Read The Book of Intimate Grammar Online
Authors: David Grossman
The Book of Intimate Grammar (45 page)
Grownups’ mouths are ugly, thinks Aron, stealthily approaching to watch: they’re asleep.
A warty, humpbacked sleep, a grumpy grownup sleep, a sleep as rough as labor.
They lie far apart, and Mama’s swollen foot is tangled in the blanket.
Her lips move sometimes as though she’s talking to someone.
Arguing.
What is she dreaming about?
Maybe she has different children in her dreams.
Maybe she has someone else in there already.
There’s quite a space between her and Papa.
Aron draws closer, stands directly before her face.
With all his might and fear he plants himself in front of her.
So she’ll see him in her sleep.
So he’ll infiltrate her dreams.
Her blood.
Like a curse.
A warty, humpbacked sleep, a grumpy grownup sleep, a sleep as rough as labor.
They lie far apart, and Mama’s swollen foot is tangled in the blanket.
Her lips move sometimes as though she’s talking to someone.
Arguing.
What is she dreaming about?
Maybe she has different children in her dreams.
Maybe she has someone else in there already.
There’s quite a space between her and Papa.
Aron draws closer, stands directly before her face.
With all his might and fear he plants himself in front of her.
So she’ll see him in her sleep.
So he’ll infiltrate her dreams.
Her blood.
Like a curse.
But suddenly she sighs and he scurries away.
He stands in the hall for a minute.
Peeps in again.
The orange boiler light throws eerie shadows.
Papa’s mouth droops open.
Snoring like a saw.
The driveling red mouth, how it twists when there’s shaving cream around it, like a little animal bleeding in the snow, bait in the trap for other animals.
Look at his fillings.
Aron doesn’t have a single filling.
Aron is pure.
He draws nearer.
A vague terror of death seizes him as he watches their sleeping bodies.
Maybe he’d better scream.
To wake them up.
But Papa would break his bones for that.
Look at his mouth.
It never stops moving.
Curiously supple.
Squirming as though he were talking to Aron.
Come here, son, come to Papa, get in quick and let’s be done with it, it’ll only hurt for a minute and then … Aron shudders: if not for the smell in
there he really might have let himself be swallowed up.
He steps back.
From the foot of the bed their faces are even stranger-looking.
Their wrinkles, the mole under Mama’s chin, Papa’s cheek squashed flat on the pillow, his cheekbones standing out from the flesh.
Aron leans cautiously over him and sniffs: after his bath Papa’s feet always have that special smell.
That sweet, clean smell.
Aron to Aron: Now!
Hurry!
Over.
He brings his nose closer and inhales.
A good warm smell.
Exactly what he was looking for without knowing it!
This must be why he woke up and came in here.
And now Papa is shifting his position just for him.
He lies on his back with his feet spread apart, and they’re long and rounded at the toes like loaves of bread.
Aron smells them timidly.
Breathes in.
The toes are fresh like little rolls.
He remembers this smell from when he was little.
That is—young.
But the Cyclopean eye is slumbering.
He sniffs them hungrily.
Falls to his knees at the foot of their bed.
And a cold wind, black and cutting, blows over the forsaken steppes.
And a spent, despondent child creeps over the steppes, and the evil eye, the spiteful eye, rolls slowly under its fatty lid, beware!
Papa groans in his sleep.
The blanket drops away.
The scar is revealed, like a pale hiatus, a silky gap in Papa’s brawn, but maybe at night it opens up, unravels: Come here, child, and a tiny child kneels fearfully, delving into the dust to pull out the bloodlike threads of embroidery, the tatters of slumbering flesh, and he runs along the cracks of the canals, over the palpitating mounds.
And a diamond light beacons slowly in his hands, and the Cyclopean eye stirs.
An extinguished volcano cracks open.
A sardonic smile perhaps.
