Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (37 page)
Maybe you didn’t trust me—didn’t feel I could be a lightning rod for your sorrow and pain—or thought I wasn’t worthy.
Is that it?
I was unworthy to hear such a story of yours?
That’s it, isn’t it?
I’m reading between your lines, and it insults me and stings me to the edge of despair—until now you weren’t sure whether you should tell me.
Perhaps you were frightened that I would pollute such an amazing tale of purity.
You hesitated so much over whether I could be trustworthy—
Is that it?
I was unworthy to hear such a story of yours?
That’s it, isn’t it?
I’m reading between your lines, and it insults me and stings me to the edge of despair—until now you weren’t sure whether you should tell me.
Perhaps you were frightened that I would pollute such an amazing tale of purity.
You hesitated so much over whether I could be trustworthy—
Miriam, if you have any feeling left toward me, a shred of goodwill, help me—don’t make it easy on me—now—
now
—be my knife.
Ask me how it is possible that still, even now, I have to suppress a miserable urge to run immediately from the disaster area each time you expose another one of your wounds in front of me.
I, of course, will deny it—and tell you that, on the contrary, your mothering of Yokhai is even more wonderful to me now that you’ve told me; and that ever since you told me, I have felt the new enormous power you possess, and it pulses in three different places in my body—deep in my mind, on the left side—in the fireball under my heart—and in the root of my dick—and if you draw a line connecting the three, you will have a precise portrait of me at in this moment—
now
—be my knife.
Ask me how it is possible that still, even now, I have to suppress a miserable urge to run immediately from the disaster area each time you expose another one of your wounds in front of me.
I, of course, will deny it—and tell you that, on the contrary, your mothering of Yokhai is even more wonderful to me now that you’ve told me; and that ever since you told me, I have felt the new enormous power you possess, and it pulses in three different places in my body—deep in my mind, on the left side—in the fireball under my heart—and in the root of my dick—and if you draw a line connecting the three, you will have a precise portrait of me at in this moment—
This is what I will say.
And you will yell, Enough, enough!
Because you know already that when I write this way, this enthusiastically, I am lying; I am again intimate only at shouting distance.
Save me from myself, please.
Look straight into my eyes and ask me again, as you did in the letter, if the muscles in the back of my soul are not arching away right now—if you aren’t suddenly becoming too heavy for my amorphous delusions to hold.
Ask me more than that.
Ask me if I understand what I truly feel when you pull your stitches out in front of me like this.
Don’t make it easy on me—defend me from my black twin, because I can’t do it alone.
I can’t defeat him.
Demand that I understand what I feel when this wound of yours gapes in front of me, mercilessly, sucking me in and closing over me—ask me if I even know how to feel another person’s pain.
And do I know where it is supposed to hurt—the hurt he feels—do I understand in what part of the body it hurts?
Do I really believe, in the depths of my heart, that it is possible to ache with another’s pain, or is it,
in my eyes, just a social convention, a shared lie, an empty cliché.
Another person’s pain.
I repeat the word “pain” the way Yokhai repeats words he doesn’t understand—you said that in this particular way of stepping into puddles he is trying to bring this thing he is not certain of into his own existence, into existence outside himself.
Pain, pain, pain.
And you will yell, Enough, enough!
Because you know already that when I write this way, this enthusiastically, I am lying; I am again intimate only at shouting distance.
Save me from myself, please.
Look straight into my eyes and ask me again, as you did in the letter, if the muscles in the back of my soul are not arching away right now—if you aren’t suddenly becoming too heavy for my amorphous delusions to hold.
Ask me more than that.
Ask me if I understand what I truly feel when you pull your stitches out in front of me like this.
Don’t make it easy on me—defend me from my black twin, because I can’t do it alone.
I can’t defeat him.
Demand that I understand what I feel when this wound of yours gapes in front of me, mercilessly, sucking me in and closing over me—ask me if I even know how to feel another person’s pain.
And do I know where it is supposed to hurt—the hurt he feels—do I understand in what part of the body it hurts?
Do I really believe, in the depths of my heart, that it is possible to ache with another’s pain, or is it,
in my eyes, just a social convention, a shared lie, an empty cliché.
Another person’s pain.
I repeat the word “pain” the way Yokhai repeats words he doesn’t understand—you said that in this particular way of stepping into puddles he is trying to bring this thing he is not certain of into his own existence, into existence outside himself.
Pain, pain, pain.
I have to go out, buy—something.
I’ve been living on yogurt and beer for almost a week—and finished the yogurt this morning.
I will not survive another night without solid food, and they’ll be closing the night grocery store on Ben Yehuda in fifteen minutes.
