David Grossman - The Book of Intimate Grammar

Aron is standing on tiptoe for a better view of the street below, where Mama and Papa have just stepped out to breathe some fresh air at the end of a long hot day. They look so small from here. He can taste the dusty metal of the blinds on his lips. His eyes glow. It isn’t nice to watch like this. From above. They almost seem like dolls down there, a slow tubby one and a little snippety one. It isn’t nice to watch, but it is kind of funny, and kind of scary maybe. The trouble is, Zacky and Gideon see them too. Still, he can’t tear himself away. Y’alla, let’s go, grumbles Zacky, his nose squashed flat against the blinds. If What’s-her-name turns up now we’re history. Hey, whispers Aron, here come the Kaminers. Old man Kaminer is going to die, says Gideon. See how yellow he is? You can tell.

Mama and Papa stopped to talk to the Kaminers from Entrance A. They flickered in and out of sight behind the spreading fig tree. Don’t ask, sighed Esther Kaminer. Snatches of conversation drifted up to the fourth-floor window. Poor Avigdor — she shook her head — it’s a miracle he’s still alive, and Mama clucked her tongue: God help anyone who falls into a doctor’s clutches. They chop you to pieces for diploma practice. Avigdor Kaminer, slouching as usual, stared blankly at his chattering wife. And you wouldn’t believe what it’s costing, she moaned, what with the medication and the dietetic food, and a taxi home every time after the dialysis. If you ask me, said Mama as she and Papa continued their stroll, she can hardly wait to be rid of him, he’s gettingtoo expensive for her — Aron saw her lips move and guessed what she was saying — and who does La Kaminer hope to hook after he’s gone, with her hair falling out by the handful already, as if she didn’t have enough of a dowry; she isn’t fooling anyone with that savings-and-loan bouffant, the bald spots show a mile. Papa merely nodded as usual, distracted by a bit of litter on the sidewalk, a scrap of newspaper, a lemon rind. Don’t look now, it’s Strashnov, said Mama, her lips twisting into a sour smile. You think the snob will say hello? Hello, Mr. Strashnov, how’s the family?

It’s your father, said Aron flatly. Y’alla, let’s go, said Gideon, transfixed at the window: his father, dressed to the nines in Terylene trousers, with a tie on, even in this khamsin. Mr. Strashnov nodded disdainfully and pursed his lips as he minced along. Well, that’s a fine hello; thinks he’s too good for us, does he? Papa blocked his way. Back from the whatsit … the university? Mr. Strashnov pursed his lips again. Ha, he has to make faces before he’ll talk, before he’ll open his mouth and say hello, afraid to let in a little air, is he? And his wife has to take in typing and work her fingers to the bone, because Professor Inallectual can’t earn a decent living, hissed Mama, waving goodbye and shuddering in his chilly wake.

Come on, Ari, let’s go, said Gideon, backing away from the window. But we haven’t seen anything yet, whispered Aron. Why’re the two of you so scared all of a sudden? Zacky and Gideon exchanged glances. Look, Ari, said Gideon, staring down at his sandals, actually … there’s something I wanted to tell you before, before we broke in — Not now! fumed Aron, we’ll go ahead as planned! And he strutted back to the center of the room, with Zacky and Gideon reluctantly following him till they too fell under the spell of this raided sanctuary, this unsuspected ice cube in a block of steamy flats, and they tiptoed after him over the rug-checkered floors, past the black leviathan of a piano in the salon; Aron pointed to a trio of ivory figures on the bookshelf, then paused to contemplate the statuettes on another shelf, a group of naked men and women holding hands as they danced, a boy with his chin resting on his hand, a curvaceous torso — and suddenly he remembered his old guitar with the crack down the middle and the strings all torn; he had taught himself to pick out tunes, his sister Yochi loved to hear him play, but Mama and Papa said he couldn’t have a new one, his bar mitzvahwas only a year and a half away and they had other plans for him. Aron paced resentfully and stopped in front of the painting with a castle carved out of a cliff that looked as if it might crash into the sea any moment. Her and her pictures, he muttered, hands on his hips, you’ve got to be meshuggeneh to paint like that. And Gideon said, Right, that’s what my father calls “modern art.” Aron could just imagine him saying those words. It’s phony, it’s ridiculous, I feel like taking a hammer and smashing it to bits, he ranted, kicking the wall for emphasis. And then he stopped: the piano seemed to rumble a warning.

