David Grossman - The Book of Intimate Grammar

And Aron too came every day and leaned back against the leather armchair, following Papa’s movements through half-closed eyes. Sometimes he would lazily turn his head to look at Mama. At the way she knitted. So vigorously. Her elbows rising and falling sharply. And the holes in the wall gaped wider. A pleasurable weakness seeped through him here. Slowly the hammer blows were converted into heartbeats, then into footsteps, the footsteps of a giant, the giant inside him who was searching, step, boom, step, boom, turning this way and that, groping forlornly; Aron couldn’t interfere, he wasn’t there, he was unconscious, off in another world, merely tracking the muffled footsteps from the outside, he could sit still like this for three hours, he, Aron, with the ants in his pants, curling into himself; he knew perfectly well it made him look like a runt, a caricature, but suddenly he didn’t care, like the sole survivor on a desert island who maintains his dignity somehow but, when he finally sees help on the horizon, allows himself to let go and weep. Only when Edna turned to look at him did Aron sit up a little and puff himself out, but she was so engrossed in herself, he was free to sink again, running idly in his mind through the four laundry-powder box tops — don’t forget to write down the names offour Shemen products on one of the box tops, send in two box tops from Telma’s Yemenite-style falafel and you’ll be eligible for a host of prizes, including stylish jersey outfits, suede and leather overcoats, and Arctic ice cream has this special offer for you, win a gorgeous key ring, and tomorrow, Thursday, was the day of the national lottery, with a first prize of fifty thousand pounds; his ticket was in his pocket, you wouldn’t catch him unprepared for the grand drawing or the fabulous prizes, he’d been ready for a month already, what are you talking about, a month, six weeks, and at the beginning of April there were gala prizes from Yitzhar, he even bought three bottles of their oil instead of one at the grocery store, accidentally on purpose, for the special red labels, was there a more knowledgeable boy in all the land, and suddenly Aron felt restless and started squirming in his chair, as though the grand drawing were about to take place right here, in this room, and he jumped to his feet and asked politely if he could use the bathroom. “Of course,” answered Edna Bloom today as yesterday, with the same abstracted look on her face, and Mama arched an eyebrow, but what did he care, she’d noticed that he never missed a chance and asked him whether he was trying to grow roses in that cuckoo’s house, and said she’d skin him alive if he ever did it again, and today, before they left for Edna’s, Mama sent him to the bathroom and told him she’d wait. How come I didn’t hear the water? she asked when he emerged. I didn’t have to go, he muttered, looking down, and Mama squinted at him and said, How long has it been like this? And he said, I don’t know, leave me alone, but he realized what she was thinking, that he was starting to get her constipation now, and at least Yochi had Papa’s appetite to go with it, but after an hour here he couldn’t hold it in anymore, and Edna whispered, Of course, watching Papa as Aron walked past the daggers in Mama’s eyes.

He slipped into the little bathroom, lingering over her soft “Of course,” and sat there rocking back and forth, staring blindly at the picture of the girl leaning down to caress the bull — she alone took pity on him, the others had cold Egyptian eyes — and slowly his own eyes close with fervent prayer, and the hammer blows reverberate, the bathroom quakes with everything inside him. Papa must be incredibly strong. It’s thundering outside, getting closer and closer, any minute now, and his body goes limp as he listens from within, from his kishkes. You’re fourteen years old, booms the hammer inside him; fourteen years, threeweeks, and two days, it resounds around him; and she says, You’re doing it on purpose, but I don’t believe that; Aron is deeply shocked and bows to the mighty rumble passing through him. But you gotta fight it, Aronchik, never say die; you gotta try with all your might; atta boy, with all your might! The hammering ceased. Aron leaned back, caught his breath. Silence. He raised his head and waited. The sledgehammer was replaced for the moment by a giant screwdriver that dug out chunks of gently crumbling plaster; and what’s this new mishegoss of yours, Aronchik, whispers the new voice, you won’t eat meat, you won’t eat chicken, we’ve never had anything like that in the family, how do you expect to grow big and strong, Aronaleh. Listen, murmurs the voice, maybe I’m not explaining too good, and I wish I could help you; you are my son, and I hope someday we will walk together, shoulder to shoulder, like the father and son in Capture the Hill or Die. Aron nodded, full of emotion: how inspiring Papa was; again the house reverberated to a mighty blow. Harder! Harder! Help me help you! Aronchik!

Suddenly the pounding ceased. Too bad. Well almost. Silence. And a different sound entered the world: the sound of rain. A driving rain at last. No more arctic winter. He sat awhile longer, rain, rain, beautiful rain, everything was flowing now. A few seconds more just to make sure, but it was no use, and yet — this was an omen. The first rain! He got up quickly, filled with excitement, he felt as if the rain were falling just for him. Fearlessly he pulled the chain and flushed the toilet, what a torrent, what a surge. Too bad he couldn’t make today, though. In here of all places, where he had never had any problem before.

When he entered the salon Mama gave him a scathing look, she heard the water flush, what did he care, it was his body, and Papa was at the window, leaning halfway out, whooping joyfully at the rain. When he ducked back in, his hair was wet and there were drops of laughter in his eyes. He scratched his Poseidon-like mane and set to work again with redoubled zeal, hopping over to the wall like the Transcaucasian Butcher from the wrestling matches on Lebanon TV. Aron quickly returned to his seat and sank inside himself, listening to his blood throb with the mighty hammer blows, with the ponderous footsteps anxiously pursuing him.

Papa banged uninterruptedly for a time, during which Aron neveronce opened his eyes. At seven o’clock Mama proclaimed “Enough!” but Papa shook his head defiantly and continued to strike the wall, and Mama shouted “Enough!” again. Aron lazily opened his eyes, amazed to find that a whole hour had gone by, where was I all that time, and again Papa assailed the wall, drunk with the rain, or maybe he hadn’t heard her, but he didn’t stop when she shouted a third time either, everyone was sitting up by then, looking from Mama to him; he was like a giant coil unsprung, and the holes in the wall gaped wider, sometimes a single blow was enough to join two holes together, but Papa would purposely delay the final blow, as if sensing Edna’s anticipation behind him; ten minutes went by, and still he didn’t stop, and Aron sat attentively, with his feet pressed together and an impassioned smile on his face; this is Papa, my papa, without shame, without guile, like Samson the hero, a runaway lion, a giant geyser suddenly erupting; and there before Mama’s monumental silence and Edna’s languishing eyes, Papa ran through the gamut of his styles; circus ponies and elephants, torches and tigers, acrobats and clowns, sheer talent he displayed, his body as the paintbrush of his soul, though he unabashedly wore the motley too: because it was him, and he was in command, he could even play the fool with dignity: he could strike the wall like a whirling dervish, or deliver a side blow with an elegant flourish, transform it into a mountain cliff or a coquettish woman with a gleam in her eye. And there were rousing, one-handed blows; and hammer slides across the wall like a caress on the head of a darling child; or the sudden assaults of a hero rescuing his damsel from an enchanted rock. Watch, thought Aron, watch carefully.