And the child jumps into the anonymous paper boat, quickly, through the veins and the arteries, Aron to Aron, causing the heart to beat faster for you, over; and the heart pounds and the boat with the child inside it and the memories, like the smell of Papa’s feet, sails from room to room, and the heart is pumping, and beating and throbbing, he could have a heart attack like this, and his quick, soft breathing caresses Papa’s feet; now his feet smell a little sharper, a little clearer.
A childhood smell.
And maybe the true invisible Papa begins at the legs and grows downward from there.
Maybe the person growing upward is a different man who is only a friend sometimes, but most of the time an enemy; a man who never looks at Aron anymore.
Who has given up on him.
Breathlessly he reaches the secret place, the new brain he has endowed himself with below, and he falls over its threshold, stretches out his hand, and delivers this smell.
Now
go back up and bring the rest.
Hurry.
Time is running out, the straits are closing, they’re strangling us; run, run, bring more and more in and let us breathe, it’s life or death in here.
Wait.
Have to rest.
He stands in the hall for a minute.
Peeps in again.
The orange boiler light throws eerie shadows.
Papa’s mouth droops open.
Snoring like a saw.
The driveling red mouth, how it twists when there’s shaving cream around it, like a little animal bleeding in the snow, bait in the trap for other animals.
Look at his fillings.
Aron doesn’t have a single filling.
Aron is pure.
He draws nearer.
A vague terror of death seizes him as he watches their sleeping bodies.
Maybe he’d better scream.
To wake them up.
But Papa would break his bones for that.
Look at his mouth.
It never stops moving.
Curiously supple.
Squirming as though he were talking to Aron.
Come here, son, come to Papa, get in quick and let’s be done with it, it’ll only hurt for a minute and then … Aron shudders: if not for the smell in
there he really might have let himself be swallowed up.
He steps back.
From the foot of the bed their faces are even stranger-looking.
Their wrinkles, the mole under Mama’s chin, Papa’s cheek squashed flat on the pillow, his cheekbones standing out from the flesh.
Aron leans cautiously over him and sniffs: after his bath Papa’s feet always have that special smell.
That sweet, clean smell.
Aron to Aron: Now!
Hurry!
Over.
He brings his nose closer and inhales.
A good warm smell.
Exactly what he was looking for without knowing it!
This must be why he woke up and came in here.
And now Papa is shifting his position just for him.
He lies on his back with his feet spread apart, and they’re long and rounded at the toes like loaves of bread.
Aron smells them timidly.
Breathes in.
The toes are fresh like little rolls.
He remembers this smell from when he was little.
That is—young.
But the Cyclopean eye is slumbering.
He sniffs them hungrily.
Falls to his knees at the foot of their bed.
And a cold wind, black and cutting, blows over the forsaken steppes.
And a spent, despondent child creeps over the steppes, and the evil eye, the spiteful eye, rolls slowly under its fatty lid, beware!
Papa groans in his sleep.
The blanket drops away.
The scar is revealed, like a pale hiatus, a silky gap in Papa’s brawn, but maybe at night it opens up, unravels: Come here, child, and a tiny child kneels fearfully, delving into the dust to pull out the bloodlike threads of embroidery, the tatters of slumbering flesh, and he runs along the cracks of the canals, over the palpitating mounds.
And a diamond light beacons slowly in his hands, and the Cyclopean eye stirs.
An extinguished volcano cracks open.
A sardonic smile perhaps.
And the child jumps into the anonymous paper boat, quickly, through the veins and the arteries, Aron to Aron, causing the heart to beat faster for you, over; and the heart pounds and the boat with the child inside it and the memories, like the smell of Papa’s feet, sails from room to room, and the heart is pumping, and beating and throbbing, he could have a heart attack like this, and his quick, soft breathing caresses Papa’s feet; now his feet smell a little sharper, a little clearer.
A childhood smell.
And maybe the true invisible Papa begins at the legs and grows downward from there.
