Read The Book of Intimate Grammar Online
Authors: David Grossman
The Book of Intimate Grammar (3 page)
And suddenly Mama was on the balcony, calling Aron.
Papa signaled the boys to keep still and they hid their heads behind the branches.
Again she called him, certain he was there.
I’m warning you, Aron, you’re in for it.
Papa cupped his hands over his mouth and gave a cuckoo cry, and the boys nearly burst with stifled laughter.
In vain Mama searched for them, bobbing up and down, and then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the house.
Now now, boys, laughed Papa, is that any way to behave?
He gazed serenely at the sky and wound his thighs around the big warm tree.
Papa signaled the boys to keep still and they hid their heads behind the branches.
Again she called him, certain he was there.
I’m warning you, Aron, you’re in for it.
Papa cupped his hands over his mouth and gave a cuckoo cry, and the boys nearly burst with stifled laughter.
In vain Mama searched for them, bobbing up and down, and then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the house.
Now now, boys, laughed Papa, is that any way to behave?
He gazed serenely at the sky and wound his thighs around the big warm tree.
For seven days Papa ministered to the fig tree: poking the sores, wiping them clean, daubing them with ointment.Again and again Mama stepped out on the balcony and shouted at him, what did she care who heard her, he was an idiot not to charge good money for all this work, let the Residents Association pay, they were responsible for the gardening, weren’t they?
But Papa knew how to sweet-talk Mama, and he stayed at his station in the tree.
One day Zacky, arriving late, found Aron’s little bicycle propped against the trunk and went pedaling off in circles like a jilted lover.
Slowly, painstakingly, Papa and Aron worked their way up the branches.
They put their heads together and examined the sores.
Whenever Papa’s undershirt hiked up Aron glimpsed the pale scar under his hairy red potbelly, like a silky gap in Papa’s brawn that never ceased to fascinate him.
You didn’t get that at the camp in Komi, did you?
he asked, knowing better, in an attempt to pump Papa for a trickle of forbidden memories, and Papa laughed: Not likely, not at Komi, there they left you to die like a dog.
No, this is from the appendix operation in Poland, when I was about your age or a little older maybe; and then, forgetting his promise to Mama, he spoke about the terrible winter in the taiga when the earth froze so hard they couldn’t bury the dead, and anyone fool enough to try to escape was found next day half-gnawed by the wolves, and some of the prisoners went crazy from hunger and fear, they went out of their minds like you go out of a room, and the worst were the inallectuals Stalin
sent there, they went crazy not because they suffered more, a body is a body, same for everyone, but because … because … He shrugged his shoulders.
I don’t know … maybe they couldn’t believe it was happening, they thought the world was inallectual like them, not like Stalin … Papa laughed and Aron laughed with him, intently watching his face.
Sometimes Edna Bloom came out for a walk and approached the tree with her dainty parasol.
Papa would watch her and part the leaves, startling her every time, though she knew by now that he was a kindly giant.
Oh, Mr.
Kleinfeld, you gave me a fright, she gasped wide-eyed, hand on her heart, and in the silence that followed, the empty lull, she seemed suddenly transported, awaiting her own return, but then, smiling meekly, gulping solicitously, she inquired about the welfare of her fig tree.
Aron thought her very beautiful, in spite of her peculiar pink coloring, which made her look almost transparent, like a newborn chick with a throbbing heart.
If not for this fig tree, she confided one evening, I would have moved out of the neighborhood long ago.
Uh-oh, thought Aron, she made a mistake, though what it was, he didn’t know.
And the next day she said she felt close to the tree, those were her words, she said that sometimes she almost felt like pouring her heart out to it, which made Aron wince again, how could she say things like that to strangers.
But Edna wasn’t accustomed to talking to her neighbors, even after thirteen years among them, she kept her distance.
I’ll show her, said Mama, I’ll grab her by the roots and teach her to be civil, or at least to say hello to me.
Now Aron hung his head and Papa muttered something, and he blushed even more.
Edna seemed to sense she’d made a mistake, but she was in great high spirits so she quickly forgave herself, waving a jolly goodbye, and promising to return next day, same time, same place.
Aron smiled at Papa.
He tried to catch his eye as she walked away, but Papa avoided looking at him and said, Quick, start blowing on the sores.
Papa would watch her and part the leaves, startling her every time, though she knew by now that he was a kindly giant.
Oh, Mr.
Kleinfeld, you gave me a fright, she gasped wide-eyed, hand on her heart, and in the silence that followed, the empty lull, she seemed suddenly transported, awaiting her own return, but then, smiling meekly, gulping solicitously, she inquired about the welfare of her fig tree.
