Read The Book of Intimate Grammar Online
Authors: David Grossman
The Book of Intimate Grammar (4 page)
From the pantry he watched them sit down to supper, reflecting how cozy the kitchen was at times like this, with everyone eating and talking at once, but the wistful scene dissolved before his eyes, and an arctic fog descended, full of ghoulish apparitions, naked bodies, tangled limbs, a dog on top of a woman; he suddenly felt the blood drain from his hand as he picked a boot up and reached into the lining with its smell of old fur, glancing bleakly at Yochi slouched over the table, angling for breadcrumbs with her little finger; and from Yochi’s jaundiced face to Grandma Lilly, not yet sixty and already senile, muttering to herself as she wandered around the house, and only a year ago she was so lucid, so cheerful, and then a tiny blood vessel got clogged up and that was that; how he pitied his parents, especially Mama, working so hard to keep Grandma’s illness a secret, to hide it from everybody, including their rummy friends on Friday night, and then he remembered it was Tuesday, and on Tuesdays Mama served bananas in sour cream with sugar on top in those orange dessert dishes, and while he wasn’t so crazy about squashed bananas, he liked to see the expression on Mama’s face when she served it to him, and he felt a pang; where were we, what were we thinking about, oh yes, his film collection, the negatives he picked up outside Photo Lichtman, and the pieces of celluloid he’d found, including one really long strip from an actual movie showing a tall woman with white eyeballs, white lips, and black, flowing hair, which meant that in real life she was blond, and she was standing in the doorway, talking to someone, and the subtitles said: “Don’t kid yourself, Rupert, no one is indispensable”; but what if Grandma died, she was a little girl once too, you know, there may be billions of people in the world, but there’s only one Grandma, and he checked again, carefully, but knew it was hopeless, he had seen what he had seen, and he heaved a sigh, how fragile life is, he never realized that before, yes, they would have to pull together as a team, in perfect loyalty, he melted with compassion for them, for their smugness and ignorance of what lurked behind the sock drawer.
Slowly and carefully he unbuckled his sandal, and nearly fell asleep again over his outstretched foot, but who could have brought such a thing into this house and hidden it in the
bedroom, and then he had another staggering thought, what if his finding the cards behind the drawer had made him, God forbid, an accessory in the crime, his fingerprints were smeared all over the pictures, so the agent who smuggled them in could use them as evidence to blackmail him, there were stories like that in the newspaper sometimes, and it was anyone’s guess what a person like that was capable of, and how would Aron be able to prove he was pure and innocent?
Slowly and carefully he unbuckled his sandal, and nearly fell asleep again over his outstretched foot, but who could have brought such a thing into this house and hidden it in the
bedroom, and then he had another staggering thought, what if his finding the cards behind the drawer had made him, God forbid, an accessory in the crime, his fingerprints were smeared all over the pictures, so the agent who smuggled them in could use them as evidence to blackmail him, there were stories like that in the newspaper sometimes, and it was anyone’s guess what a person like that was capable of, and how would Aron be able to prove he was pure and innocent?
He felt exhausted, as if he’d just been through a terrible ordeal, like one of those poor children he read about in books who had to leave home and fend for themselves.
Papa came out of the bathroom with shaving cream on his face.
Aron lay low, and felt his soul evaporate into a single quivering strand; carefully he put the boot on his childish foot, and was startled to find everyone staring at him, even Yochi turned in her chair, and Grandma came closer and gawked at him, making him shrink even more, his bare foot drained white, his skin numb and cold.
Papa came out of the bathroom with shaving cream on his face.
Aron lay low, and felt his soul evaporate into a single quivering strand; carefully he put the boot on his childish foot, and was startled to find everyone staring at him, even Yochi turned in her chair, and Grandma came closer and gawked at him, making him shrink even more, his bare foot drained white, his skin numb and cold.
Nu nu, said Papa.
Nu nu what?
said Mama.
Nu nu, it fits, said Papa, and wrinkled his brow, as his lower lip covered the upper lip.
That I can see for myself, said Mama, that much is obvious.
Maybe the sock isn’t thick enough, suggested Papa, his mouth a red hole in a mountain of foam.
It’s a heavy winter sock, said Mama, I specifically told him to get a heavy winter sock.