Maybe the person growing upward is a different man who is only a friend sometimes, but most of the time an enemy; a man who never looks at Aron anymore.
Who has given up on him.
Breathlessly he reaches the secret place, the new brain he has endowed himself with below, and he falls over its threshold, stretches out his hand, and delivers this smell.
Now
go back up and bring the rest.
Hurry.
Time is running out, the straits are closing, they’re strangling us; run, run, bring more and more in and let us breathe, it’s life or death in here.
Wait.
Have to rest.
And with all his might Aron clings to the smell.
If only he could recreate everything out of this good-old-smell.
Papa sighs and rolls over voluptuously, like a giant cat, and Aron sniffs and sniffs the naked feet, and in the middle of the blanket a strange little mound begins to grow, and Aron draws into himself and savors the smell of Papa, the smell of Papa’s roots.
But suddenly it’s over, run for your life.
Like a raging red moon, Papa’s head rose over his feet.
If only he could recreate everything out of this good-old-smell.
Papa sighs and rolls over voluptuously, like a giant cat, and Aron sniffs and sniffs the naked feet, and in the middle of the blanket a strange little mound begins to grow, and Aron draws into himself and savors the smell of Papa, the smell of Papa’s roots.
But suddenly it’s over, run for your life.
Like a raging red moon, Papa’s head rose over his feet.
And at the end of the month, after nearly two weeks away at work camp, Gideon returned; Aron knew he was coming home; the night before as he was getting ready for bed, he had this feeling, this hunch, and he took a long bath and washed his hair and tried to comb his eyebrows so they’d connect over the bridge of his nose, and he looked into his eyes in the mirror and silently asked himself the one important question: was Gideon still loyal to him, because the outer Yaeli was fading fast, and Aron acknowledged without too much pain that he no longer cared whether she was loyal or not, it was Gideon who counted; if Gideon had waited for him, that was all that mattered.He slept deeply and peacefully for the first time in weeks, and when he woke up the next morning he put on clean clothes and left for school, but he took the back path, and between the buildings he caught sight of Gideon, looking very tan, his walk more vigorous, more arrogant than ever, but what did that mean; in itself, nothing.
At Memorial Park Gideon was joined by Meirky Blutreich and Hanan Schweiky and Avi Sasson, who marched alongside him, listening intently as he talked and waved his hands around, and Aron scratched his forehead on a branch; even from this distance he could see Gideon was lecturing about the war, that’s all anyone cares about these days, why doesn’t it just start already so they can get it over with, and it wasn’t hard to guess what he was saying, that we have to smear those Arabs once and for all, he knew Gideon, he knew he would go out and
volunteer today to join the Red Magen David Society, or to fill sandbags, but more important, Gideon hadn’t actually changed that much in all the time he was away, except for the shadow of a mustache over his lip which did appear a little darker and thicker from here, and his eyebrows had just about connected, though not completely yet; maybe he was still taking the pills every day.
Aron winced with guilt.
volunteer today to join the Red Magen David Society, or to fill sandbags, but more important, Gideon hadn’t actually changed that much in all the time he was away, except for the shadow of a mustache over his lip which did appear a little darker and thicker from here, and his eyebrows had just about connected, though not completely yet; maybe he was still taking the pills every day.
Aron winced with guilt.
He followed him up to the school gate, unsure whether to go over and show his face and talk to him as if nothing had happened, so what had, and if God forbid it had, Aron wasn’t the one who ought to feel guilty, and there would be one definite answer to a million questions, and there would no longer be any need to ask or to hope, but he didn’t go over to him or show his face, he slinked behind from tree to tree, from post to post, discerning a change in Gideon, after all; he did look sturdier or something, more sure of himself, conceited even, it was hard to say what.