Aron thought her very beautiful, in spite of her peculiar pink coloring, which made her look almost transparent, like a newborn chick with a throbbing heart.
If not for this fig tree, she confided one evening, I would have moved out of the neighborhood long ago.
Uh-oh, thought Aron, she made a mistake, though what it was, he didn’t know.
And the next day she said she felt close to the tree, those were her words, she said that sometimes she almost felt like pouring her heart out to it, which made Aron wince again, how could she say things like that to strangers.
But Edna wasn’t accustomed to talking to her neighbors, even after thirteen years among them, she kept her distance.
I’ll show her, said Mama, I’ll grab her by the roots and teach her to be civil, or at least to say hello to me.
Now Aron hung his head and Papa muttered something, and he blushed even more.
Edna seemed to sense she’d made a mistake, but she was in great high spirits so she quickly forgave herself, waving a jolly goodbye, and promising to return next day, same time, same place.
Aron smiled at Papa.
He tried to catch his eye as she walked away, but Papa avoided looking at him and said, Quick, start blowing on the sores.
Edna hurried upstairs and ran breathlessly to the curtain.
A breeze was blowing, rustling the leaves, making shadows flicker on Papa’s back.
She could see the thick of his neck, the fleshly nape.
She could put him together like a jigsaw puzzle, here a biceps, there a shin; and when he twisted his arm around she glimpsed the scar on it winding through the leaves like a tropical snake.
His hefty legs swung down beside the scrawny boy’s, and she wondered how the son would ever grow up to
be a man.
Suddenly her eyes twinkled with a rare gleam of mischief, and she dashed to the kitchen to make a pitcher of lemonade.
With a giggle and a blush and an Edna-what’s-come-over-you, she poured the lemon concentrate and sugar in the water and gave it a vigorous stir.
But as she approached the window her hands went limp.
What, would she lean out the window, call him by name, and hand him the drinks … maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Still carrying the pitcher, she paced through the rooms, vexed and disappointed with herself.
A breeze was blowing, rustling the leaves, making shadows flicker on Papa’s back.
She could see the thick of his neck, the fleshly nape.
She could put him together like a jigsaw puzzle, here a biceps, there a shin; and when he twisted his arm around she glimpsed the scar on it winding through the leaves like a tropical snake.
His hefty legs swung down beside the scrawny boy’s, and she wondered how the son would ever grow up to
be a man.
Suddenly her eyes twinkled with a rare gleam of mischief, and she dashed to the kitchen to make a pitcher of lemonade.
With a giggle and a blush and an Edna-what’s-come-over-you, she poured the lemon concentrate and sugar in the water and gave it a vigorous stir.
But as she approached the window her hands went limp.
What, would she lean out the window, call him by name, and hand him the drinks … maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Still carrying the pitcher, she paced through the rooms, vexed and disappointed with herself.
A curious silence descended over the block.
In steamy kitchens, red-faced housewives looked up from their tasks.
Husbands dozing under the newspaper on their balcony lounge chairs sat up and listened.
The distant strains of a Chopin mazurka trickled through the dreary building project, over the rusty banisters, the spatterdash entrance walls and crooked mailboxes, and out to the sickly yellow lawn.
For years she hadn’t touched the piano, now she was playing again.
In steamy kitchens, red-faced housewives looked up from their tasks.
Husbands dozing under the newspaper on their balcony lounge chairs sat up and listened.
The distant strains of a Chopin mazurka trickled through the dreary building project, over the rusty banisters, the spatterdash entrance walls and crooked mailboxes, and out to the sickly yellow lawn.
For years she hadn’t touched the piano, now she was playing again.
Up in the fig tree, Papa and Aron peered shyly into each other’s eyes and quickly looked away.
Papa was busy wiping a sore, patiently probing it with his fingers.
Aron considered asking for a new guitar as a bar mitzvah present.
He remembered the time he caught Mama watching him play the old one; that was a mistake, she had walked in and seen the look in his eyes.
You’re giving me a hole in the head, she shouted.
Go outside and play with your friends, we didn’t spend half Papa’s salary to buy you a bicycle so you’d stay in here hunched over your guitar all day, and really, the bike was great, he loved it, only he wanted something more.
What it was, though, he couldn’t say.
More, that’s all.
But they had already decided what to give him for his bar mitzvah, a savings account, that’s what, so that twenty years from now he would be able to buy an apartment for his wife.
His wife?
Who cared about his wife.
Maybe he could still talk them into buying him a guitar.
