing will ever stand in their way.
Throw in a hunk of meat and watch them devour it.
Throw in a plastic box or a tin can or even an old car, they’ll tear up anything.
Furtively he counts on his fingers: twenty-five days now since Mama and Papa stopped talking.
And she doesn’t sing anymore, not even “We’re off to work in the morning.”
You’re staring at me again.
No, I’m not.
I want you to eat, you hear, not sit there dreaming with your mouth open.
I’m not dreaming.
Everyone else is … The last few words are swallowed in an angry murmur.
She sticks the serving spoon in the mashed potatoes and fills up Papa’s plate again.
He watches, sighing, swallowing spit, and once again he lifts his fork.
Slowly he consumes everything.
Down to the last crumb.
But the question is, will Papa eat the third helping Mama inevitably offers when he’s done?
Because a few hours from now What’s-her-name will be serving him another huge meal.
As Mama very well knows.
As everyone in the building knows.
All the same she heaps
his plate full.
At precisely one-fifty-five Papa ate chicken.
Aron is scientific about these things.
Yochi eats in silence, her soft greasy face glued to the plate.
Aron is watching her out of the corner of his eye in her desperate struggle with the appetite she inherited from Papa.
Her hand goes out to the bread basket, with a will of its own.
She summons it back.
A few more mouthfuls of chicken and the hand slides out to the bread basket again.
Next time, the third time, he knows she will succumb.
Aron chews and chews and chews, swirling the mush around in his cheeks: if he swallows this, he will explode.
It will mix with the pasty mush churning in his stomach.
Yochi’s hand goes out and snatches the bread—I was right—which she devours pleasurelessly.
No one speaks.
Aron picks at the food on his plate.
To make sure Mama didn’t sneak in any chicken.
The way she does in the vegetable soup.
No one would catch him eating food that used to be alive.
He chews with downcast eyes to avoid the chicken-wing remains on their plates.
He moves the soda squirter in front of him to block out Mama’s plate, and furtively overturns the saltcellar from the Galei Kinneret Hotel on the bread board to eclipse what he can of Papa’s plate.
Slowly he masticates the bread and mashed potatoes till he can’t tell the bread from the mashed potatoes, using his cheeks as warehouses.
Twenty-five days.
And Giora said a man has to do it three or four times a week, at least, otherwise he might burst.
Papa’s jaws go up and down.
Up and down.
And in Aron’s tummy there’s a month’s worth of food spinning round and round.
He can feel it spin: like the revolving drum of a washing machine.
There go the tomatoes and the mashed potatoes, there goes the eggplant.
There goes the rice and the bread and the bananas and sour cream they made him eat the day before yesterday.
Yochi asks him to pass the borscht.
“With pleasure,” he responds.
And Yochi stares at him quizzically, then smiles and says with a perfectly straight face, “Oh, thank you ever so.”
Silence.
Everyone eats.
Those jaws again.
Mama scoops another mound of mashed potatoes onto Papa’s plate.
The plate he just cleared, gasps Aron.
Papa contemplates this latest mound.
The steam from the mashed potatoes condenses into beads of sweat around his chin and down his cheeks.
He breathes in deeply and lets out a groan.
Breadcrumbs fly across the table.
Aron grips the edge of the table.
Papa unbuckles his belt and lets his body spill out into the room.
Aron says: “Would you be so kind as to pass the bread.”
Yochi smiles wanly.
“The pumpernickel, sir?”
Aron laughs.
“If you please.”
He looks
around with a smile.
But Mama buries her face in the plate, and Papa turns red.
Aron is mortified: what if Papa thinks they’re making fun of him with their formal Hebrew?
But they aren’t making fun of him, honestly.
Aron uses words like that in his imagination all the time, when he pretends he lives with gentlefolk who found him as a baby.
Maybe he and Yochi should talk like that whenever they’re at home alone together.
She’s so good at it.
Not that it’s surprising, when all she does is read books or write letters.
Aron wants to add something, but first he has to check on how things are going out there; Papa’s forgotten about him; he eyes the heaping plateful before him with dismay, picks up a thick piece of bread, weighs it in his hand, tears out a chunk of snow-white dough, and impales it on the tip of his finger: in his day at the bakery, bread was bread.
He squooshes the unfortunate crumb and flicks it at the sink.
Then he concentrates on his plate again, picking at the potatoes, noisily sucking on a drumstick.
Aron waits till Papa’s eyes turn glassy with the drumstick in his mouth and mutters to Yochi: “How very delectable,” and ducks his head and stuffs more mashed potatoes into his mouth, and more bread, and pickles, anything and everything to avoid looking up again.
Because the drumstick has frozen in Papa’s hand.
Yochi too buries her face in her plate.
Some secret thing inside him, a hazy memory, a quiver of joy, swims minnow-like, shimmering in his blood, while Aron plunges faithfully on, toward the one chance in a million, the flare of union and the spark of life, with Papa behind him, gloomy, dark, thrusting his body forward, and his flabby flesh gets stuck in the entrance—pow!
Aron tries to swallow, but he can’t.
He just can’t.
The food sticks in his throat.
He mustn’t, mustn’t, put any more in.
There’s no room left.
Through lowered lids he peeks at Papa.
At his slowly grinding jaws.
Nothing will ever stand in their way.
Throw in a hunk of meat and watch them devour it.
Throw in a plastic box or a tin can or even an old car, they’ll tear up anything.