At the school gate Gideon turned around, and for a moment there was a troubled look in his eyes, as though he was searching for something, yes, as though he was missing someone, and Aron gasped as a quivering heartstring snapped with pain, he nearly burst out of his hiding place to show Gideon that if he did wait for him, Aron would be there, only at the very last second a viperlike message hissed through his mind, maybe it wasn’t Aron he was waiting for, and he froze and waited for Gideon to disappear into the school, and then, shrinking off, he grabbed a handful of friendship-sugar cubes from his back pocket, popping one after another into his mouth, to hell with his teeth.
On his way home he stopped to pick the three leaves on the right from the bottom of the big ficus tree by the path to Gideon’s entrance; I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, poor things, here they thought it was an ordinary day, they were happy and green in the sunshine, and without any explanation someone came and plucked them.
Why?
Because, that’s why.
And then he went home, to bed, and worked on his laugh glands for a while, just for the record, so they would say he always tried to be cheerful, and then he put a little nylon bag over each of his middle fingers to compare the sweat, for no particular reason, what was the point, he was only running around in circles, breaking himself down, because he needed something new, fresh fuel to burn inside, but he didn’t have strength anymore, he couldn’t go on, and he wondered if Gideon had come home yet and seen it.
And at four in the afternoon, not one second earlier, he went down to their rock in the valley and
walked around and around it until seven o’clock, but Gideon never showed up, maybe he took the back way home and didn’t see the leaves missing on the ficus tree; well, that was the first try.
At the school gate Gideon turned around, and for a moment there was a troubled look in his eyes, as though he was searching for something, yes, as though he was missing someone, and Aron gasped as a quivering heartstring snapped with pain, he nearly burst out of his hiding place to show Gideon that if he did wait for him, Aron would be there, only at the very last second a viperlike message hissed through his mind, maybe it wasn’t Aron he was waiting for, and he froze and waited for Gideon to disappear into the school, and then, shrinking off, he grabbed a handful of friendship-sugar cubes from his back pocket, popping one after another into his mouth, to hell with his teeth.
On his way home he stopped to pick the three leaves on the right from the bottom of the big ficus tree by the path to Gideon’s entrance; I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, poor things, here they thought it was an ordinary day, they were happy and green in the sunshine, and without any explanation someone came and plucked them.
Why?
Because, that’s why.
And then he went home, to bed, and worked on his laugh glands for a while, just for the record, so they would say he always tried to be cheerful, and then he put a little nylon bag over each of his middle fingers to compare the sweat, for no particular reason, what was the point, he was only running around in circles, breaking himself down, because he needed something new, fresh fuel to burn inside, but he didn’t have strength anymore, he couldn’t go on, and he wondered if Gideon had come home yet and seen it.
And at four in the afternoon, not one second earlier, he went down to their rock in the valley and
walked around and around it until seven o’clock, but Gideon never showed up, maybe he took the back way home and didn’t see the leaves missing on the ficus tree; well, that was the first try.
And the morning after Aron used two stones to twist open the tap on the little pipe behind the building, and made it drip with the hollow whistling sound you could hear from far away, and at four o’clock he went down to the rock again, and again he traipsed around, all the way to the junkyard this time, but no one came, maybe a neighbor had heard the dripping and closed the tap before Gideon came home from school; second try.
And on the third day Aron took sand from the Wizo Nursery School and blocked up the holes in all three sewer covers behind the building and poured in water to make it goopy and wiped his hands and was satisfied.
But he kept smelling something, he checked his shoes, no, he hadn’t stepped in anything, and still he smelled it, maybe it was coming from the sewer.
He stepped on the round cement cover and laughed for real; oh, the hours they had spent here playing aju, the thousands of apricot pits they had traded, he and Gideon and Zacky; I wonder if Gideon noticed this time, maybe I should have thought of bigger, more obvious signs back then; when you’re a kid you notice these things right away, and when you grow up you have other things on your mind and you don’t walk around with your head down, searching; so in fact, if Gideon hadn’t noticed the signs, that in itself was the answer, there was nothing more to say.