Come on, squealed Zacky, haven’t we seen enough already? No, and we don’t have proof yet either, replied Aron, turning away. That was really dumb, what you said about her not having a shadow, said Zacky. Well, she doesn’t, snapped Aron, surveying the book-lined shelves. Why else does she carry a parasol all summer, and what about the time we followed her, why did she slink behind the buildings and the trees? To fool us, that’s why; Zacky snarled and shifted his weight, pressing his legs together in distress. His lumpish potato face glowered at Aron. Then he peeked through the blinds and recoiled.

Aron noticed and peeked out with him. Below, under the fig tree, was a heavyset man glancing anxiously over his shoulder. Gideon too peeked out. The man approached a small green Fiat and started fumbling in his pockets for the keys. Aron had never seen this man before, but with a pounding heart he knew who it was. Once he’d overheard a grownup say that Zacky’s mother, Malka Smitanka, had someone on the side. He had started following her around, watching her whenever she went out, but he’d never caught a glimpse of the someone on the side before. Now the big man straightened his belt, smoothed his thinning hair, and got into the car. Zacky’s lips moved in a silent curse, a scream of alarm that resounded all the way to Africa, where his father drove a bulldozer for Israel Waterworks. The boys stood frozen at the window. Aron was sad that Gideon had seen the someone on the side, his Gideon, who was so pure and noble; whenever Zacky told one of his jokes, he and Aron would laugh politely and look away. A moment passed, and they stood together in silence, afraid to budge, and then Zacky’s mother stepped out on the balcony, wearing her bathrobe, and called him home for lunch. Lunch she feeds him at five in the afternoon, said Mama as the green Fiat drove by; we’re not inviting her to the barmitzvah, and that’s that. I will not shake hands with her after him . She’s calling you, said Aron quietly. Mind your own business, growled Zacky, I’m not hungry, let’s look around some more.

They lingered in the semidarkness for a while, and then slowly, like sprats in a stream, began to drift through the corridor into Edna Bloom’s bedroom, where they circled quietly, past the neatly made bed, the ornamental mirror above her dressing table, the tiny basin … and the nylon stocking draped over the chair. Zacky and Gideon peeked at each other, and bright red stains spread over their faces, but Aron noticed nothing, he had just been overwhelmed by a painting that went on for half the wall. “Get a load of him.” Zacky signaled Gideon, who saw what was happening and quickly grabbed Aron’s hand. Let’s go, Ari, he murmured uneasily, you’ll get in trouble if you hang around. But Aron only shook his hand off and continued staring at the fettered horse in the foreground, mimicking the lips that curled with strain; “Modern art” they call this crap? But his eyes bulged out with the gasping horse. Move, wake up! called Gideon, as Aron spotted the dead man under the horse, and then recognized the shape of the bull, only its eyes were in the wrong place, though strangely enough they looked right that way; and then he saw the tortured faces, the fractured bodies, and the woman hovering in the background, lamp in hand. He tried to fight it, this “modern art,” and staggered out of the saton — Where’d they go, I’m stranded — but he found himself staring at the picture again, this is ridiculous, even I can draw a better horse, I can definitely draw a better bull, with all the practice I’ve had copying the label on Green Cow cheese. But suddenly there were tears in his eyes, big, slow drops from a secret well. What’s the matter, dum-dum, you’re crying like a girl? I am not. Are too. If Papa could only see you now! Who cares. Let him laugh at me. Let him run home and tell Mama. Little Aron’s going “artistic” on us, going inallectual!