Tenderly he strummed the tree, accompanying Edna, and then he rubbed the chicken-pox scar on his chin; and Papa had another bar mitzvah present to give him, a very special one: the army shaving kit with the razor and the shaving soap and the little tray he used in the Sinai campaign.
But all Aron wanted was a guitar; and again he strummed the tree and rubbed his chin and strummed again, with the dreamy look of a medieval scribe dipping his quill into the inkpot.
Papa was busy wiping a sore, patiently probing it with his fingers.
Aron considered asking for a new guitar as a bar mitzvah present.
He remembered the time he caught Mama watching him play the old one; that was a mistake, she had walked in and seen the look in his eyes.
You’re giving me a hole in the head, she shouted.
Go outside and play with your friends, we didn’t spend half Papa’s salary to buy you a bicycle so you’d stay in here hunched over your guitar all day, and really, the bike was great, he loved it, only he wanted something more.
What it was, though, he couldn’t say.
More, that’s all.
But they had already decided what to give him for his bar mitzvah, a savings account, that’s what, so that twenty years from now he would be able to buy an apartment for his wife.
His wife?
Who cared about his wife.
Maybe he could still talk them into buying him a guitar.
Tenderly he strummed the tree, accompanying Edna, and then he rubbed the chicken-pox scar on his chin; and Papa had another bar mitzvah present to give him, a very special one: the army shaving kit with the razor and the shaving soap and the little tray he used in the Sinai campaign.
But all Aron wanted was a guitar; and again he strummed the tree and rubbed his chin and strummed again, with the dreamy look of a medieval scribe dipping his quill into the inkpot.
Even though the big event was still a year and a half away, Mama and Papa were up to their ears in arrangements.
They were planning a
grandiose affair, said Mama, they would rent the Empyrean Hall and hire an expensive photographer from Photo Gwirtz this time instead of using old Uncle Shimmik, whose hands trembled so badly at the last family affair that Mama came out looking hideous.
Yochi’s bat mitzvah party had been celebrated modestly at home, and now she flew into a jealous rage.
On me you scrimp, she exploded, and Mama replied, with a hint of malice, that a bar mitzvah is different, like it or not.
Don’t worry, we’ll make it up to you with your wedding, only first let’s see the suitors, ha ha ha.
They were planning a
grandiose affair, said Mama, they would rent the Empyrean Hall and hire an expensive photographer from Photo Gwirtz this time instead of using old Uncle Shimmik, whose hands trembled so badly at the last family affair that Mama came out looking hideous.
Yochi’s bat mitzvah party had been celebrated modestly at home, and now she flew into a jealous rage.
On me you scrimp, she exploded, and Mama replied, with a hint of malice, that a bar mitzvah is different, like it or not.
Don’t worry, we’ll make it up to you with your wedding, only first let’s see the suitors, ha ha ha.
At night when Aron got up for a drink, he would find his parents huddled together over the big bar mitzvah ledger on the kitchen table.
Cast aside were the Sick Fund stampbooks—who had time for them nowadays—the reddish-yellow stamps were glued on any which way, while the ledger was carefully bound in green shelf paper with a label on the cover: ARON’S BAR MITZVAH.
Here his parents entered the menu of every bar mitzvah they attended, reckoned the costs, counted courses, criticized and compared the cuisine.
In a year and a half the mortgage would be paid up, and they would take out a little loan, which, together with what they’d managed to put by already, would be enough to throw him such a bar mitzvah party, Mama clasped him to her bosom, “Their eyes will pop!”
Cast aside were the Sick Fund stampbooks—who had time for them nowadays—the reddish-yellow stamps were glued on any which way, while the ledger was carefully bound in green shelf paper with a label on the cover: ARON’S BAR MITZVAH.
Here his parents entered the menu of every bar mitzvah they attended, reckoned the costs, counted courses, criticized and compared the cuisine.
In a year and a half the mortgage would be paid up, and they would take out a little loan, which, together with what they’d managed to put by already, would be enough to throw him such a bar mitzvah party, Mama clasped him to her bosom, “Their eyes will pop!”
Now she appeared on the balcony, searching high and low, her nostrils flaring.
Papa yanked Aron back into the tree as stealthily as a guerrilla fighter, till both of them were safely hidden from her scrutiny.
All Aron could see now through the leaves were her fingers turning white on the balcony railing.
Papa yanked Aron back into the tree as stealthily as a guerrilla fighter, till both of them were safely hidden from her scrutiny.
All Aron could see now through the leaves were her fingers turning white on the balcony railing.
“Moshe!”
she shrieked, “how long do you intend to stay up there wiping snot?”
A hush fell over the building.