And at four sharp Aron went down to the valley and dozed on the rock shelf, as the warm sunshine quickened the Yaeli and Gideon inside him, faceless but both there, setting off a kind of vibration like two strings which he tried to play on so they would blend inside him, and he felt the strings twang so that when he opened his mouth he made their sound.
By the time he woke up it was five-thirty, he’d certainly developed a flair for naps, at least that, and he walked down to the junkyard and checked around and did his calculations, and opened and closed the door at least ten times, and decided the problem was that the tongue of the lock stuck too far into the socket, which made it pretty hard to pull the pin away from the inside, not to mention the problem of lighting, because what if he dropped a nail or hinge with his perspiring fingers, how would he find them on the floor in the dark, he wouldn’t even be able to light a match in there because there wouldn’t be enough oxygen, maybe he could tape a little flashlight
under the freezer compartment, and by now it was seven o’clock, so Aron went home; he wasn’t totally discouraged yet, not at all, though there was a kind of sadness gnawing at him, the sadness of parting, but what if Gideon never went out behind the building and didn’t notice the wet sand in the holes.
But he kept smelling something, he checked his shoes, no, he hadn’t stepped in anything, and still he smelled it, maybe it was coming from the sewer.
He stepped on the round cement cover and laughed for real; oh, the hours they had spent here playing aju, the thousands of apricot pits they had traded, he and Gideon and Zacky; I wonder if Gideon noticed this time, maybe I should have thought of bigger, more obvious signs back then; when you’re a kid you notice these things right away, and when you grow up you have other things on your mind and you don’t walk around with your head down, searching; so in fact, if Gideon hadn’t noticed the signs, that in itself was the answer, there was nothing more to say.
And at four sharp Aron went down to the valley and dozed on the rock shelf, as the warm sunshine quickened the Yaeli and Gideon inside him, faceless but both there, setting off a kind of vibration like two strings which he tried to play on so they would blend inside him, and he felt the strings twang so that when he opened his mouth he made their sound.
By the time he woke up it was five-thirty, he’d certainly developed a flair for naps, at least that, and he walked down to the junkyard and checked around and did his calculations, and opened and closed the door at least ten times, and decided the problem was that the tongue of the lock stuck too far into the socket, which made it pretty hard to pull the pin away from the inside, not to mention the problem of lighting, because what if he dropped a nail or hinge with his perspiring fingers, how would he find them on the floor in the dark, he wouldn’t even be able to light a match in there because there wouldn’t be enough oxygen, maybe he could tape a little flashlight
under the freezer compartment, and by now it was seven o’clock, so Aron went home; he wasn’t totally discouraged yet, not at all, though there was a kind of sadness gnawing at him, the sadness of parting, but what if Gideon never went out behind the building and didn’t notice the wet sand in the holes.
The next morning he picked up a piece of chalk and followed the arrows on the sidewalk, at first he thought he would have to draw the arrows himself, he’d forgotten that every generation draws arrows and all he had to do was add two slanty lines to each of the existing arrows; he was enjoying this as though he were part of the game, and for a moment he even thought of following the arrows past the building project, but he ran out of curiosity, what did he care where their treasure was.
In the afternoon he went down to the junkyard and climbed inside the little refrigerator, and discovered that the freezer compartment forced him to work with his chin on his chest, this was an unexpected problem.
He crawled out and closed the door, and tried to stick his hand in through the rubber insulation strips, but they didn’t stretch enough and snapped behind his fingers with a moist, wormy swish, and Aron thought maybe he’d have to grease it with something, but suddenly he had a better idea, he would bring a big can opener from home, the kind with ball bearings, and he’d wind it up the rubber insulation strips of the refrigerator, the way you open a can, only from the inside out.
And he patted himself on the shoulder and said, Dynamite idea, Kleinfeld, but there remained the problem of the tongue in the socket: he tried to poke in the skinny little Yemenite, the runt of Papa’s screwdrivers, but couldn’t even fit that in.
What to do?