But he’s worn those boots for two years in a row; Papa suddenly raised his voice.
Tell that to him, not me, said Mama, turning away.
Please, Mama, please buy me a new pair!
whispered Aron.
In your dreams, answered Mama, pulling off the boot.
You’ll get new ones the day I have hair growing here, she said, indicating the palm of her hand with an arching of a furious eyebrow.
Go on, y’alla.
She pushed him away, stuffing last year’s newspapers back in the boots.
Wash your hands and come to the table, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll finish every bite on your plate.
Nu nu what?
said Mama.
Nu nu, it fits, said Papa, and wrinkled his brow, as his lower lip covered the upper lip.
That I can see for myself, said Mama, that much is obvious.
Maybe the sock isn’t thick enough, suggested Papa, his mouth a red hole in a mountain of foam.
It’s a heavy winter sock, said Mama, I specifically told him to get a heavy winter sock.
But he’s worn those boots for two years in a row; Papa suddenly raised his voice.
Tell that to him, not me, said Mama, turning away.
Please, Mama, please buy me a new pair!
whispered Aron.
In your dreams, answered Mama, pulling off the boot.
You’ll get new ones the day I have hair growing here, she said, indicating the palm of her hand with an arching of a furious eyebrow.
Go on, y’alla.
She pushed him away, stuffing last year’s newspapers back in the boots.
Wash your hands and come to the table, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll finish every bite on your plate.
There was Rosaline, and Natalie, and Lizzy and the chimp, and Angela, the blind girl, and Roxana, his favorite, and Alfonso, the whip-cracking dwarf, ringmaster of the Pussy Circus.Each picture had a caption under it scribbled in Hebrew: “Giddyap!
To the Racetrack of Desire,” said the one showing the black stallion named Ringo with zaftig Lizzy.
“Now she sees …” said the one showing Fritz the chimp paired off with Angela, who knows by touch.
The slovenly, unfamiliar writing was full of misspellings that irked him even more than the pictures did: corruption spread like mildew from the pictures to the words.
He also noticed that the newspaper Alfonso was reading in the picture where Rosaline crouched between his hairy knees was in a foreign language.
Looking through a magnifying glass, he saw it wasn’t English: the letters were crooked and clumsy, and he couldn’t make out the date either, though the magnifying glass did reveal a number of large, greasy fingerprints on some of the photos, especially the ones of Roxana.
With the eyes of a detective, he examined the pictures one by one and deduced from the evidence that this circus was in serious financial trouble: the high-heeled shoes worn by smiling Natalie turned up on Angela, the blind girl, in the card with the silver horn, and Fritz’s eating trough reappeared in the picture where Alfonso uses Natalie as a saddle on Ringo.
The pictures really disgusted him, yet every time his parents stepped out the door, he went running back to the sock drawer, he couldn’t help it, he had to take one last peek,
and a moment later he was at it again, frantically thumbing through the cards, God forbid he should skip one; then he would slip them back in the envelope and continue sitting there, distraught, as though he’d just seen them for the first time, these joyless men and women, naked slaves of an invisible emperor, writhing together like hammy actors in a play, with twisted grins and bulging eyes.
Who then, he wondered, had smuggled these cards into the house, who were the girls, who was the photographer, and supposing the circus was still in town, on an ordinary street nearby where crowds of lecherous adults gathered even now to pay their homage to the emperor … One night he woke with a start: a distant blast, like an engine backfiring, had frightened him out of a deep sleep, and he lay rigidly in his bed, certain that not too far from the building project, amid whispered confessions and ghostly groans, the emperor’s slaves were pitching the circus tent, erecting the king pole for a hasty performance, and in the dim glow of the spotlight the ring looked like a huge red eyeball or a cavernous mouth, and Alfonso, in a top hat, cracked his whip while four grimacing, grease-smeared girls jumped obediently through a burning hoop …
He had to tell somebody.
Zacky and Gideon were his two best friends, of course, but he couldn’t possibly tell Gideon.
That would breach their noble silence, that would be a sacrilege.
And Zacky, well, Zacky was worse than ever, sadly enough, though it wasn’t really his fault, it was just the change.
Anyway, Zacky knew more than was good for him; what if he used dirty language and turned the mystery into something more disgusting than it already was.