The tinkling of the piano died away.
she shrieked, “how long do you intend to stay up there wiping snot?”
A hush fell over the building.
The tinkling of the piano died away.
Papa tucked his neck between his shoulders, then pushed it out again, thick and red, with a throbbing blue vein.
Aron cringed.
He had never seen Papa like this before, but Papa controlled himself, clenched his powerful jaws, and gravely, deliberately, began to smear the ointment on the sores.
Mama waited, and then suddenly pounded on the railing: “A-ron!”—the sound waves encircled him like iron rings around a pole—“come home this instant to try on your boots!”
Aron cringed.
He had never seen Papa like this before, but Papa controlled himself, clenched his powerful jaws, and gravely, deliberately, began to smear the ointment on the sores.
Mama waited, and then suddenly pounded on the railing: “A-ron!”—the sound waves encircled him like iron rings around a pole—“come home this instant to try on your boots!”
“What?
But it’s summer!”
he whispered to Papa.
But it’s summer!”
he whispered to Papa.
Papa nodded.
His eyes still intimated danger, but his chin dredged
up an old excuse: “That’s Mama for you, she likes to have things ready in advance,” he whispered.
“Suppose we have to buy you a new pair of boots this year?”
His eyes still intimated danger, but his chin dredged
up an old excuse: “That’s Mama for you, she likes to have things ready in advance,” he whispered.
“Suppose we have to buy you a new pair of boots this year?”
But of course they would have to, the old pair was two years old, all worn out, with cracks in the soles.
He definitely needed a new pair of boots: he and Gideon and Zacky were planning to open a tadpole farm, they were going to sell frogs to Bonaparte’s, the first French restaurant in Jerusalem.
He definitely needed a new pair of boots: he and Gideon and Zacky were planning to open a tadpole farm, they were going to sell frogs to Bonaparte’s, the first French restaurant in Jerusalem.
“What is it,” whispered Papa.
“Why the long face?”
“Why the long face?”
Aron turned away so Papa wouldn’t see him.
“Why does she have to talk to me like that,” he grumbled.
“Why does she have to talk to me like that,” he grumbled.
“Don’t take it to heart, Aronchik, your mama loves you.
She worries, that’s why she talks like that.”
She worries, that’s why she talks like that.”
“I’m as tall as Gideon, I’m as tall as most of the kids in my class.”
“She wants you to be the best in everything, that’s all.
A mother is a mother.”
A mother is a mother.”
“She hurt my feelings.”
Papa stroked his head.
Aron melted at the touch.
Again the piano tinkled upstairs, tentative, wary, like the first green sprouts after a forest fire.
Papa sat still.
Only his hand moved, stroking Aron.
There was still enough light to see the veins on the leaves.
The music fluttered through them, plucking delicate strings.
Aron peeked up at the sky, the deep blue sky of twilight.
And then Papa stared into his eyes until he made him smile.
Aron melted at the touch.
Again the piano tinkled upstairs, tentative, wary, like the first green sprouts after a forest fire.
Papa sat still.
Only his hand moved, stroking Aron.
There was still enough light to see the veins on the leaves.
The music fluttered through them, plucking delicate strings.
Aron peeked up at the sky, the deep blue sky of twilight.
And then Papa stared into his eyes until he made him smile.
“Anyway,” said Papa, “what’s-his-name, Napoleon, he was a shorty, and so was Zioma Schwatznicker, now that’s a fact!”
Aron found Mama in the kitchen, wobbling on the Franzousky with her head in the storage loft.Hearing him enter, she popped out again wearing a pink rubber bathing cap to protect her from the dust.
Don’t think I didn’t see you in the tree, that we’ll settle later, now go get a pair of woolen socks from the sock drawer in the big closet.
Woolen socks?
grumbled Aron.
Now?
In the middle of summer?
How do you expect to try on boots, then?
Barefoot?
But in this heat, Mama, wool?
I know what I’m doing, now go get the socks.
Angrily he opened the closet in his parents’ bedroom.
Behind the sock drawer he found a little brown envelope, like the kind that came in the mail with Papa’s reserve orders, only this one had no name or address on it.
Printed across the envelope were the words
Alfonso’s Pussy Circus
.
He peeked inside and saw something strange, a black-and-white photograph on the back of a playing card.
He knew at a glance this was something he shouldn’t be looking at.
But when he peeked again, his hands began to tremble.
Close the door and get out, he commanded himself.
Close the door and get out, he whispered to save his soul, then slipped the card into the envelope and put it back, trembling so much he almost dropped the socks.
He stood frozen in the middle of the bedroom.
What was I looking for?