He sat and thought a minute, his feet dangling out, not touching the ground; on the bus he liked to practice finding the seats over the wheels at a single glance, they were higher, and suddenly a loud siren pierced the air, maybe the war had started already, and it stopped right away, they must be testing them, but the shrill wailing sound had annoyed him, he jumped out and slammed the door; the squatty refrigerator wobbled as though absorbing the shock.
In the afternoon he went down to the junkyard and climbed inside the little refrigerator, and discovered that the freezer compartment forced him to work with his chin on his chest, this was an unexpected problem.
He crawled out and closed the door, and tried to stick his hand in through the rubber insulation strips, but they didn’t stretch enough and snapped behind his fingers with a moist, wormy swish, and Aron thought maybe he’d have to grease it with something, but suddenly he had a better idea, he would bring a big can opener from home, the kind with ball bearings, and he’d wind it up the rubber insulation strips of the refrigerator, the way you open a can, only from the inside out.
And he patted himself on the shoulder and said, Dynamite idea, Kleinfeld, but there remained the problem of the tongue in the socket: he tried to poke in the skinny little Yemenite, the runt of Papa’s screwdrivers, but couldn’t even fit that in.
What to do?
He sat and thought a minute, his feet dangling out, not touching the ground; on the bus he liked to practice finding the seats over the wheels at a single glance, they were higher, and suddenly a loud siren pierced the air, maybe the war had started already, and it stopped right away, they must be testing them, but the shrill wailing sound had annoyed him, he jumped out and slammed the door; the squatty refrigerator wobbled as though absorbing the shock.
At supper that evening everyone ate in silence, concentrating on their plates.
Papa’s army knapsack was packed and ready by the door, and Aron wondered what would become of him if Papa left too and he stayed home alone with Mama.
Grandma coughed and spat a little mashed chicken on the table, and Mama slapped her shoulder, hard,
too hard.
For a moment they all stopped chewing, Grandma gasped, and Aron thought it was all over.
But she recovered.
It wasn’t her time yet.
Who wants some more mashed potatoes?
asked Mama wearily.
Papa did; she got up to serve him and Aron saw she was walking peculiarly, sort of dragging herself a little bowleggedly.
Oh please, give me a break, she’s walking the way she always does, and Aron quickly asked for seconds too: More mashed potatoes, thanks, lots of mashed potatoes, he said too loudly.
She made a face, who cares, and she wouldn’t look at him directly; that is, she looked at him, but from the side.
He devoured the starch of perseverance and asked for thirds.
Yochi’s chair stood empty, and everyone kept glancing at it, even Grandma.
A couple of days ago, at such a time as this, right in the middle of supper, Yochi opened her mouth and announced that her continued efforts over the past few months had finally paid off, the town major had agreed to give her an early call-up date, and with a smile of triumph, of sweet revenge, she described how she had sat outside his office every day, morning till night, for three solid weeks, till he finally gave in and signed her up six months ahead of schedule, and Aron, the food in his mouth a tasteless mush, retorted inwardly what Mama said aloud: What, you’re so miserable here you have to run away to the army, and Yochi said nothing in reply, she was silent, and everyone kept silent with her, they ate their soup and swallowed, ate and swallowed, and Mama sighed, she was on the verge of tears sitting next to Yochi, but she controlled herself, maybe she regretted the deferral she’d wanted so badly for her, and he peeked up and saw Yochi surveying the scene, as though pressing down on a seal to engrave it in her memory: the little kitchen with the narrow Formica table and the tiles with the flower decals where Mama stuck the wax paper and the nylon bags to dry, and Mama herself, and Papa and Grandma and him; everything was converted to the past tense by the sheer force of her gaze, and the next few days were so insufferably oppressive Aron couldn’t wait for Yochi to leave, and on the morning of the third day Papa took her down to the recruiting center and she disappeared as if she’d cut herself out of the house with a knife, and then late last night she finally called; they woke him up and sent him running to the phone in his pajamas to talk to her, he was sleepy, he heard the exultant voice on the other end of the line and didn’t know who it was.
