David Grossman: Falling out of time

his odor, too.

WOMAN:

His smells—

sweet, sharp,

sour.

His washed hair

his bathed flesh

the simple spices

of the body—

MAN:

The way he used to sweat after a game,

remember?

Burning with excitement—

WOMAN:

Oh, he had smells for every season:

the earthy aromas of autumn hikes,

rain evaporating from wool sweaters,

and when you worked the spring fields together,

odor from the sweat of your brows,

the vapors of working men, filled the house—

MAN:

But most of all I loved the summer,

with its notes of peaches

and plums,

their juices running down his cheeks—

WOMAN:

And when he came back

from a campfire with friends,

night and smoke

on his breath—

MAN:

Or when he returned

from the beach,

a salty tang

in his hair—

WOMAN:

On his skin.

The scent of his baby blanket,

the smell of his diapers

when he drank only breast milk,

then seemingly

one moment later—

MAN:

The sheets of a boy

in love.

WOMAN:

Sometimes, when we are

together, your sorrow

grips my sorrow,

my pain bleeds into yours,

and suddenly the echo of

his mended, whole body

comes from inside us,

and then one might briefly imagine—

he is here.

(pause)

I would go

to the end

of the world with you,

you know. But you are not

going to him, you are going

somewhere else, and there

I will not go, I cannot.

I will not.

It is easier to go

than to stay.

I have bitten my flesh

for five years

so as not to go, not

there,

there is

no there!

MAN:

There will be,

if we go

there.

TOWN CHRONICLER: She looks away from him. They are distant, as though he is no longer here, on this side. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the small kitchen and the entire house, and her — her face, her body. Then he straightens up. As he walks past, his hand rests briefly on her waist, barely touching. He leaves the house and shuts the door behind him.

And stops: the sky is low and black, the broad-chested night pushes him back to the house. He looks at the closed door. His feet hesitate, probing. He walks — strange — orbiting himself in a small circle. Slowly, carefully, again and again, one circle after another. His arms spread out, the circles grow wider, he walks around the small yard, and now he circles the house—

WALKING MAN:

Here I will fall

now I will fall—

I do not fall.

Now, here,

the heart

will stop—

It does not stop.

Here is shadow

and fog—

now,

now

I will fall—

TOWN CHRONICLER: The night air is damp and cool. Clouds roll over the big swamps in the east, covering the stub of moon. Again and again he circles the house, as if hoping his motion will rouse her and enthuse her.

WALKING MAN:

Your icy voice

ensnarls

my feet. How will I walk

without your warmth, without the light

of your eyes?

How will I walk

if you withhold

your grace?

TOWN CHRONICLER: His gaze always fixed on the shuttered blinds, he circles the house again and again, but gradually moves farther away. He opens up, spreads out, walking farther, farther, his circles growing larger and wider. He walks there — there is no there , of course there isn’t, but what if you go there? What if a man walks there?

WALKING MAN:

I am not alone, I am not

alone, I whisper

like an oath,

and his breath

through my mouth

clouds the mirror.

I am not alone,

with him I am

not alone—

TOWN CHRONICLER: He gradually encircles the whole village, then he does so again. He walks by houses, yards, wells, and fields, past barns and paddocks and woodpiles. Dogs bark at him and quickly retreat with a whimper, and he walks.

WALKING MAN:

I am not alone. With him

I am not one ,

I am alone

with him in all

my thickets, my labyrinths.

He pulses in me, lives

with me, one

with me, with him

I share the vast expanse his death

created in me—

and he surges

and he wanes with me,

unquiet

unquiet

roaming

embittering

redeeming

shackling

healing

purifying,

not letting go,

not letting go,

this

lonely

dead

child.

TOWN CHRONICLER: Night after night after night. Things are happening in your town, my lord, and I fear I will not have the time to record them all for you.

Right now, at midnight, at the old wharf by the lake, something stirs inside a skein of fishing nets. A head pokes out and glances around. A tiny, supple body pulls itself out of the skein and sits up breathlessly. It is a person, undoubtedly. Frightened eyes gleam white in the filthy face as they scan the hilltops surrounding the town. The gaping mouth turns to look, like a dark third eye.

Now I see: it is the net-mender. You may recall, Your Highness, that years ago, on one of your visits to the harbor, you enjoyed her sharp tongue when she argued with you over the needle tax you had levied, in your benevolence, at the time. A cheerful, curly-haired boy was tied to her chest in a brightly colored sling. He played a game of peekaboo with you, and you gave him a gold coin. I do not know what became of him. From time to time I see her roaming the streets near the harbor, grunting, muttering unintelligible words to herself, encumbered by a tangled web of fishing nets that makes one wonder whether there is a human being inside at all.

She suddenly leaps up as if snakebitten. Her hands rise and she points far away. She groans—

If you are awake, my lord, and would be so kind as to look out of your window, you, too, will see: a small luminance of sorts encircles the town. A man walks there, up and down the hills.

WALKING MAN:

One step,

another step, another

step,

walking and

walking to you.

I am

an unleashed question,

an open shout

My son

If only

I could

move

you

just

one

step.

TOWN CHRONICLER: And on the third night watch, in a side alley on the outskirts of town, in a little house with one room, a centaur sits at a table. That is what the townsfolk call him, Your Highness, and I promise to try to find out why very shortly. His massive head, adorned with snowy-white curls, droops onto his chest. His spectacles have slid down to the edge of his nose, and his snores shake the house. I glance right and left: no one. I rise up on my toes and peer inside. The room is dusky, but I can discern that it is overflowing: strange mounds and heaps that might be dirt or garbage, or piles of old furniture, surround the man and at times reach the ceiling. It is hard to see how he can move in this room.

A dirty blanket is spread out on the desk before him. A few empty beer bottles, pens, pencils, a school notebook, all scattered around. The notebook is open; its pages have thin blue lines. As best I can tell from here, they are all empty.

“Scram before I wring your balls,” the centaur growls without opening his eyes, and I flee for my life.

Only when I reach the fence outside the home of the woman from whom I have exiled myself does my heart recover.

TOWN CHRONICLER’S WIFE:

The passing time

is painful. I have lost

the art

of moving simply,

naturally, within it.

I am swept back

against its flow. Angry, vindictive,

it pierces me

all the time, all the

time

with its