And again he commanded, with a quivering voice, Get out of here now!
I said now!
Then he stumbled to his room and flopped down on the bed, to calm himself before Mama found the boots in the storage loft.
He curled up in a ball and suddenly
realized that things had not been going at all well lately.
There were certain signs, like the broken guitar strings or the fights with Zacky, though what did they prove, what did they mean, he only knew that up until now, it might have been possible to turn back the wheel of signs and proofs.
He didn’t think, he only tried to listen to the sober voice inside him whisper: “Not good,” and “Tsk tsk tsk,” like a doctor’s prognosis, and Aron was startled, not by the voice, but by the gravity of the “Tsk tsk tsk” and the shake of the head that accompanied it, like Mama’s that time they passed a fatal road accident on the bus to Tel Aviv, and suddenly he recoiled at the thought.
Nothing’s changed, he told himself, it’s just a mood, get up, but he didn’t.
Behind the sock drawer he found a little brown envelope, like the kind that came in the mail with Papa’s reserve orders, only this one had no name or address on it.
Printed across the envelope were the words
Alfonso’s Pussy Circus
.
He peeked inside and saw something strange, a black-and-white photograph on the back of a playing card.
He knew at a glance this was something he shouldn’t be looking at.
But when he peeked again, his hands began to tremble.
Close the door and get out, he commanded himself.
Close the door and get out, he whispered to save his soul, then slipped the card into the envelope and put it back, trembling so much he almost dropped the socks.
He stood frozen in the middle of the bedroom.
What was I looking for?
And again he commanded, with a quivering voice, Get out of here now!
I said now!
Then he stumbled to his room and flopped down on the bed, to calm himself before Mama found the boots in the storage loft.
He curled up in a ball and suddenly
realized that things had not been going at all well lately.
There were certain signs, like the broken guitar strings or the fights with Zacky, though what did they prove, what did they mean, he only knew that up until now, it might have been possible to turn back the wheel of signs and proofs.
He didn’t think, he only tried to listen to the sober voice inside him whisper: “Not good,” and “Tsk tsk tsk,” like a doctor’s prognosis, and Aron was startled, not by the voice, but by the gravity of the “Tsk tsk tsk” and the shake of the head that accompanied it, like Mama’s that time they passed a fatal road accident on the bus to Tel Aviv, and suddenly he recoiled at the thought.
Nothing’s changed, he told himself, it’s just a mood, get up, but he didn’t.
The day was over; a lazy summer evening stretched ahead.
From every doorway came smells of salad finely chopped, dewy cucumbers in yogurt, herring wreathed with onion, eggs dancing sunny side up, fresh rye bread thickly sliced and ready on the table.
The sultry sky began to darken at the seams.
Blithe new strains floated through the fourth-floor window—hesitant at first, measured and slow, then breaking loose in a rampage of pounding.
Papa sighed and collected his tools from the fig tree.
He looked down at his fingers, stained yellow with the ointment, as he listened to the music, wrinkling his brow in an effort to remember where he’d heard it before.
He shrugged his shoulders.
Hinda’s voice boomed out, she’d found the boots and was calling Aron to try them on.
Just as he jumped down from the fig tree, Zacky rode over.
“You mean to say you’ve been up there alone the whole time?”
He scowled in innocent dismay.
“Go on home now, it’s getting dark,” said Papa, and Zacky stared down at his bicycle fender and said he didn’t feel like going home yet.
But it’s dangerous to ride around without a light, Zachary; Don’t have one—dynamo’s out.
Remind me tomorrow and I’ll fix it for you: never fear—Moishe’s here.
And Papa scratched his prickly hair, but his mind was elsewhere, his hand perfunctory, and Zacky drew back with indignation and quickly rode away, pouting as he leaned over the handlebars.
Oh, please let a car speed by with blinding headlights, like a fist out of the blue.
Around the corner he slowed to a stop, looked both ways, and kicked the taillight of the Fiat with all his might.
From every doorway came smells of salad finely chopped, dewy cucumbers in yogurt, herring wreathed with onion, eggs dancing sunny side up, fresh rye bread thickly sliced and ready on the table.
The sultry sky began to darken at the seams.
Blithe new strains floated through the fourth-floor window—hesitant at first, measured and slow, then breaking loose in a rampage of pounding.
Papa sighed and collected his tools from the fig tree.
He looked down at his fingers, stained yellow with the ointment, as he listened to the music, wrinkling his brow in an effort to remember where he’d heard it before.
He shrugged his shoulders.
Hinda’s voice boomed out, she’d found the boots and was calling Aron to try them on.