She said that due to the situation she’d been transferred to a field unit.
She spoke
fast, didn’t call him by name, didn’t say li’l brother, and when she asked how he was, it sounded as though she didn’t want to know.
Papa’s army knapsack was packed and ready by the door, and Aron wondered what would become of him if Papa left too and he stayed home alone with Mama.
Grandma coughed and spat a little mashed chicken on the table, and Mama slapped her shoulder, hard,
too hard.
For a moment they all stopped chewing, Grandma gasped, and Aron thought it was all over.
But she recovered.
It wasn’t her time yet.
Who wants some more mashed potatoes?
asked Mama wearily.
Papa did; she got up to serve him and Aron saw she was walking peculiarly, sort of dragging herself a little bowleggedly.
Oh please, give me a break, she’s walking the way she always does, and Aron quickly asked for seconds too: More mashed potatoes, thanks, lots of mashed potatoes, he said too loudly.
She made a face, who cares, and she wouldn’t look at him directly; that is, she looked at him, but from the side.
He devoured the starch of perseverance and asked for thirds.
Yochi’s chair stood empty, and everyone kept glancing at it, even Grandma.
A couple of days ago, at such a time as this, right in the middle of supper, Yochi opened her mouth and announced that her continued efforts over the past few months had finally paid off, the town major had agreed to give her an early call-up date, and with a smile of triumph, of sweet revenge, she described how she had sat outside his office every day, morning till night, for three solid weeks, till he finally gave in and signed her up six months ahead of schedule, and Aron, the food in his mouth a tasteless mush, retorted inwardly what Mama said aloud: What, you’re so miserable here you have to run away to the army, and Yochi said nothing in reply, she was silent, and everyone kept silent with her, they ate their soup and swallowed, ate and swallowed, and Mama sighed, she was on the verge of tears sitting next to Yochi, but she controlled herself, maybe she regretted the deferral she’d wanted so badly for her, and he peeked up and saw Yochi surveying the scene, as though pressing down on a seal to engrave it in her memory: the little kitchen with the narrow Formica table and the tiles with the flower decals where Mama stuck the wax paper and the nylon bags to dry, and Mama herself, and Papa and Grandma and him; everything was converted to the past tense by the sheer force of her gaze, and the next few days were so insufferably oppressive Aron couldn’t wait for Yochi to leave, and on the morning of the third day Papa took her down to the recruiting center and she disappeared as if she’d cut herself out of the house with a knife, and then late last night she finally called; they woke him up and sent him running to the phone in his pajamas to talk to her, he was sleepy, he heard the exultant voice on the other end of the line and didn’t know who it was.
She said that due to the situation she’d been transferred to a field unit.
She spoke
fast, didn’t call him by name, didn’t say li’l brother, and when she asked how he was, it sounded as though she didn’t want to know.
Now he lay in bed planning tomorrow, trying to guess what Gideon was thinking; suppose he hadn’t seen the signs, could be, maybe he was busy concentrating on the preparations, but why hadn’t he come over to see Aron after camp, what was he afraid of, what did he have to hide, all he had to do for God’s sake was to say one word; was he loyal, yes or no, and it wasn’t as if Aron would do anything to him, all he needed was his answer, and after that, Gideon would be free of him forever, because if the answer was yes, if Gideon had remained loyal and waited, then Aron would be instantly redeemed.
He was absolutely sure of it.
Like Sleeping Beauty waiting for a kiss; like the Independence Day parade that doesn’t begin until the Prime Minister gives the signal.
Aron was ready.
One word and everything would zoom ahead.
He was absolutely sure of it.
Like Sleeping Beauty waiting for a kiss; like the Independence Day parade that doesn’t begin until the Prime Minister gives the signal.
Aron was ready.
One word and everything would zoom ahead.
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