Zacky and Gideon were his two best friends, of course, but he couldn’t possibly tell Gideon.
That would breach their noble silence, that would be a sacrilege.
And Zacky, well, Zacky was worse than ever, sadly enough, though it wasn’t really his fault, it was just the change.
Anyway, Zacky knew more than was good for him; what if he used dirty language and turned the mystery into something more disgusting than it already was.
At school, in class, Aron stares down at his desk.
His teacher, Rivka Bar-Ilan, is talking about a rabbi who fled from Jerusalem during the Roman siege; her voice drones on, she barely moves her lips.
“Now, did Rabbi Yohanan Ben-Zakai advise his followers to surrender because he was a traitor?”
She hunts for names in her attendance notebook: “Michael Carny, answer the question.”
Aron retreats into his thoughts again.
Michael Carny sits across the room.
He’s tall but limp, like a jellyfish.
Giggly Rina Fichman at his side tries to whisper the answer out of the corner of her mouth.
“No teamwork, please,” says the teacher wearily, scouring the rows with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Well, Michael Carny?”
His teacher, Rivka Bar-Ilan, is talking about a rabbi who fled from Jerusalem during the Roman siege; her voice drones on, she barely moves her lips.
“Now, did Rabbi Yohanan Ben-Zakai advise his followers to surrender because he was a traitor?”
She hunts for names in her attendance notebook: “Michael Carny, answer the question.”
Aron retreats into his thoughts again.
Michael Carny sits across the room.
He’s tall but limp, like a jellyfish.
Giggly Rina Fichman at his side tries to whisper the answer out of the corner of her mouth.
“No teamwork, please,” says the teacher wearily, scouring the rows with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Well, Michael Carny?”
Michael giggles in distress.
“Rabbi Yohanan Ben-Zakai,” he repeats
slowly, as though the name itself should be enough to acquit him, but Rivka Bar-Ilan screws up her mouth and makes a mark in her notebook.
“Hanan Schweiky.”
“Yes, Teach?”
Poor Hanan, half reclining on the desk, is diligently drawing a picture, his head resting in the crook of his left arm with his hand perched over it, parrotlike.
Aron tries to collect himself and remember the question.
They were talking about some traitor.
But who?
The noose tightens.
You never see her lose her temper, though, not Rivka Bar-Ilan.
She just keeps talking in that cool, indifferent voice, making those little marks in her notebook, and if you get three X’s beside your name, she sends you to the principal’s office.
“Rabbi Yohanan Ben-Zakai,” he repeats
slowly, as though the name itself should be enough to acquit him, but Rivka Bar-Ilan screws up her mouth and makes a mark in her notebook.
“Hanan Schweiky.”
“Yes, Teach?”
Poor Hanan, half reclining on the desk, is diligently drawing a picture, his head resting in the crook of his left arm with his hand perched over it, parrotlike.
Aron tries to collect himself and remember the question.
They were talking about some traitor.
But who?
The noose tightens.
You never see her lose her temper, though, not Rivka Bar-Ilan.
She just keeps talking in that cool, indifferent voice, making those little marks in her notebook, and if you get three X’s beside your name, she sends you to the principal’s office.
This is their fifth and next-to-last class today, after this there’s math and then home.
Meirky Blutreich in the row by the window is trying to focus sun rays on his lenses.
There’s a long black line of fuzz from his sideburns to his cheeks, and a couple of times when he raised his arm, Aron thought he saw a shadow there.
He tried to sneak a closer glimpse in the locker room before gym class, but no luck, and according to the new rule, you have to see it three times in broad daylight for it to count as incontrovertible evidence.
Aron slips his hand in and cautiously touches himself.
He’s as warm and smooth as a baby there.
Now the teacher’s asking Zacky Smitanka, who naturally doesn’t know the answer either, and when she writes the X in her notebook, he spins around with a goofy smile on his face, as if to say, Fooled her, didn’t I?
Twenty-four minutes to go, Gil Kaplan signals the class, two fingers and four fingers over his head.
He has wavy hair like a movie star, and the girls say he sleeps with a net at night.
Aron looks down at the grooves on his desk: fifteen days till summer vacation.
Fifteen days times five hours a day equals seventy-five hours.
Oh well.
