Everything Is Illuminated
Page 14
Hurry, she giggled, straightening his tie with one hand and the rope between his legs with the other. You'll be late. Now run to the Dial.
She silenced with a kiss whatever he was about to say, and pushed him to go.
It was summer already. The ivy that clung to the synagogue's crumbling portico was darkening at the lobes. The soil had recovered its rich coffee blush, and was again soft enough for tomatoes and mint. The lilac bushes had flirted halfway up the veranda railings, the railings were beginning to splinter, and the splinters were chipping off into the summer breezes. The shtetl men were already crowded around the Dial when my grandfather arrived, panting and damp with sweat.
Safran is here! the Upright Rabbi announced, to the cheers of those packed in the square. The bridegroom has arrived! A septet of violins began the traditional Dial Waltz, with the elders of the shtetl clapping their hands on every downbeat and the children whistling every ta-ta.
THE CHORUS OF THE DIAL WALTZ SONG FOR SOON-TO-BE-MARRIED MEN
Ohhhhhhh, gather group, [insert groom's name]'s here,
Well groomed he'd better be, his wedding's near.
One great hand he's been dealt,
[insert bride's name]'s a girl to make you loosen your belt.
Sooooooo kiss his lips, smell his knees,
Beg please for prolific birds and bees.
May you be happily
Wed, then off to bed, for ohhhhhhh...
[Repeat from beginning, indefinitely]
My grandfather regained his composure, felt to make sure the zipper of his slacks was indeed zippered, and marched into the Dial's long shadow. He was to fulfill the sacred ritual that had been fulfilled by every married man in Trachimbrod since his great-great-great-grandfather's tragic flour mill accident. He was about to throw his bachelorhood and, in theory, his sexual exploits to the wind. But what struck him as he approached the Dial (with long, deliberate steps) was not the beauty of ceremony, or the inherent insincerity of organized rites of passage, or even how much he wished the Gypsy girl could be with him now so his true love could experience his wedding with him, but that he was no longer a boy. He was growing older, had begun to look like his great-great-great-grandfather: the furrowed brow shadowing his delicate, softly feminine eyes, the similar protrusion at the bridge of his nose, the way his lips met in a sideways U at one end and in a V at the other. Safety and profound sadness: he was growing into his place in the family; he looked unmistakably like his father's father's father's father's father, and because of that, because his cleft chin spoke of the same mongrel gene-stew (stirred by the chefs of war, disease, opportunity, love, and false love), he was granted a place in a long line—certain assurances of being and permanence, but also a burdensome restriction of movement. He was not altogether free.
He was also aware of his place among married men, all of whom had given their vows of fidelity with their knees planted on the same ground on which his now were. Each had prayed for the blessings of sound mind, good health, handsome sons, inflated wages, and deflated libido. Each had been told a thousand times the story of the Dial, the tragic circumstances of its creation and the magnitude of its power. Each knew of how his great-great-great-grandmother Brod had said Don't go to her new husband, too familiar with the flour mill's curse of taking without warning the lives of its young workers. Please, find another job or don't work at all. But promise me you won't go.
And each knew of how the Kolker had responded, Don't be silly, Brod, patting her belly, which after seven months could still be concealed under a baggy dress. It's a very good job, and I'll be very careful, and that'll be all.
And each bridegroom knew of how Brod had wept, and hid his work clothes the previous night, and shook him from sleep every few minutes so that he would be too exhausted to leave the house the next day, and refused to make his coffee in the morning, and even tried ordering him.
This is love, she thought, isn't it? When you notice someone's absence and hate that absence more than anything? More, even, than you love his presence? Each knew of how she had waited for the Kolker by the window every day, how she became acquainted with its surface, learned where it had melted slightly, where it was slightly discolored, where it was opaque. She felt its tiny wrinkles and bubbles. Like a blind woman learning language, she moved her fingers over the window, and like a blind woman learning language, she felt liberated. The frame of the window was the walls of the prison that set her free. She loved what it felt like to wait for the Kolker, to be entirely dependent on him for her happiness, to be, as ridiculous as she had always thought it sounded, someone's wife. She loved her new vocabulary of simply loving something more than she loved her love for that thing, and the vulnerability that went along with living in the primary world. Finally, she thought, finally. I only wish Yankel could know how happy I am.