Furtively he counts on his fingers: twenty-five days now since Mama and Papa stopped talking.
And she doesn’t sing anymore, not even “We’re off to work in the morning.”
You’re staring at me again.
No, I’m not.
I want you to eat, you hear, not sit there dreaming with your mouth open.
I’m not dreaming.
Everyone else is … The last few words are swallowed in an angry murmur.
She sticks the serving spoon in the mashed potatoes and fills up Papa’s plate again.
He watches, sighing, swallowing spit, and once again he lifts his fork.
Slowly he consumes everything.
Down to the last crumb.
But the question is, will Papa eat the third helping Mama inevitably offers when he’s done?
Because a few hours from now What’s-her-name will be serving him another huge meal.
As Mama very well knows.
As everyone in the building knows.
All the same she heaps
his plate full.
At precisely one-fifty-five Papa ate chicken.
Aron is scientific about these things.
Yochi eats in silence, her soft greasy face glued to the plate.
Aron is watching her out of the corner of his eye in her desperate struggle with the appetite she inherited from Papa.
Her hand goes out to the bread basket, with a will of its own.
She summons it back.
A few more mouthfuls of chicken and the hand slides out to the bread basket again.
Next time, the third time, he knows she will succumb.
Aron chews and chews and chews, swirling the mush around in his cheeks: if he swallows this, he will explode.
It will mix with the pasty mush churning in his stomach.
Yochi’s hand goes out and snatches the bread—I was right—which she devours pleasurelessly.
No one speaks.
Aron picks at the food on his plate.
To make sure Mama didn’t sneak in any chicken.
The way she does in the vegetable soup.
No one would catch him eating food that used to be alive.
He chews with downcast eyes to avoid the chicken-wing remains on their plates.
He moves the soda squirter in front of him to block out Mama’s plate, and furtively overturns the saltcellar from the Galei Kinneret Hotel on the bread board to eclipse what he can of Papa’s plate.
Slowly he masticates the bread and mashed potatoes till he can’t tell the bread from the mashed potatoes, using his cheeks as warehouses.
Twenty-five days.
And Giora said a man has to do it three or four times a week, at least, otherwise he might burst.
Papa’s jaws go up and down.
Up and down.
And in Aron’s tummy there’s a month’s worth of food spinning round and round.
He can feel it spin: like the revolving drum of a washing machine.
There go the tomatoes and the mashed potatoes, there goes the eggplant.
There goes the rice and the bread and the bananas and sour cream they made him eat the day before yesterday.
Yochi asks him to pass the borscht.
“With pleasure,” he responds.
And Yochi stares at him quizzically, then smiles and says with a perfectly straight face, “Oh, thank you ever so.”
Silence.
Everyone eats.
Those jaws again.
Mama scoops another mound of mashed potatoes onto Papa’s plate.
The plate he just cleared, gasps Aron.
Papa contemplates this latest mound.
The steam from the mashed potatoes condenses into beads of sweat around his chin and down his cheeks.
He breathes in deeply and lets out a groan.
Breadcrumbs fly across the table.
Aron grips the edge of the table.
Papa unbuckles his belt and lets his body spill out into the room.
Aron says: “Would you be so kind as to pass the bread.”
Yochi smiles wanly.
“The pumpernickel, sir?”
Aron laughs.
“If you please.”
He looks
around with a smile.
But Mama buries her face in the plate, and Papa turns red.
Aron is mortified: what if Papa thinks they’re making fun of him with their formal Hebrew?
But they aren’t making fun of him, honestly.
Aron uses words like that in his imagination all the time, when he pretends he lives with gentlefolk who found him as a baby.
Maybe he and Yochi should talk like that whenever they’re at home alone together.
She’s so good at it.
Not that it’s surprising, when all she does is read books or write letters.
Aron wants to add something, but first he has to check on how things are going out there; Papa’s forgotten about him; he eyes the heaping plateful before him with dismay, picks up a thick piece of bread, weighs it in his hand, tears out a chunk of snow-white dough, and impales it on the tip of his finger: in his day at the bakery, bread was bread.
He squooshes the unfortunate crumb and flicks it at the sink.
Then he concentrates on his plate again, picking at the potatoes, noisily sucking on a drumstick.
Aron waits till Papa’s eyes turn glassy with the drumstick in his mouth and mutters to Yochi: “How very delectable,” and ducks his head and stuffs more mashed potatoes into his mouth, and more bread, and pickles, anything and everything to avoid looking up again.
Because the drumstick has frozen in Papa’s hand.
Yochi too buries her face in her plate.
Some secret thing inside him, a hazy memory, a quiver of joy, swims minnow-like, shimmering in his blood, while Aron plunges faithfully on, toward the one chance in a million, the flare of union and the spark of life, with Papa behind him, gloomy, dark, thrusting his body forward, and his flabby flesh gets stuck in the entrance—pow!
Mama hurries to the refrigerator, and a strange blush spreads over her cheeks, but Aron peeks and sees she’s trying not to smile.
She’s on my side.
She understands that I’m loyal to her.
Now he feels a little like a matador, advancing and retreating, cheered on by beautiful women.
They continue to eat.
In silence.
And suddenly Papa says with his mouth full, “Pass me the salt whatzit.”
She’s on my side.
She understands that I’m loyal to her.
Now he feels a little like a matador, advancing and retreating, cheered on by beautiful women.
They continue to eat.
In silence.
And suddenly Papa says with his mouth full, “Pass me the salt whatzit.”
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