David Grossman - The Book of Intimate Grammar

And something else that’s strange: when you see him outside you think he’s a snob. That he looks down his nose on everyone, frowns instead of saying hello. But alone with him in the kitchen like this, he’s almost pleasant. He’s nice to Aron, pours him a cup of tea from the flowered-ceramic kettle and asks him questions about himself and his opinions on various topics, and for a moment you actually believe that grownups care what goes on inside a kid these days. Not that Aron enjoys sitting around the kitchen so long waiting for Gideon, maybethey managed to sneak in somehow without having to show their ID’s, but anyway, it’s sort of cozy here with Gideon’s father, with the tea and the cat tongues melting in his mouth, seeping sweetly into him; he almost feels like the winner of the Vita Queen for a Day contest, as though an important celebrity, or an actor impersonating one, had invited him into his home.

The lodger, Eddy, poked his curly head into the kitchen to see if Mira was home yet. Aron turned around for a better look. Eddy explained that he needed some typing he’d given her, explaining too much. Gideon’s father regarded Eddy with mild derision: “Our young student is impatient today, it would appear … would he condescend to join us for a nice cup of tea?” The student muttered a confused excuse. “Of course,” drawled Gideon’s father in his high-pitched voice. “The gentleman wants our Mira, he requires our Mira right away, and all I have to offer him is tea. Milk he desires, water he gets …” The lodger waved dismissively, smiled forlornly, and walked away. Aron saw the smile fade from Mr. Strashnov’s lips. There was a long silence.

Aron couldn’t bear it anymore and he turned around to peek at the clock on the buffet again. Six-thirty. Now’s when they’d have to leave to get to the early show on time. Someone hesitated, yes or no. He swiped another cat tongue, chewed hard, and swallowed fast, without enjoyment. And then, grim-faced, he quickly ate another one. He stared at the empty box in dismay and apologized. How could he. Gideon’s father nodded, this time without malevolence, with a certain curiosity even. “It’s all right, Aharon. I knew you’d like them.” How did he know? How could he tell? For shame. Aron wanted to dig a hole and bury himself. He was full up to here with chocolate cat tongues, and the oozing sweetness cloyed. “The older you get,” Mr. Strashnov opined in his nasal voice, “the more you realize how unhappy and complicated life can be, eh?” Aron stared incredulously, certain he hadn’t heard right. Gideon’s father had an annoying way of saying things it took hours to scrape off, like dog-do from a shoe. What right does he have to interfere, seethed Aron. “Ah no,” said Gideon’s father, peering deeply into Aron’s soul, as he tried to wriggle free. “Life isn’t easy. I can tell you that from experience: it may seem as though your years are passing with friends and frolic; you think everyone is dancing to the same tune, but later on you realize it’ll take the rest of your life to understand what was happening to you, all the loneliness, yes, and the humiliation. Andhere’s Gideon now,” he said in an utterly changed voice that startled Aron. “Will you join us for a nice cup of tea, Gideon?”

Gideon returned looking grouchy and tired. We used to be so close, thought Aron, and he doesn’t even notice what’s going on with me. Aron knew at a glance that Gideon had held out against Zacky. Traces of the argument still showed all over Gideon’s face. You could practically smell it. So this time Aron was the winner in the secret tug-of-war, but there was no satisfaction there when the very sight of him seemed to infuriate Gideon. Gideon hurled down the navy-blue knapsack he’d taken to carrying lately, declined the tea, and gulped a glass of water. There it is, noted Aron a second time, his Adam’s apple in broad daylight. And so thirstily, almost greedily even. He’d have to remember that too.

“I’m going to rest awhile,” said Gideon, noticing the box of cat tongues on the table. He poked it with disappointment, turned quizzically to his father, who made his face a blank, and walked out of the kitchen. Aron got up to follow, started to say something, and sat down again, shamefaced. “Gideon has been looking awfully tired lately, it seems to me,” said Mr. Strashnov, and Aron averted his eyes. “Have you any idea what’s going on?” Aron did his best to evade the question, swallowed his spit, and firmly shook his head. “He’s always yawning, always sleepy,” said Gideon’s father, his eyes drifting off. “Tell me”—Gideon’s father leaned forward and lowered his voice—“please tell me, does my Gideon go out with girls?” Suddenly he broke into a smile, a smile of bitter resignation, and the mask of cruelty, his outward layer of disdain, was peeled away. “He doesn’t tell me things, you know how it is, I daresay you don’t tell your parents either, but you see, it’s important to me, I want to know, what is he like with girls? Is he keen on them? Maybe he’s out gallivanting with a girl when he tells us he’s with Zacky?” He pushed his face closer and closer to Aron, who flinched as he watched him. For a split second Aron saw something like the negative of Gideon’s father: the leprous eye sockets and lips a deadly pale. There was something vexing and unresolved about the man, like a latent disease, that contaminated him. Aron didn’t know what to say in reply. What was Gideon’s father so worried about? He nearly blurted out that he and Gideon weren’t interested in that. Not yet, he screamed inwardly, not yet!

Gideon strode back into the kitchen in that fast, disturbingly aggressiveway of his. “We’re going down to the rock,” he decreed. “Gideon,” called Mr. Strashnov softly. “I’ll be back soon,” Gideon said, bolting, and Aron thought: Soon. He has no time for me. He just wants me out of here, away from his father. But which of us is Gideon more ashamed of? “Y’alla, let’s go.” Gideon went back for his knapsack — why does he have to take the knapsack — strapped it on, and rushed out again, with Aron behind him, smiling sheepishly, strangely sympathetic to Gideon’s father, who seemed utterly helpless now.

They raced downstairs, and Gideon jumped three at a time, rankling with resentment. In silence they ran past the stump of the fig tree — one day a person named Eisen had phoned the municipal inspector to report a sick tree, only there was nobody named Eisen in the building project — and as Gideon dashed across the road, forgetting to look both ways, Aron remembered how he and Gideon used to risk their lives at street crossings, accidentally on purpose, just so they could overflow with gratitude when one pulled the other back to safety in the nick of time. They headed for the valley. A cool November wind blew in their faces. Gideon trudged ahead, weighed down by his silly knapsack. “He went to see Dr . No again,” he said accusingly to Aron, looking away. “How come? He’s seen it twice already,” called Aron, trying to catch up, aware that his lagging behind like this was yet another proof, and stumbling as he thought: My legs are short.

Suddenly Gideon veered around. For a moment Aron hoped he was going to smooth over those snarls between them, but instead Gideon spluttered in his face: “Look, Kleinfeld—”

“Call me Ari! Ari!” cried Aron, so bitterly that Gideon cooled down, reminded of their four blood pacts and the basalt stone they hid in a cave.

They squatted on the path together to absorb this latest shock. “Well, Kleinfeld’s your name too, isn’t it?” asked Gideon with a hint of caution.