When she woke up crying from one of her nightmares, the Kolker would stay with her, brush her hair with his hands, collect her tears in thimbles for her to drink the next morning (The only way to overcome sadness is to consume it, he said), and more than that: once her eyes closed and she fell back asleep, he was left to bear the insomnia. There was a complete transfer, like a speeding billiard ball colliding with a resting one. Should Brod feel depressed—she was always depressed—the Kolker would sit with her until he could convince her that it's OK. It is. Really. And when she would move on with her day, he would stay behind, paralyzed with a grief he couldn't name and that wasn't his. Should Brod become sick, it was the Kolker who would be bedridden by week's end. Should Brod feel bored, knowing too many languages, too many facts, with too much knowledge to be happy, the Kolker would stay up all night studying her books, studying the pictures, so the next day he could try to make the kind of small talk that would please his young wife.
Brod, isn't it strange how some mathematical phrases can have a lot on one side and just a little on the other? Isn't that fascinating! And what does it say about life! ... Brod, you're making that face again, the one like the man who plays that musical instrument that is all wound up in a big coil ... Brod, he would say, pointing to Castor as they lay on their backs on the tin-shingled roof of their small house, that, over there, is a star. So is that one, pointing to Pollux. I'm sure of it. Those are as well. Yes, those are very familiar stars. The rest I can't be one hundred percent sure of. I'm not familiar with them.
She always saw through him, as if he were just another window. She always felt that she knew everything about him that could be known—not that he was simple, but that he was knowable, like a list of errands, like an encyclopedia. He had a birthmark on the third toe of his left foot. He wasn't able to urinate if someone could hear him. He thought cucumbers were good enough, but pickles were delicious—so absolutely delicious, in fact, that he questioned whether they were, indeed, made from cucumbers, which were only good enough. He hadn't heard of Shakespeare, but Hamlet sounded familiar. He liked making love from behind. That, he thought, was about as nice as it gets. He had never kissed anyone besides his mother and her. He had dived for the golden sack only because he wanted to impress her. He sometimes looked in the mirror for hours at a time, making faces, tensing muscles, winking, smiling, puckering. He had never seen another man naked, and so had no idea if his body was normal. The word "butterfly" made him blush, although he didn't know why. He had never been out of the Ukraine. He once thought that the earth was the center of the universe, but learned better. He admired magicians more after learning the secrets of their tricks.
You are such a sweet husband, she told him when he brought her gifts.
I just want to be good to you.
I know, she said, and you are.
But there are so many things I can't give you.
But there are so many things you can.
I'm not a smart man—
Stop, she said, just stop. Smart was the last thing she ever wanted the Kolker to be. That, she knew, would ruin everything. She wanted nothing more than someone to miss, to touch, wit
h whom to speak like a child, with whom to be a child. He was very good for that. And she was in love.
I'm the one who isn't smart, she said.
That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, Brod.
Exactly, she said, putting his arm around her and nestling her face in his chest.
Brod, I'm trying to have a serious talk with you. Sometimes I just feel like everything I want to say will come out wrong.
So what do you do?
I don't say it.
Well, that's smart of you, she said, playing with the loose skin under his chin.
Brod, backing away, you're not taking me seriously. She nestled deeper into him and closed her eyes like a cat. I've kept a list, you know, he said, taking back his arms.
That's wonderful, honey.
Aren't you going to ask what kind of list?
I figured you'd have told me if you wanted me to know. When you didn't, I just assumed it was none of my business. Do you want me to ask you?
Ask me.
OK. What kind of list have you been keeping so secretly?
I've kept a list of the number of conversations we've had since we've been married. Would you like to guess how many?
Is this really necessary?
We've only had six conversations, Brod. Six in almost three years.
Are you counting this one?
You never take me seriously.
Of course I do.
No, you always joke, or cut our talking short before we ever say anything.
I'm sorry if I do that. I never noticed. But do we really need to do this right now? We talk all the time.
I don't mean talking, Brod. I mean conversing. Things that last more than five minutes.
Let me get this straight. You're not talking about talking? You want us to converse about conversing? Is that right?
We've had six conversations. It's pathetic, I know, but I've counted them. Otherwise it's all worthless words. We talk about cucumbers and how I like pickles more. We talk about how I blush when I hear that word. We talk about grieving Shanda and Pinchas, about how bruises sometimes don't show up for a day or two. Talk talk talk. We talk about nothing. Cucumbers, butterflies, bruises. It's nothing.
What's something, then? You want to talk about war a bit? Maybe we could talk about literature. Just tell me what something is, and we'll talk about it. God? We could talk about Him.
You're doing it again.
What am I doing?
You're not taking me seriously.
It's a privilege you have to earn.
I'm trying.
Try a bit harder, she said, and unbuttoned his slacks. She licked him from the base of his neck to his chin, pulled his shirt from his pants, his pants from his waist, and nipped their seventh conversation in the bud. All she wanted from him was cuddling and high voices. Whispers. Assurances. Promises of fidelity and truth she made him swear to again and again: that he would never kiss another woman, that he would never even think of another woman, that he would never leave her alone.