Just as he jumped down from the fig tree, Zacky rode over.
“You mean to say you’ve been up there alone the whole time?”
He scowled in innocent dismay.
“Go on home now, it’s getting dark,” said Papa, and Zacky stared down at his bicycle fender and said he didn’t feel like going home yet.
But it’s dangerous to ride around without a light, Zachary; Don’t have one—dynamo’s out.
Remind me tomorrow and I’ll fix it for you: never fear—Moishe’s here.
And Papa scratched his prickly hair, but his mind was elsewhere, his hand perfunctory, and Zacky drew back with indignation and quickly rode away, pouting as he leaned over the handlebars.
Oh, please let a car speed by with blinding headlights, like a fist out of the blue.
Around the corner he slowed to a stop, looked both ways, and kicked the taillight of the Fiat with all his might.
Mama reached into Aron’s boots and pulled out the wads of newspaper.
Aron trudged wearily through the hall, careful to conceal himself from her penetrating eyes, fervently praying for a last-minute reprieve.
If only someone would explain it to him, slowly and patiently.
Walking like this, in slow motion, he was reminded of David Lipschitz, the albino kid in his class.
That’s how David walked, dragging his feet and wagging his head from side to side.
Papa was at the front door; he pressed the handle with his elbow and came in, carrying his tools and medicines.
“Hey there, Aronchik, why so glum?”
Papa smiled at Aron’s startled face, the brush sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
Aron panicked, what if he headed for the bedroom now and looked behind the winter-sock drawer.
But instead he went to put the palette with the jars and the rags down on a newspaper in the bathroom.
I’m going to shave now, Mamaleh, and then we can sit down to eat.
At least he didn’t suspect anything.
Aron hurried to the bedroom, but changed his mind.
Not now.
His lips were dry, crusty, how would he get the pictures out of there without his parents noticing?
Someone might suddenly walk in and go straight to the closet, and then what?
Aron trudged wearily through the hall, careful to conceal himself from her penetrating eyes, fervently praying for a last-minute reprieve.
If only someone would explain it to him, slowly and patiently.
Walking like this, in slow motion, he was reminded of David Lipschitz, the albino kid in his class.
That’s how David walked, dragging his feet and wagging his head from side to side.
Papa was at the front door; he pressed the handle with his elbow and came in, carrying his tools and medicines.
“Hey there, Aronchik, why so glum?”
Papa smiled at Aron’s startled face, the brush sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
Aron panicked, what if he headed for the bedroom now and looked behind the winter-sock drawer.
But instead he went to put the palette with the jars and the rags down on a newspaper in the bathroom.
I’m going to shave now, Mamaleh, and then we can sit down to eat.
At least he didn’t suspect anything.
Aron hurried to the bedroom, but changed his mind.
Not now.
His lips were dry, crusty, how would he get the pictures out of there without his parents noticing?
Someone might suddenly walk in and go straight to the closet, and then what?
Mama emerged from the kitchen and found him leaning against the wall.
She rushed to his side: “What’s wrong, Aronchik, why are you acting like this?”
Everything’s all right; he waved limply.
Maybe I got out of bed too fast and it made me dizzy in the head.
I’ll be okay in a minute probably.
She gave him one of her special hugs and held him so tightly he could feel a worrisome throbbing under her skin, an intense vibration almost like an engine inside her.
“Mama, you’re strangling me!”
Gently she let him go, and again he pressed himself into her body, into her soft, saggy waistline, her heaving bosom, and the perspiring nest under her arms, and suddenly he tore himself away, afraid to touch her even with his fingertips, and she opened her eyes wide with a strange little laugh: “Too big to hug your mama?
All right, go try on the boots, they’re on top of the cans in the pantry.”
And she went off giggling to tell Papa.
She rushed to his side: “What’s wrong, Aronchik, why are you acting like this?”
Everything’s all right; he waved limply.
Maybe I got out of bed too fast and it made me dizzy in the head.
I’ll be okay in a minute probably.
She gave him one of her special hugs and held him so tightly he could feel a worrisome throbbing under her skin, an intense vibration almost like an engine inside her.
“Mama, you’re strangling me!”
Gently she let him go, and again he pressed himself into her body, into her soft, saggy waistline, her heaving bosom, and the perspiring nest under her arms, and suddenly he tore himself away, afraid to touch her even with his fingertips, and she opened her eyes wide with a strange little laugh: “Too big to hug your mama?
All right, go try on the boots, they’re on top of the cans in the pantry.”
And she went off giggling to tell Papa.
Aron reached into the old boots and pulled out a few more wads of last year’s newspaper.