You know what really makes me feel despair?
You told me something so serious, so difficult, and I am still incapable of being who you really need—a man who knows you as you are with yourself, between you and yourself.
I haven’t reached the secret you are.
Please, don’t go easy on me, please tell me—
I’ve been living on yogurt and beer for almost a week—and finished the yogurt this morning.
I will not survive another night without solid food, and they’ll be closing the night grocery store on Ben Yehuda in fifteen minutes.
You know what really makes me feel despair?
You told me something so serious, so difficult, and I am still incapable of being who you really need—a man who knows you as you are with yourself, between you and yourself.
I haven’t reached the secret you are.
Please, don’t go easy on me, please tell me—
Yair, Yair, come and feel my body, right now, all of it;
make me overcome the embarrassment of little words that are giggling like girls, tell me to become rounder, become fuller;
feel how I spread in you into the farthest reaches that don’t exist in your flesh, that are only possibilities in you
—whisper to me to feel your breasts, their roundness and softness, at the exact point of gravity that pulls them downward and to the sides, the part of the breast that’s always highlighted in paintings.
Ask me to loosen my shoulders and smile—
Loosen them.
Even though mine are pretty tense as well, ten years of Alexander and they’re still tense
.
Go on, keep going, all the time, for eternity, tell me again and again—
Loosen up, loosen up, feel how your face slowly becomes soft and round; be delicate, don’t be afraid of that word.
Perhaps you could have been a happier man if you had dared to be a bit more delicate, allowed yourself to be filled with your own delicacy—it is in you, it’s right for you, it’s your hidden spring, don’t shut it down with stones
.
And tell me,
Come and flow into my body; inscribe words into my veins throughout the length of my body, down my legs and between them—so I can feel, for once, what it feels like when it is yours, not only what you desire.
But you are so tense.
Yair, maybe it is because I am tense now, as if preparing for pain, because … now, my belly … I am asking you to fill my belly, my soft, empty …
make me overcome the embarrassment of little words that are giggling like girls, tell me to become rounder, become fuller;
feel how I spread in you into the farthest reaches that don’t exist in your flesh, that are only possibilities in you
—whisper to me to feel your breasts, their roundness and softness, at the exact point of gravity that pulls them downward and to the sides, the part of the breast that’s always highlighted in paintings.
Ask me to loosen my shoulders and smile—
Loosen them.
Even though mine are pretty tense as well, ten years of Alexander and they’re still tense
.
Go on, keep going, all the time, for eternity, tell me again and again—
Loosen up, loosen up, feel how your face slowly becomes soft and round; be delicate, don’t be afraid of that word.
Perhaps you could have been a happier man if you had dared to be a bit more delicate, allowed yourself to be filled with your own delicacy—it is in you, it’s right for you, it’s your hidden spring, don’t shut it down with stones
.
And tell me,
Come and flow into my body; inscribe words into my veins throughout the length of my body, down my legs and between them—so I can feel, for once, what it feels like when it is yours, not only what you desire.
But you are so tense.
Yair, maybe it is because I am tense now, as if preparing for pain, because … now, my belly … I am asking you to fill my belly, my soft, empty …
Don’t stop.
You mustn’t protect me, not in this place we are in—that’s our contract, isn’t it, Yair?
We’re hand in hand, and tonight we write everything.
Words of truth
.
(How do you like to say in your high-flown language
“Kosht Imrei Emet”
—a sheaf of truths?)
Write, write whatever comes to your mind, and my mind … fill my belly from within, search in me for that spot, my blind spot, that you once named without even noticing
—“my body and my soul, recognizing each other once again, I can actually hear the whisper of the internal password (srsrsrsrsr … ).
” Imagine for a moment how my hopes collect there, in a puddle, from month to month, that then transforms into a dagger of sorrow and despair, gloom of the soul and gloom of the body.
You mustn’t protect me, not in this place we are in—that’s our contract, isn’t it, Yair?
We’re hand in hand, and tonight we write everything.
Words of truth
.
(How do you like to say in your high-flown language
“Kosht Imrei Emet”
—a sheaf of truths?)
Write, write whatever comes to your mind, and my mind … fill my belly from within, search in me for that spot, my blind spot, that you once named without even noticing
—“my body and my soul, recognizing each other once again, I can actually hear the whisper of the internal password (srsrsrsrsr … ).
” Imagine for a moment how my hopes collect there, in a puddle, from month to month, that then transforms into a dagger of sorrow and despair, gloom of the soul and gloom of the body.
Remember then how you saw me for the first time on that evening; now that you finally understand why I was so miserable, what I was despairing over at the moment you looked at me—the private, sad visit I received that day.
