David Grossman - Falling out of time

facts comma what

else is there to say

question mark write them

down and shut up

forever colon at

such and such time comma in

this and that place comma my son

comma my only child comma aged

eleven and a half

period the boy

is gone

period

TOWN CHRONICLER: And with these last words, using both hands and terrible force, he pounded the table, and his face contorted so painfully that for a moment I thought, Your Highness, that he had struck his own body.

MIDWIFE:

Dear God, such pain

cuts suddenly deep down

in my stomach, my girl—

if only I knew that th-th-there , too,

when you arrived,

when you finished

dying,

you were welcomed with loving arms

and a warm, fragrant t-t-towel,

and someone,

or something, in whose bosom

you found peace

in those first moments.

TOWN CHRONICLER: Next to the train station, in the dark, by a lopsided house, stands the elderly teacher. His silver head leans in against the wall of the house to whisper a secret. With a commanding gesture, as though once again having been waiting for me, he invites me to sit on the sidewalk by his feet. Two plus two equals four, I murmur after him, and instantly feel relief. Three plus three is six. Four plus four — eight. My presence seems to fill him with life: he scribbles exercises on the wall, his eyes aglimmer. Five plus five is ten, I sing along joyfully, craning my neck back to see him standing over me. His coattails fly as he leaps from one exercise to the next. My voice grows soft and thin. I imagine that my feet do not reach the road and I can swing them. Ten plus ten twenty, I cheer, and from the second-story window someone empties a chamber pot of wastewater on us and yells: People are trying to sleep!

I get up and stand next to the teacher. We are both wet and shamefaced, as though caught in a foolish prison escape. The teacher looks suddenly small and shriveled like a baby. If only I could touch, I would take him in my arms and rock him and hum until he fell asleep. Instead I open my notebook, and in the most official voice I can muster, I ask him for details.

ELDERLY MATH TEACHER:

The questioners persist:

And has it no fissures?

No cracks

or crevices?

No.

And can you

touch it?

It has no touch.

But tell us: Is it full or

hollow, this great fact

of your life? Is it slack

or taut?

No, no,

I respond awkwardly, it’s

here, it’s

here!

But you’ve already said that!

Yes, it’s odd how little

I have to say

on the matter. Surprising

and disappointing, I know,

but it, namely that ,

meaning the death

of my son, of Michael,

twenty-six years ago

in a foolish accident

(a prank gone awry,

a bathtub, a razor,

veins slashed

in the course of a game),

it seemingly swallows up

the words and the wisdom,

all the keys.

Only one thing remains

steadfast:

it is here.

Whether I come or go,

whether rise or lie—

it is here.

When I am alone

or sitting in the square,

or teaching a class—

it is here,

filling me up entirely

until nothing is left and

there is no room,

sometimes, for myself.

Yes, that is certainly something I wanted

to say (and perhaps it should be noted):

that I have no room

for myself. Or just

for a breath. Yes,

that’s the thing:

one

good

breath,

a deep

breath,

whole

and pure,

without the convulsion

of horror

in its depths—

But of the thing itself

(as I have said)—

nothing,

not one word.

WALKING MAN:

When I have a flash of memory—

you sitting over your homework in the kitchen,

or smiling on the beach, in an old photograph,

or just asleep in bed—

I instantly awaken

what came the moment before.

Or what will come the moment after.

Before my memory caught you;

after the photographer froze you.

Then I knead you:

so your features broaden

into a smile,

then slowly focus

in contemplation.

So your eyes light up suddenly,

change colors

in the light,

brim with fury

or amazement

or intrigue.

Thus you shall walk in your room,

this way and that, in the cool of the day,

small waves

of grace,

naïveté and youth

move beneath your skin,

your fair hair skips

on your forehead.

And now you will turn to me and say:

But, Dad, you don’t understand—

Or in your sleep, beneath a sheet,

your chest will rise and fall,

rise,

and fall,

and rise again.

(Ah,

I have asked too much.

I will be punished.)

And yet,

my son,

you do move,

you do move

in me.

CENTAUR:

Sometimes I play games

on it, the goddamn it ,

activities: “Death is

deathful.” I wink at it,

like it’s a little game

we play: “Death will deathify,

or is it deathened? Deatherized?

Deathered?” I patiently recite,

Over and over, rephrasing, finessing:

“We were deathened, you will be

deatherized, they will be

deathed.”

What else can I do—

neither write

nor live. At least

language

remains, at least

it is still

somewhat free,

unraveled.

TOWN CHRONICLER: Tell me about the cradle.

CENTAUR: What’s that? What did you say ?

TOWN CHRONICLER: The cradle. In the big pile, behind you.

CENTAUR: I hope with all my heart, you miserable clerk, that my ears deceive me.

TOWN CHRONICLER: It has two ducks painted on the side.

CENTAUR: It’s a real shame, clerk. You’ve ruined the moment.

TOWN CHRONICLER: His shoulders start to swell. His cheeks, too. My gamble has failed. He struggles to move himself away from the desk and stand up. I have to get out of here, quickly. I’ve never seen him not behind his desk. In fact, until this moment I have not seen him stand. I remember what I read about him in the town archives. This is the time to flee, but my legs disobey me. He grows larger and larger in front of me. He will get up, that is clear, get up and uproot the house with him and split the roof. The toys and the clothes and the other remnants of childhood will crumble to dust and scatter every which way. It’s a shame. Such a shame. I was almost beginning to like him. He groans; his face trembles. I hear, from there inside with him, in the room, loud taps and a strange creak, like a large, sharp fingernail scratching a tile. I close my eyes and tell myself it’s only the desk; it’s just the desk making that sound. A thought flies through my mind: He will get up from his chair and pluck me into his room and devour me. And another thought: That desk has hooves.

CENTAUR: Damn, damn! Not even stand up? Shit. Shit!

TOWN CHRONICLER: His head plunges onto his chest and he weeps. I swear, he weeps. I’d best be gone. Otherwise I will embarrass him. I will wait one more moment and then leave. His shoulders heave. Quick, truncated shudders. He covers his face with his hands. I count the cracks and grooves in the sidewalk. Correct a few mistakes in the notebook. Then, having no choice, I begin to listen to the different layers of his sobbing until I hear one I know well. If I were to cry, this is likely how I would cry. I listen. From the minute the thing happened to my daughter, I forbade myself any self-pity whatsoever. This requires, of course, a certain degree of self-control and constant guardedness. At night, too. I cannot forbid the centaur to cry, however. That is his private affair, even if for some reason he insists on weeping in my voice. I try to guess what my wife would do in this situation. I rise up on my tiptoes. My hand hovers over his head. This is a hand that has no right to touch a person. Pathetic, impure, the hand of a coward. I take a deep breath and shut my eyes and caress his curls. “There, there,” I say.