Meirky Blutreich in the row by the window is trying to focus sun rays on his lenses.
There’s a long black line of fuzz from his sideburns to his cheeks, and a couple of times when he raised his arm, Aron thought he saw a shadow there.
He tried to sneak a closer glimpse in the locker room before gym class, but no luck, and according to the new rule, you have to see it three times in broad daylight for it to count as incontrovertible evidence.
Aron slips his hand in and cautiously touches himself.
He’s as warm and smooth as a baby there.
Now the teacher’s asking Zacky Smitanka, who naturally doesn’t know the answer either, and when she writes the X in her notebook, he spins around with a goofy smile on his face, as if to say, Fooled her, didn’t I?
Twenty-four minutes to go, Gil Kaplan signals the class, two fingers and four fingers over his head.
He has wavy hair like a movie star, and the girls say he sleeps with a net at night.
Aron looks down at the grooves on his desk: fifteen days till summer vacation.
Fifteen days times five hours a day equals seventy-five hours.
Oh well.
Hanan Schweiky, the class comedian, bends down, sticks a piece of balloon in his mouth, and sucks it in.
Then he sits up again looking innocent and starts rolling the balloon around under his desk.
Something’s happening.
Aliza Lieber, the redhead, takes her glasses off and sticks the sidepieces into the corners of her mouth.
Aron watches her, she always does that, and suddenly it dawns on him that she’s trying to stretch her lips.
He sits up straight; it’s a good thing the teacher is busy with Gil Kaplan now, otherwise she would have noticed the spark of interest, the gleam of light in the tedium spreading toward her.
He glances furtively at Aliza Lieber.
It’s true!
She thinks she can stretch
her lips that way!
She thinks her mouth is too small!
He sure has been making a lot of discoveries lately.
Then he sits up again looking innocent and starts rolling the balloon around under his desk.
Something’s happening.
Aliza Lieber, the redhead, takes her glasses off and sticks the sidepieces into the corners of her mouth.
Aron watches her, she always does that, and suddenly it dawns on him that she’s trying to stretch her lips.
He sits up straight; it’s a good thing the teacher is busy with Gil Kaplan now, otherwise she would have noticed the spark of interest, the gleam of light in the tedium spreading toward her.
He glances furtively at Aliza Lieber.
It’s true!
She thinks she can stretch
her lips that way!
She thinks her mouth is too small!
He sure has been making a lot of discoveries lately.
A sudden pop: the balloon.
Raucous laughter, groans of protest.
Meirky Blutreich, the troublemaker, ducks down the row to deliver a painful swat on the neck to Michael Carny, now cross-eyed with tears, whose fellow gigglepuss, Rina Fichman, jumps up and shouts at Meirky.
Rivka Bar-Ilan raps the desk with her notebook.
Not angrily, but leadenly: one, two, three.
Her eyes show only weary contempt for this display.
To no avail: the children crackle with indignation, zigzag curses across the aisle, explode with hilarity, and flash their eyes in a great electric storm that discharges the boredom of the classroom.
Raucous laughter, groans of protest.
Meirky Blutreich, the troublemaker, ducks down the row to deliver a painful swat on the neck to Michael Carny, now cross-eyed with tears, whose fellow gigglepuss, Rina Fichman, jumps up and shouts at Meirky.
Rivka Bar-Ilan raps the desk with her notebook.
Not angrily, but leadenly: one, two, three.
Her eyes show only weary contempt for this display.
To no avail: the children crackle with indignation, zigzag curses across the aisle, explode with hilarity, and flash their eyes in a great electric storm that discharges the boredom of the classroom.
Aron sits quietly at his desk.
At times like this he has learned to stay calm.
Regarding the class with open eyes.
Maybe it’s a sign that he’s changing.
Maturing.
Gideon sits there, serious and quiet like him.
But he has a disapproving, even haughty look in his eyes.
Aron doesn’t like that look.
Next year Gideon will be a youth group leader.
He quit Scouts because there wasn’t enough Zionist content for him, but he has no intention of joining a kibbutz.
Gideon has principles, he plans his life to the last detail: in six and a half years he will join the air force like his brother Manny.
Then he’ll work as a commercial pilot for El Al.
Gideon gets a little puffed up at times, but the kids respect him, and even though he never goofs off in class, they know he isn’t a coward or anything, he just has principles.