The void of “almost.”
Don’t leave the room—be with us.
My words are coming out of your mouth, it is so strange … Your will excites me, and embarrasses me in an indescribable way—but don’t you remember, this is the exact one and only story I wanted to tell you: the story of a complete entering into the other, not to get lost in him, and certainly not to give up yourself, but in order to experience, just once, a stranger, I mean, another in you …
My words are coming out of your mouth, it is so strange … Your will excites me, and embarrasses me in an indescribable way—but don’t you remember, this is the exact one and only story I wanted to tell you: the story of a complete entering into the other, not to get lost in him, and certainly not to give up yourself, but in order to experience, just once, a stranger, I mean, another in you …
I can now, with all my body and soul, feel your desire for it, Yair—and your fear as well.
They are both raging within you, as they always, always do with you.
You touch my pain with your bare hands for a moment, and I can feel how precious it is to you and that you truly do not want me to be alone in it.
And the moment after, you ricochet to the farthest reaches … Just don’t come out of me, because if you leave me now, you will never return.
You will run to the ends of the earth, and you will never want to remember what is starting inside you now, with me … your soul, slowly, painfully opening up this way to another person.
Just don’t stop writing—hold on to your pen with all your remaining strength.
You’re shaking with tension, but as you write, you hit more roots in me … Don’t be afraid, not even from that thought you had once, a million years ago, or was it two days—you wanted to wake up without your memory, after an accident, or an operation, and start remembering our story, step by step, and tell it to yourself from the beginning, without knowing for even one moment whether you were the man or the woman in the story.
They are both raging within you, as they always, always do with you.
You touch my pain with your bare hands for a moment, and I can feel how precious it is to you and that you truly do not want me to be alone in it.
And the moment after, you ricochet to the farthest reaches … Just don’t come out of me, because if you leave me now, you will never return.
You will run to the ends of the earth, and you will never want to remember what is starting inside you now, with me … your soul, slowly, painfully opening up this way to another person.
Just don’t stop writing—hold on to your pen with all your remaining strength.
You’re shaking with tension, but as you write, you hit more roots in me … Don’t be afraid, not even from that thought you had once, a million years ago, or was it two days—you wanted to wake up without your memory, after an accident, or an operation, and start remembering our story, step by step, and tell it to yourself from the beginning, without knowing for even one moment whether you were the man or the woman in the story.
I also wish you could remember yourself as a woman—or as not-man and
not-woman—the you before everything, before definitions and genders and words and the sexes; perhaps, in this way, you will also arrive—as if by coincidence—at my initial potential, at the possibility of being me.
not-woman—the you before everything, before definitions and genders and words and the sexes; perhaps, in this way, you will also arrive—as if by coincidence—at my initial potential, at the possibility of being me.
If you reach it, you will truly know how I am standing in front of you now; bent over a little, tense.
You were so amazed by my motherliness—from the first moment, you practically sucked my maternity out of me—and the more you sucked, the more I flowed, and the more I flowed, the thirstier I was for it—and I never knew, never tried, and never dared to tell myself this tale with such intensity.
You were so amazed by my motherliness—from the first moment, you practically sucked my maternity out of me—and the more you sucked, the more I flowed, and the more I flowed, the thirstier I was for it—and I never knew, never tried, and never dared to tell myself this tale with such intensity.
You can guess how I feel, now that you know the reality of the situation, the cold facts.
But what can I do, Yair?
I am probably not the most rational person when discussing this matter, my nonexistent motherhood.
But what can I do, Yair?
I am probably not the most rational person when discussing this matter, my nonexistent motherhood.
And Darwin is not saluting me from his grave.
And you are right.
It is very, very difficult to create something from two people.
It is very, very difficult to create something from two people.
But you are so truly a mother to me!
This is not something that could ever change—it is your being, Miriam; and I could never think of you without feeling it (I all of a sudden understand—“Amos has a child from his first marriage.”
I never made the connection …) I can’t stop thinking about those moments in the delivery room when she felt that something had gone very wrong in her body, and you promised her, immediately promised, you both promised—such a promise.
This is not something that could ever change—it is your being, Miriam; and I could never think of you without feeling it (I all of a sudden understand—“Amos has a child from his first marriage.”
I never made the connection …) I can’t stop thinking about those moments in the delivery room when she felt that something had gone very wrong in her body, and you promised her, immediately promised, you both promised—such a promise.
And how you are counting to a million with him.
All the way to a million.
All the way to a million.
You know, perhaps there was such a moment in the spaces of time and entities, a fraction of a second when you could have been me, my possibility … What do you say?