He spread one over his face to hide from the world, but an item with a squiggly line around it caught his attention, something about a young blacksmith from a village in Armenia who died and was buried in a wooden coffin, but at night the gravekeeper heard the sound of kicking and ran away, and the next morning the police came and pried off the coffin lid and they found the blacksmith, only his face was contorted and his nails were broken, and the lid was covered with scratches.
“God in heaven,” said Mama in his ear, “how
long does His Majesty intend to keep us waiting?
Would you please try on your boots already?”
He spread one over his face to hide from the world, but an item with a squiggly line around it caught his attention, something about a young blacksmith from a village in Armenia who died and was buried in a wooden coffin, but at night the gravekeeper heard the sound of kicking and ran away, and the next morning the police came and pried off the coffin lid and they found the blacksmith, only his face was contorted and his nails were broken, and the lid was covered with scratches.
“God in heaven,” said Mama in his ear, “how
long does His Majesty intend to keep us waiting?
Would you please try on your boots already?”
Aron slumped down on the benkaleh and leaned over to unbuckle his sandal.
Where were we?
David Lipschitz’s father works for the Ministry of the Interior, he’s a big shot, that’s why the school authorities let David pass each year.
Aron felt benevolent as he contemplated David Lipschitz, as though suddenly he had all the time in the world to pay an old debt.
Did David wag his head like that even in his sleep, Aron wondered.
Tick-tock!
The big albino face with the eyes blinking out like frightened creatures in a cave … and the only thing he cares about is Anat Fish.
The cruel and beautiful Anat Fish, who has a “freshie” boyfriend.
David stares at her and smiles, he’ll pay a whole sandwich for one of her pencils or a sheet of paper from her loose-leaf notebook, and if you bring him her sweater, he nuzzles it and his eyes get misty.
Sometimes in winter he runs out of the classroom, and when the bell rings, you find him in the hallway, rubbing against her coat.
But she’s so mean, she never looks back.
She has eyes like an Egyptian queen.
Aron pulled the sandal strap.
Where were we?
David Lipschitz’s father works for the Ministry of the Interior, he’s a big shot, that’s why the school authorities let David pass each year.
Aron felt benevolent as he contemplated David Lipschitz, as though suddenly he had all the time in the world to pay an old debt.
Did David wag his head like that even in his sleep, Aron wondered.
Tick-tock!
The big albino face with the eyes blinking out like frightened creatures in a cave … and the only thing he cares about is Anat Fish.
The cruel and beautiful Anat Fish, who has a “freshie” boyfriend.
David stares at her and smiles, he’ll pay a whole sandwich for one of her pencils or a sheet of paper from her loose-leaf notebook, and if you bring him her sweater, he nuzzles it and his eyes get misty.
Sometimes in winter he runs out of the classroom, and when the bell rings, you find him in the hallway, rubbing against her coat.
But she’s so mean, she never looks back.
She has eyes like an Egyptian queen.
Aron pulled the sandal strap.
The front door opened and slammed shut: Yochi was home from Madame Nikova’s.
She threw herself down on the bed and burst out crying.
She often cried these days, especially after ballet class; he could hear Papa humming in the bathroom as he lathered his face.
A year and a half from now, it all goes to me, he mused: the shaving soap and the razor and the shiny tray, but the thought of it was not particularly exciting; in fact, the certainty of it only oppressed him, and alienated him from Papa even more, and suddenly he imagined Mama there, all dressed up, with a fat banana hairdo, smiling radiantly at the company as her fingers searched under his chin for the chicken-pox scar.
“Didn’t I tell you whiskers would cover it one day?”
Aron pulled away indignantly: he remembered the first time she said that, when he was seven years old.
He had resented her deeply, she sounded as though she wanted to lock him inside the future and jangle the keys in his face.
She threw herself down on the bed and burst out crying.
She often cried these days, especially after ballet class; he could hear Papa humming in the bathroom as he lathered his face.
A year and a half from now, it all goes to me, he mused: the shaving soap and the razor and the shiny tray, but the thought of it was not particularly exciting; in fact, the certainty of it only oppressed him, and alienated him from Papa even more, and suddenly he imagined Mama there, all dressed up, with a fat banana hairdo, smiling radiantly at the company as her fingers searched under his chin for the chicken-pox scar.
“Didn’t I tell you whiskers would cover it one day?”
Aron pulled away indignantly: he remembered the first time she said that, when he was seven years old.
He had resented her deeply, she sounded as though she wanted to lock him inside the future and jangle the keys in his face.
“No bread for me, thank you,” said Yochi as she sat down red-eyed.
“What, no bread?