Still, Aron can’t help wondering when Gideon managed to develop such a responsible attitude—the two of them have been together practically all their lives; since they were born, in fact.
At times like this he has learned to stay calm.
Regarding the class with open eyes.
Maybe it’s a sign that he’s changing.
Maturing.
Gideon sits there, serious and quiet like him.
But he has a disapproving, even haughty look in his eyes.
Aron doesn’t like that look.
Next year Gideon will be a youth group leader.
He quit Scouts because there wasn’t enough Zionist content for him, but he has no intention of joining a kibbutz.
Gideon has principles, he plans his life to the last detail: in six and a half years he will join the air force like his brother Manny.
Then he’ll work as a commercial pilot for El Al.
Gideon gets a little puffed up at times, but the kids respect him, and even though he never goofs off in class, they know he isn’t a coward or anything, he just has principles.
Still, Aron can’t help wondering when Gideon managed to develop such a responsible attitude—the two of them have been together practically all their lives; since they were born, in fact.
The class simmers down.
Gil Kaplan flashes eighteen minutes to go.
At least something worthwhile came out of that hullabaloo.
“So we see that Rabbi Yohanan Ben-Zakai was neither a coward nor a traitor,” says the teacher.
“He was a seeker of peace, and when he realized that the inhabitants of the besieged city were not going to survive without food, he left secretly to speak to the Roman governor, Titus Vespasian.
And now, who can tell me how Rabbi Yohanan Ben-Zakai managed to escape—yes, I see you, Zachary—from the besieged city?
Yes, Zachary, what is it?”
Gil Kaplan flashes eighteen minutes to go.
At least something worthwhile came out of that hullabaloo.
“So we see that Rabbi Yohanan Ben-Zakai was neither a coward nor a traitor,” says the teacher.
“He was a seeker of peace, and when he realized that the inhabitants of the besieged city were not going to survive without food, he left secretly to speak to the Roman governor, Titus Vespasian.
And now, who can tell me how Rabbi Yohanan Ben-Zakai managed to escape—yes, I see you, Zachary—from the besieged city?
Yes, Zachary, what is it?”
Zacky is suddenly speechless.
His vigorously waving hand begins to wilt.
Furious with himself for being such a numskull, he slouches dumbly
in his seat.
Rivka Bar-Ilan throws him a sidelong glance and sighs.
Then she asks another boy, and Zacky spins around with his goofy grin as if to say, Fooled you again, didn’t I?
Aron studies the grooves in the desk: with seventeen minutes to go, he has now entered the horse phase.
Then, in descending order, come the donkey, fox, dog (these minutes run very close together), cat, rabbit, mouse, fly (the final minutes, and then the final half minutes): mosquito, amoeba, germ, atom.
And next to the atom, which has to be imagined, comes the great picture of a bell and the words “Born Free.”
His vigorously waving hand begins to wilt.
Furious with himself for being such a numskull, he slouches dumbly
in his seat.
Rivka Bar-Ilan throws him a sidelong glance and sighs.
Then she asks another boy, and Zacky spins around with his goofy grin as if to say, Fooled you again, didn’t I?
Aron studies the grooves in the desk: with seventeen minutes to go, he has now entered the horse phase.
Then, in descending order, come the donkey, fox, dog (these minutes run very close together), cat, rabbit, mouse, fly (the final minutes, and then the final half minutes): mosquito, amoeba, germ, atom.
And next to the atom, which has to be imagined, comes the great picture of a bell and the words “Born Free.”
But it isn’t time yet.
Don’t get excited.
Imagine the horse phase lasting forever, and then suddenly Gil Kaplan locks hands over his head and flashes: Surprise!
Thirteen minutes!
Over a minute in the fox and we didn’t even notice.
Don’t get excited.
Imagine the horse phase lasting forever, and then suddenly Gil Kaplan locks hands over his head and flashes: Surprise!
Thirteen minutes!
Over a minute in the fox and we didn’t even notice.
In the back of the room, alone by the wall, sits David Lipschitz.
His head keeps jerking to the left: click!
click!
Like a water sprinkler.
It’s huge, his head.
His hair is almost white.
Aron has found a sly way of watching him.