Can you believe there is truly such a place, can one ask such a wish from your Kremlin?
No, don’t turn on the light, the light here is too red … write in the dark.
Your handwriting was very shaky in the last moments, a weeping hand.
Do you remember how hurt I was when you never asked me what is my Luz?
Time and time again I asked you to guess it, and you completely ignored me (you certainly know how to ignore certain questions), and
eventually I gave up, and then I hadn’t continued to ask even myself, and I lost the question.
Can you believe there is truly such a place, can one ask such a wish from your Kremlin?
No, don’t turn on the light, the light here is too red … write in the dark.
Your handwriting was very shaky in the last moments, a weeping hand.
Do you remember how hurt I was when you never asked me what is my Luz?
Time and time again I asked you to guess it, and you completely ignored me (you certainly know how to ignore certain questions), and
eventually I gave up, and then I hadn’t continued to ask even myself, and I lost the question.
But now, write, tell me:
More and more, I think that my Luz is my yearning.
And what is yours?
Do you really want to know?
No, you don’t.
No, you don’t.
You’re silent.
You’re suddenly refusing to be written.
The magic is gone.
I know what you’re thinking, it’s written all over your face: “ … and how is it that a person who so hungers for the love and love’s nectar that it practically shouts out from his every word—how is it that he insists on stuffing himself with snacks …” I read it, I read it.
It was an especially unnecessary section of your last letter.
Let’s leave it for now—it’s a pity to spoil this.
Don’t try to change everything about me—and don’t take that, in particular, away from me, because, in spite of your misgivings, it is certainly a Luz.
You’re suddenly refusing to be written.
The magic is gone.
I know what you’re thinking, it’s written all over your face: “ … and how is it that a person who so hungers for the love and love’s nectar that it practically shouts out from his every word—how is it that he insists on stuffing himself with snacks …” I read it, I read it.
It was an especially unnecessary section of your last letter.
Let’s leave it for now—it’s a pity to spoil this.
Don’t try to change everything about me—and don’t take that, in particular, away from me, because, in spite of your misgivings, it is certainly a Luz.
Don’t leave, Yair, don’t drop your pen; play your false game for me just one minute more, even though the muscles in the back of your soul are twisting away in you until the pain is unbearable.
I know it well, you have made me feel things I almost couldn’t endure, too.
But now, as you sit with yourself in that room, perhaps lonelier than you have ever dared to allow yourself to be, I want you to write it once, for your eyes only—why you are doing this to yourself—and how it is that you are willing to allow strangers to enter your most wounded place.
I know it well, you have made me feel things I almost couldn’t endure, too.
But now, as you sit with yourself in that room, perhaps lonelier than you have ever dared to allow yourself to be, I want you to write it once, for your eyes only—why you are doing this to yourself—and how it is that you are willing to allow strangers to enter your most wounded place.
Enough.
I’m sick of being buried here, masturbating with words.
Why, in this manner I could have you say anything I liked—and this infantile game has been going on for far too long.
Two in the morning, and I’ve been writing for more than five hours straight.
I’m completely muzzy-headed, and want something substantial, alive, warm, arching in my hands; and here I am instead, whipping myself over and over with thoughts of you.
We’re back to whipping me!
I won’t send you these; there is a point at which you and I begin speaking in different languages.
And what the hell do you understand about this kind of wonder, anyway,
when a person who was a complete stranger becomes the living center of all of your emotions and thoughts and imagination?
What do you know about being inflamed?
About heat between strangers?
Complete strangers are the best of all, those familiar with all the amendments of the constitution, for whom it is clear that after the storm, they will go away and be alone.
Alone.
Do you want to hear something?
Do you want to know how it really works, what everyone is thinking, everyone, behind their beautiful words and veiled looks?
I’m sick of being buried here, masturbating with words.
Why, in this manner I could have you say anything I liked—and this infantile game has been going on for far too long.
Two in the morning, and I’ve been writing for more than five hours straight.
I’m completely muzzy-headed, and want something substantial, alive, warm, arching in my hands; and here I am instead, whipping myself over and over with thoughts of you.
We’re back to whipping me!
I won’t send you these; there is a point at which you and I begin speaking in different languages.
And what the hell do you understand about this kind of wonder, anyway,
when a person who was a complete stranger becomes the living center of all of your emotions and thoughts and imagination?
What do you know about being inflamed?
About heat between strangers?
Complete strangers are the best of all, those familiar with all the amendments of the constitution, for whom it is clear that after the storm, they will go away and be alone.
Alone.
Do you want to hear something?
Do you want to know how it really works, what everyone is thinking, everyone, behind their beautiful words and veiled looks?
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