You can’t live without bread.”
You can’t live without bread.”
“I said no bread!”
Her lips were quivering.
“You should have heard the names Madame Nikova called me.”
Her lips were quivering.
“You should have heard the names Madame Nikova called me.”
“Yocheved,” cooed Mama, wiping her hands on the apron with the
kangaroo, “Madame Nikova may be an expert on dancing, but I know something about girls and growing up.”
kangaroo, “Madame Nikova may be an expert on dancing, but I know something about girls and growing up.”
“Look, just look at this!”
screamed Yochi, kicking her leg out and slapping her thigh where it joined the hip.
The pink flesh rippled.
“It’s because you never sit down properly when you eat,” Mama explained, “I’ve told you a thousand times—” “And today she put me back in the second row!”
screamed Yochi, kicking her leg out and slapping her thigh where it joined the hip.
The pink flesh rippled.
“It’s because you never sit down properly when you eat,” Mama explained, “I’ve told you a thousand times—” “And today she put me back in the second row!”
“Yochileh,” said Papa quietly, “at your age you’ve got to build your bones.
Later on you can reduce if you want to, but now the bones need nourishment.”
Later on you can reduce if you want to, but now the bones need nourishment.”
Yochi shook her head and squeezed her mouth shut to keep from crying.
“One slice?”
asked Mama.
“With butter and a little matjes herring?”
asked Mama.
“With butter and a little matjes herring?”
Yochi shook her head furiously, then tucked it between her shoulders as though waiting for a blow.
Ever so casually Mama opened the jar of matjes herring, swirled it around in the air, and forked out three fat pieces.
Then she spread a slice of bread with a thick layer of creamy butter.
Yochi turned her face to the wall.
From his seat in the pantry Aron could see the yellow-red eruption on her cheeks and forehead; soon she’d get the curse again and everyone would start worrying, that’s what happened every month since the fateful day she flushed her curse down the toilet and there was a big eisseh-beisseh because in the middle of supper Mama raised her knife and pointed, and her face turned pale and she lost her voice, and when they looked around they saw a tiny lagoon spilling out of the bathroom, flowing through the hallway into the kitchen, and Papa ran to get the pliers from his tool chest in the pantry, and the water kept gushing out and Papa stuck his hand with the pliers all the way in to see what was clogging the toilet, which spewed up more and more muck and filth, and finally he fished out a glob of something that looked like a piece of meat, and he stood there gaping at it until Mama grabbed the pliers from him and waved the glob in front of Yochi’s nose.
Well well, the princess has the curse, like a million other women, including her mother, and right on time, too, so just keep it to yourself, you don’t have to shout it from the rooftops, and then she waved the pliers in front of her, like a triumphant surgeon, screaming at the top of her lungs; maybe that’s when Yochi developed the whistling in her ears, and Yochi, nobody’s lemaleh, sat perfectly
still this time, red as blood, and after that she was always careful with the curse, and Aron too learned to be careful in the toilet, and Mama said, “Nu, Aron, are you going to stand there gaping all night, can’t you see the table’s set?”
Ever so casually Mama opened the jar of matjes herring, swirled it around in the air, and forked out three fat pieces.
Then she spread a slice of bread with a thick layer of creamy butter.
Yochi turned her face to the wall.
From his seat in the pantry Aron could see the yellow-red eruption on her cheeks and forehead; soon she’d get the curse again and everyone would start worrying, that’s what happened every month since the fateful day she flushed her curse down the toilet and there was a big eisseh-beisseh because in the middle of supper Mama raised her knife and pointed, and her face turned pale and she lost her voice, and when they looked around they saw a tiny lagoon spilling out of the bathroom, flowing through the hallway into the kitchen, and Papa ran to get the pliers from his tool chest in the pantry, and the water kept gushing out and Papa stuck his hand with the pliers all the way in to see what was clogging the toilet, which spewed up more and more muck and filth, and finally he fished out a glob of something that looked like a piece of meat, and he stood there gaping at it until Mama grabbed the pliers from him and waved the glob in front of Yochi’s nose.
Well well, the princess has the curse, like a million other women, including her mother, and right on time, too, so just keep it to yourself, you don’t have to shout it from the rooftops, and then she waved the pliers in front of her, like a triumphant surgeon, screaming at the top of her lungs; maybe that’s when Yochi developed the whistling in her ears, and Yochi, nobody’s lemaleh, sat perfectly
still this time, red as blood, and after that she was always careful with the curse, and Aron too learned to be careful in the toilet, and Mama said, “Nu, Aron, are you going to stand there gaping all night, can’t you see the table’s set?”
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