He takes a good long look in his direction, and absorbs his features: the scowling pink cheeks; the eyes blinking bitterly, darting madly around in the caves under his albino eyebrows.
But why is he angry?
Lately Aron has been trying to guess certain things: for instance, does he have his own room at home?
And when did the change take place, or maybe he was born that way because his mother happened to look at an albino while she was pregnant with him.
And did his parents really love him?
Did his mother scream when she saw her baby was a freak?
And did he have a younger brother or sister who was a comfort to his parents?
And how would it feel to have a younger brother who was smarter and more normal than you were?
Aron swerves around.
David Lipschitz noticed.
How could he have noticed?
Aron sits up and concentrates on the teacher’s lips.
In his film collection at home he has one negative that’s exactly like David: a boy with a big white head, slumping over a desk.
Sometimes Aron holds the film up to the light and searches for the aura most of them have; and he tries to imagine Mr.
Lipschitz walking into David’s room at night and laying his hand on David’s head, the way Papa does sometimes, but for different reasons.
At home in front of the mirror once, Aron put his hand on his own head and started to jerk it.
Strangely enough, the touch of his hand relaxed him, and right away the jerking stopped.
Okay, so David’s father, the big shot from the Ministry of the Interior, comes home from
work, finds David sitting in his room, staring morosely out the window at the children in the street, longing for Anat Fish.
Gently he lays his hand on David’s bony head, and it jerks, once, twice, but then as he spreads his palm over it like a warm cap, it slowly yields to him and stops jerking, and for a moment when Aron stood before the mirror he imagined David’s scowling face becoming human, longing for comfort.
He gazed in wonder at the sharp, expectant face, thinking: This is you.
This is the boy you are.
This is the face you have.
He shut his eyes tightly and, when he opened them again, he saw only himself, okay, but that’s cheating, you deliberately put on the American expression, still, you can’t deny that your face shows life and hope for the future.
And then he grimaced and watched himself in the mirror.
Isn’t it strange how one little scowl can reveal the pattern of distortion?
And he arranged his features and smoothed out the kinks.
His head keeps jerking to the left: click!
click!
Like a water sprinkler.
It’s huge, his head.
His hair is almost white.
Aron has found a sly way of watching him.
He takes a good long look in his direction, and absorbs his features: the scowling pink cheeks; the eyes blinking bitterly, darting madly around in the caves under his albino eyebrows.
But why is he angry?
Lately Aron has been trying to guess certain things: for instance, does he have his own room at home?
And when did the change take place, or maybe he was born that way because his mother happened to look at an albino while she was pregnant with him.
And did his parents really love him?
Did his mother scream when she saw her baby was a freak?
And did he have a younger brother or sister who was a comfort to his parents?
And how would it feel to have a younger brother who was smarter and more normal than you were?
Aron swerves around.
David Lipschitz noticed.
How could he have noticed?
Aron sits up and concentrates on the teacher’s lips.
In his film collection at home he has one negative that’s exactly like David: a boy with a big white head, slumping over a desk.
Sometimes Aron holds the film up to the light and searches for the aura most of them have; and he tries to imagine Mr.
Lipschitz walking into David’s room at night and laying his hand on David’s head, the way Papa does sometimes, but for different reasons.
At home in front of the mirror once, Aron put his hand on his own head and started to jerk it.
Strangely enough, the touch of his hand relaxed him, and right away the jerking stopped.
Okay, so David’s father, the big shot from the Ministry of the Interior, comes home from
work, finds David sitting in his room, staring morosely out the window at the children in the street, longing for Anat Fish.
Gently he lays his hand on David’s bony head, and it jerks, once, twice, but then as he spreads his palm over it like a warm cap, it slowly yields to him and stops jerking, and for a moment when Aron stood before the mirror he imagined David’s scowling face becoming human, longing for comfort.
He gazed in wonder at the sharp, expectant face, thinking: This is you.
This is the boy you are.
This is the face you have.
He shut his eyes tightly and, when he opened them again, he saw only himself, okay, but that’s cheating, you deliberately put on the American expression, still, you can’t deny that your face shows life and hope for the future.
And then he grimaced and watched himself in the mirror.
Isn’t it strange how one little scowl can reveal the pattern of distortion?
And he arranged his features and smoothed out the kinks.
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