David Grossman - The Book of Intimate Grammar

Aron wilted. They spoke so confidently, with the verve of the wise and experienced. So why was it so hard for him to utter words like values and ideals, responsibilities, institutions … “I personally believe,”said Gideon, flaunting his seniority, “that you fail to grasp what happens to a society made up of isolated individualists without a frame of reference or a guiding principle.”

“Do you know how to dance, Gideon?”

Her tone of voice as she spoke his name. The fact that she spoke it. He had to get hold of himself and work his way into this phony conversation.

“You don’t have to know how to dance to know what goes on.”

“Maybe you should try dancing sometime, then you’ll see it isn’t so terrible.”

A tiny figure danced in the center of his little world and retreated on the tips of her toes. Malice flickered in the sleepy Cyclopean eye. Everything was sinking, sinking.

“I appreciate that it’s fun to dance,” he said, more cautious in his strategy.

“I personally like ballet, but I can still go crazy over the Beatles.”

Uh-oh, thought Aron, now Gideon’s going to start up again.

“All I can say is, thank God the Ministry of Education wouldn’t allow them in the country!”

“I was sorry about that, actually.”

“Oh right! I can see you now, screaming and fainting with the rest of those birdbrains!”

“Uh-huh, and scratching my face! And then I’d come home and laugh at myself, and be happy I’d been there, because when will we get another chance to kick up our heels? When we’re forty?”

“Oh right, and you don’t give a darn what impression we’d make on the youth of other countries, going haywire over four lousy beatniks!”

She smiled dismissively. Will you listen to the two of them arguing, mused Aron with a trace of satisfaction. He had to stop clamming up like this. He had to get his feet wet. Five steps more and he’d take the plunge. At the next cypress tree. Around the corner. Again and again he swallowed and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What should he say? Where should he start? In his loneliness of late, words had come to be utterly inward, whispering a grammar so intimate and tortuous they could never break forth into the light. He cleared his throat, mumbled something in preparation, something about rock ‘n’ roll, Beatles, youth today, but it only wearied him, so he stopped beforethe words could reach their ears. What now? He walked beside them with downcast head, angrily tonguing his stubborn milk tooth. He neither spoke nor listened to them, heeding only the girl on her toes, the dancer in the leotard who was everlastingly redeemed because he had chosen her, again and again; but what about the outward Yaeli, and the outward Gideon too, for that matter, and who was Aron anyway, this outward Aron walking beside them, moving his arms and legs; how could they fail to see into him, to see what was going on? Seething with rage he lagged behind them; he would win the lottery and enroll himself at the music academy, and then someday he would play for Yaeli and she would dance to the music of his guitar; his fingers strummed the air, and Gideon would be there too, of course, little Gideon, his green eyes flashing, his eager high-pitched voice, and his warm smile the time they made the covenant in the cave. Aron mumbled to remind his inward Gideon, but the question remained, what price would he pay for being with them now, here, on the outside, in the phony world? What was the penalty for this betrayal? His lips moved, his face knitted belligerently, and over him closed the frozen steppes; how would he get out of here, what if he never could, who would be left inside, abandoned forever? He would, he would be the one who was abandoned, and again like a parrot he mimicked Gideon, the transistor generation, the “go-go” kids, what did any of it have to do with what was going on within, and who knows, maybe by now he had ceased to exist on the outside. Hey, wait up, he shouted, why’re you stepping on the gas, you two? Even these simple words rang in his ears like a bad translation, an unfaithful rendering of himself. He pursed his lips and hurried to catch up.

“What’s wrong with that,” Yaeli answered Gideon imperturbably; how patient she was with him, why didn’t she just tell him to shut up already and say what she should in that soft voice of hers: I want to be a dancer. I used to play the guitar. And you stopped. Yes, but I’ll soon start playing again. I know, I believe in you. It’s kind of hard to explain it. Never mind, Aron, I understand you without words; that’s how she’d spoken to him the other times. That’s what she beamed at him from the place under his heart — maybe he ought to give it a code name to confuse the enemy — the place that hurts when you eat a fried omelette or after a long run. “I don’t see any reason why young people with ideals, as you call them, should have to wear blue shirts and khakitrousers. What do you think, Kleinfeld?” What did he think? Caught in a dream again. He’d barely been listening to them. Why were they getting so worked up? What was that she called him?

“Kleinfeld gets bored whenever anyone starts talking about ideals,” muttered Gideon.

“That doesn’t mean he’s morally inferior to you,” retorted Yaeli, flashing her eyes at Aron and setting his heart aglow.

“Well, I personally think it’s pretty egotistical not to care about values,” said Gideon in the same biting tone, and Aron regarded him with a crooked, tentative smile to show he bore no grudges. He had a fleeting vision of himself, dimly depicted as a weak old man, near death perhaps, with a flustered young couple at his bedside asking for his blessings and forgiveness. “I personally would be interested to hear what His Majesty has to say about this!” fumed Gideon, his face looking strangely red all of a sudden, and Aron braced himself and quietly, truthfully, expressed his opinion: “Kids our age don’t understand what values are, all we do is imitate the high-sounding language we hear from grownups.” He said it simply and sincerely, really and truly he didn’t know what these values were that everyone kept talking about, at his house nobody ever discussed them and that didn’t make his parents any less decent; they never stole from anybody, for fear of being caught, and the only time they ever cheated was on their income tax, which was a mitzvah, but then there was that stuff about if you find something in the street, you keep your mouth shut and put it in your pocket, and Papa’s special telephone token with the string tied to it, which had already saved him a heap of money, or their sending Aron to the door when Peretz Atias and his wife came over, to lie and say his parents weren’t home; outside of that they were honest, though, never harmed anyone, all they wanted was to be left in peace. So what are values, Aron wondered, and how exactly do you raise children to have these values; for instance, was Mama’s warning not to tell strangers what goes on in the house, considered a value, and maybe their not telling a doctor about his problem was a kind of value too, but what if Gideon was already more adept at values than he was? “I think,” he added faintly, “that until we grow up — when we’re, like, mature — we won’t be able to understand for ourselves what values are.”

“I totally agree,” Yaeli thrust at Gideon, and with that the argument died down. Aron throughout had teetertottered on the changing expressionsof her face: when she addressed herself to him she was soft and fluid, but while letting fly at Gideon, there were flames of war in her almond eyes, and when Gideon caught fire, a smile flickered brightly in the corners of her mouth and the glow of a blush spread over her throat.