David Grossman - The Book of Intimate Grammar

But the others blamed Papa and Edna Bloom in their hearts, him on account of the sledgehammer which must have jolted Esther’s internal plumbing — why, even a healthy person could break down from all that hammering day after day — and Edna they blamed on account of the air of repression she broadcast to the entire neighborhood. Mrs. Pinkus, the divorcée with the spotty face who never paid her house dues, lost control one time when Edna passed her on the stairway, looking pale and fragile with her new hair swirling around her brow like flames, and screamed at her, Stop the torture already, give in and be done with it — you think you have a diamond growing there, if you can’t satisfy him, pass him on to them that can. Edna stared silently at the hysterical woman and dizzily grabbed hold of the banister. If only he’d dare, she mused, tearing herself away from Mrs. Pinkus’s distorted face and trudging numbly up to her apartment. Why doesn’t he, though, what is he afraid of? Her thoughts were thick and murky, filling up her head. What is he afraid of? A fine thread of blood trickled out behind her as she carried her heavy basket with tomorrow’s dinner up the stairs. At the Atiases’ door she stopped to catch her breath. Maybe he was shy. But why should he be shy with her? A sealed letter with Mr. Lombroso’s signature had been lying under her bed for days, her bank clerk notified her sternly but with secret satisfaction that her account had been closed, red paper birds from the electric company and the gas people glided through the apartment, or glued themselves to the door, but she could always cook on the old Primus, and when she ran out of money for kerosene she could saw up the doors and the furniture and make a bonfire in the middle of the living room, and throw in her National Geographics, arranged and catalogued according to subject, the glory of her modest enterprise, and the oversized pages of her art books, born for burning, and her wooden sculptures and dolls from around the world. She started to climb the stairs again, shuffling her feet, how did everything get so complicated, wake up, save your soul, but where does he go when the hammering begins, as if she no longer existed for him, disappearing into the wall, forgetting all about her, all about her; she laughed out loud, shattered like a bottle on the prow of his ship as he sailed into the distance. And she leaned against the door of her apartment and saw the rash that had broken out over her slender legs. From hunger maybe. But food didn’t satisfy her anymore.

And one night the telephone rang at the Kleinfelds’. Mama picked up the receiver, and, vey-is-mir, turned very white. Then she sent Aron to fetch Papa from What’s-her-name’s and sank down on the Pouritz. Mama, Mama, who was it, what happened? But only her finger moved, waving at him. Go already, bring him home right now even if he’s in the middle of Kol Nidre.

He climbed the stairs of Entrance A, which reverberated to Papa’s blows, four flights up, slowly, cautiously, his legs wide apart, every footfall hurting more, stirring the mush in his tummy. He stopped and coughed in front of the door, to announce his presence, as usual, andknocked softly. And knocked again, a little harder; it was impossible to hear anything with all the noise. And again he coughed, and rang the bell, but didn’t hear it ring. Maybe the electricity had been cut off. What to do now, he couldn’t go home, he couldn’t just open the door. Till finally he dared, he closed his eyes and opened the door a narrow crack, and then he knew, he was certain that when he opened his eyes he would see Papa’s arms dangling to the floor, and the dirty smile smeared over his face, while some ingenious machine produced the sounds of hammering. But all he found was a cloud of dust, behind which he dimly discerned his papa’s bare back, as he smashed the wall of the bathroom down the hall.

The house was in ruins. Bricks jutted out like bones from the walls still standing. Extended cracks crawled over the ceiling, and the floor was littered with plaster and dust and newspapers and electric wires and leftover food. Four or five doors were stacked against a wall, leaning on each other’s backs, hugging in silence.

But when he glanced around the ruins he discovered Edna: doubled over in a swoon on one of her lacerated armchairs, a shabby blanket wrapped around her. Her face was dusty white like a death mask, and the crown of her head glowed red.

Aron took a few steps forward, went limp at the sight, and sank to the floor in the corner by the piano. The outer walls and a few supporting pillars were left, but the apartment seemed bleak, exposed to raging winter winds. He shivered. Soon it will be spring, he thought, but who knows, maybe spring won’t come this year, winter might go on forever, orbiting around itself … The persistent pounding penetrated his stomach and head now, and he let it in, a little top-heavy, but he had a job to do, he had been sent for a purpose; wake up, shake an arm or a leg, show you’re alive, but first, rest here, unwind from your rigorous journey, let yourself go a little, who knows, maybe now at last, but he was tight as a fist from head to toe; and he leaned against the wall, yielding to the hammer blows, to their dull reverberation inside him, and he realized that this wasn’t it either; the hammering was loud, true, but it didn’t sound right somehow, it lacked spirit, maybe Papa wasn’t up to more than that, too bad, too bad, and he shut his eyes, sliding down the wall, taking a breather; let’s see now, where were we, this Saturday the Jerusalem Hapoel team is playing Hapoel Haifa and he bet 2–0, but now he regrets his betrayal of the home team, he should have betat least a tie score, and in tomorrow’s paper the winners of the Blueband contest will be announced, and he sent in ten wrappers; he dozes, organizing next week’s missions in his head: to snatch three pounds out of Mama’s wallet again and buy a lottery ticket, how come he never even won the small purse, or at least let him find the white Valiant, license number 327–933, that was stolen in Jerusalem, or the German shepherd with the brown collar who answers to the name of Flash, generous reward for the honest finder, that would be okay too, and in the afternoon paper it said Coca-Cola will be opening a plant in Israel this year, maybe they’ll have a contest for a Hebrew slogan, how about “From Dan to Elat, Coca-Cola hits the spot,” though maybe he wouldn’t have to wait that long if he won the lottery first, or the Toto, or even the “Find the Seven Differences”; he was getting closer all the time, he could feel it in his bones, why, one of his letters or postcards or bottle caps or Popsicle sticks had probably just arrived at the editor’s desk or at the factory where the boss opens the envelope and reads the entry, and a wide grin spreads over his face, his gold tooth positively gleams with joy, and he stands up and beckons the workers; they leave their cumbersome machines that go up and down, pounding, groaning. “Folks, we have a winner!” shouts the boss, jumping on his big black top hat, crushing it in jubilation. At long last, somebody’s found the answer! It’s incredible! Like a ray of light straight to the core of the problem! We have been redeemed!” And the workers return to the production line, their voices lifting in a mighty song, and the machines steam up, shooting sparks through their pistons, flamboyant fireworks in the air. Aron trembled, he thought he heard a scream in his ear, he opened his eyes, looked around; Papa was still pounding down the hall, boom, groan, boom, groan, but Aron could no longer believe, and he knew he had missed a unique opportunity.

But it really was a scream. Mama was calling him from down the stairs. He had completely forgotten his errand. How could he stop Papa in the middle? Mama yelled his name again. God knows what the urgent thing whoever it was had called about. Mama did turn white as a wall. She did clutch her heart. Aron shuddered: maybe Grandma was dead.