David Grossman - The Book of Intimate Grammar

“I’m tired.”

“So I noticed. A boy your age, you should be”—she searched for the words—“sucking out life till it dribbles down your chin.” Ha, what a life, she thought, his father’s turning into a regular he-goat and this one’s like a piece of stale bread.

She was pacing up and down the little room, swatting his desk with the kitchen towel. Dusting. Grimly her arm went up and down. Aron felt sorry for her. Almost unconsciously he rolled over on his side, bowed his head, got ready for her to notice his ear.

“This morning I ran into Whozit — Zacky Smitanka,” she said with an edge to her voice. Angrily she folded Yochi’s blouse. In the army they’ll make a mensch of her, she won’t have any servants there; and still she hadn’t noticed his expectant ear. “That Zacky, look at him and look at you.” Aron was silent. He and Zacky hadn’t spoken in months. Neither at school nor around the building. And in the interim Zacky built himself a Lambretta out of spare parts he’d found or acquired or maybe even stolen. His big brother Hezkel said he’d kill him if he ever caught him riding it before his sixteenth birthday, but when Hezkel isn’t around, Zacky rides, and how he rides. Once he rode by Aron in the street, at night, on his Lambretta, with a girl hugging him from behind, maybe even Dorit Alush, because the legs around the Lambretta reminded him of those toy divers her father sold in his stall at the market. “He’s miles ahead of you.” Aron didn’t utter a sound. He forgave her, in advance, for everything she was about to say. He could tell how miserable she was. Let her know at least that Aron was faithful to her. Maybe he had been a little confused at first. The hammering drove him crazy. Now it only bored him. The minute Papa started hammering, Aron fell asleep. He didn’t even bother going to What’sher-name’s to watch anymore. Faithful to the end, to Mama, in ways she couldn’t even imagine. A dozen torturers wouldn’t break him down on that score. “I saw him with his mother, Malka; she barely comes up to his shoulder. They almost look like a couple together.” There was a different shade of envy in her voice, not the envy of a mother. Again he proffered his ear. A peace offering, a modest declaration of his loyalty. And she stood there, mocking him, holding out herhands despairingly, till finally, she was trapped: “What’s that in your ear. It’s like a warehouse in there.” He concentrated on her eyes. The blank expression. The steely look when she forgets him and focuses on the yellow in his ear. But at least she wasn’t thinking about her problems now. He took his time and studied her: first she wiped her finger on the other fingers. Little rubbing motions, like a fly about to dine. “Sit up straight. Let me get it out.”

She sat him down. Bent his head. Carefully inserted her finger and began to pick. Digging deep. Saying, as if to herself, Zacky’s miles ahead of you, what a physique, oho, what a walk, he’s a man already, wait, stop squirming; he surrendered to the burrowing finger. But through it he made his way into her, into her ever-swelling heart, like a huge purple grape bursting with juice, the heart she used to clasp him to once upon a time, when he was a little boy, before the problems started, and thinking about it he could feel what was sticking in her throat, a pillar of salt she had sticking in there, sternly separating her kindly heart from the words she uttered. She was more bitter than ever today. Something must have happened. She still wasn’t over it. Pouring out her wretchedness, not to him, he felt, but to the dirt, her ancient adversary, her ally in reverse. “How long have you been storing that filth in there? Fourteen years old and your mother has to clean your ears for you. It’s unbelievable. Give me the other one.”

He turned his head obediently. Following her. She didn’t even notice. She just kept digging, muttering to herself. And what a voice. Baaaa! Like a bull! When he talked I could feel the rumbling in my stomach! Would you mind explaining, just so I’ll know, why your voice still goes peep-peep-peep, while his has changed already. And now you’re turning into a vegetarian. As if one dowry wasn’t enough. Look at those spindle legs. How do you expect to grow on lettuce and carrots? She wiped her finger on the kangaroo apron. Spreading the harvest around in little swirls. Suddenly she noticed his watchful, scientific gaze. Jumped up. Hid the apron behind her back, suspicious of an affront here. “Go look at yourself, Helen Keller Kleinfeld.”

It took five days, by fits and starts, to tear down the walls in the kitchen and the hallway. Edna, meanwhile, went off to visit her parents in Bat Yam, where, much to the astonishment of her aged mother, she asked for instruction in the spellcraft of Hungarian cooking. Sitting beside her in their dingy grocery store, she recorded her mother’s every wise, long-suffering word, with notes in the margins, and joked with her father as never before. In the evening the three of them went out to a restaurant. They asked no questions, were loath to interfere. Though they must have sensed something was amiss, they were too kind to spoil their daughter’s pleasure. Edna gazed at them through eyes of love, cherishing their meekness, the old cobwebs of intimacy, the crumbs of merriment they allowed themselves. For thirty-seven years, since arriving in Israel, they had lived behind the store counter, and the only way Edna could envisage them was huddled together in the back like frightened sheep. And then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, she began to tell them things: about a romantic episode in Portugal eight years before with the banjo player from a little club, and their night together, which was more like a year; he was ready to give up everything and marry her, he was so foolishly smitten he asked for her ring as a keepsake, yes, the little red one they’d given her when she turned eighteen, and now she had a little diamond in Portugal … She shrugged with regret, with disillusionment, and they nodded silently, staring down at the plastic tablecloth. She’d written him several postcards,first in English and, when he didn’t reply, in Hebrew; she laughed, not because she missed him, but because she missed the person she had been with him, and maybe too, she realized only now, as she spoke, because she longed to transport a part of herself to a more lovely site. And then she told them of her years at the university, about her disappointments there, strange that she had never shared this with them before, and they could hear what she left untold, the story of acquaintances never made, friendships never formed; she had felt like a little mouse among the sophisticated students with their silver tongues, but when she needed blood after her operation, nobody came forward except you, Father, you took the bus all the way to Jerusalem and gave your blood … She clasped his hand on the checkered tablecloth and held it there, small and twisted, dry and furrowed, but soft and warm inside. And when her tears stopped flowing, they began to reminisce about her childhood, evoking a past she had been afraid to remember: the arduous journey by boat and train, and the many lands they had fared through, so happy together they were almost reluctant to arrive at their destination, and how delighted Edna had been at sea, our little princess, Nona del Mar, the captain called her, and in Italy a street singer fell in love with her and serenaded her for an hour as she stood before him in a wide-brimmed hat, a three-year-old beauty with yellow curls, and in Athens a gendarme took her for a ride on his shiny black horse, but the horse bolted, it was a wonder the gendarme managed to draw rein … The light glowed softly over the table as they exchanged their airy offerings. Once a week we go to a movie. But why didn’t you tell me? she asked, amazed. You would have laughed at us, two old-timers out on a date … What sort of films do you like? she asked them eagerly. Well, probably not the sort you like, just simple entertainment for folks like us. Tell me, tell me, tell me, she entreated, anticipating further revelations; sheepishly they named a few. What do you know! she exclaimed with tears in her eyes, I saw those too. And later that night, back at their tiny apartment, they embraced in their overcoats, tremulous with emotion, with the joy of meeting and the joy of parting.