Say it again.
I won't leave you alone.
Say it again.
I won't leave you alone.
Again.
I won't.
Won't what?
Leave you alone.
It was halfway into his second month at work when two men from the flour mill knocked on her door. She didn't have to ask why they came, but collapsed immediately to the floor.
Go away! she screamed, running her hands up and down the carpet as if it were a new language to learn, another window.
He felt no pain, they told her. He felt nothing, really. Which made her cry more, and harder. Death is the only thing in life that you absolutely have to be aware of as it's happening.
A disk-saw blade from the chaff splitter had spun off its bearings and raced through the mill, caroming off walls and scaffold beams while men jumped for cover. The Kolker was eating a cheese sandwich on a makeshift stool of stacked flour sacks, lost in thought about something Brod had said about something, oblivious to the chaos around him, when the blade hopped off an iron rod (left carelessly on the ground by a mill worker who was later struck by lightning) and embedded itself, perfectly vertical, in the middle of his skull. He looked up, dropped his sandwich to the floor—witnesses swore the slices of bread switched places in midair—and closed his eyes.
Leave me! she hollered at the men, who were still standing mute in her doorway. Leave!
But we were told—
Go! she said, beating her chest. Go!
Our boss said—
You bastards! she shouted. Leave the griever to grieve!
Oh, he's not dead, the fatter of the men corrected.
What?
He's not dead.
He's not dead? she asked, picking her head up off the floor.
No, the other said. He's in the doctor's care, but it seems that there's little permanent damage. You can see him if you like. He is in no way repulsive looking. Well, maybe a little, but there was hardly any blood, except for the blood from his nose and ears, and the blade seems to be holding everything in its good and right place, more or less.
Crying more now than when she heard the news of her new husband's supposed death, Brod hugged both men and then punched them both in the nose with all of the might her skinny fifteen-year-old arm could summon.
In fact, the Kolker was barely hurt at all. He had regained consciousness in only a few minutes and been able to walk himself, parade himself, through the maze of muddy capillaries to the office of Dr. (and caterer without clients) Abraham M.
What's your name? measuring the circular blade with calipers.
The Kolker.
Very good, lightly touching his finger to one of the blade's teeth. Now, can you remember the name of your wife?
Brod, of course. Her name is Brod.
Very good. Now, what seems to have happened to you?
A disk-saw blade stuck in my head.
Very good, examining the blade from all sides. It looked to the doctor like a five-o'clock summer sun, setting over the horizon of the Kolker's head, which reminded him that it was almost time for dinner, one of his favorite meals of the day. Do you feel any pain?
I feel different. It's not pain, really. It's almost a homesickness.
Very good. Homesickness. Now, can you follow my finger with your eyes? No, no. This finger ... Very good. Can you walk across the room for me?... Very good.
And then, without provocation, the Kolker slammed his fist against the examining table and hollered, You are a fat fuckhead!
Excuse me? What?
What just happened?
You called me a fuckhead.
Did I?
You did.
I'm sorry. You're not a fuckhead. I'm very sorry.
You're probably just—
But it's true! the Kolker shouted. You are an insolent fuckhead! And a fat one too, if I didn't mention that before.
I'm afraid I don't under—
Did I say something? the Kolker asked, frantically looking around the room.
You said I was an insolent fuckhead.
You've got to believe me ... Your tuches is huge! ... I'm sorry, this is not me ... I'm so sorry, you fat-tuchesed fuckhead, I—
Did you call my tuches fat?
No!... Yes!
Is it these slacks? They're cut rather tight around the—
Fat ass!
Fat ass?
Fat ass!
Who do you think you are?
No!... Yes!
Get out of my office!
No!... Yes!
Well, disk saw or not! the doctor said, and with a huff, he slammed shut his folder and stormed out of his own office, pounding the floor loudly with each of his heavy steps.
The doctor-caterer was the first victim of the Kolker's malicious eruptions—the only symptom of the blade that would remain embedded in his skull, perfectly perpendicular to the horizon, for the rest of his life.
Brod, where are my fucking socks? You misplaced them again.
I know, she would say, smiling inwardly at the joys of being unappreciated and bullied around. You're right. It won't happen again.
Why the hell can't I remember the name of that coiled instrument!
Because of me. It's my fault.
With time he became worse. Dirty dirt became grounds for a tirade. Wet water in the bathtub and he might yell at her until the neighbors had to close their shutters (the desire for a little peace and quiet being the only thing the citizens of the shtetl shared). It was less than a year after the accident before he started hitting her. But, she reasoned, it was such a small fraction of the time. Once or twice a week. Never more. And when he was not in a "mood," he was more kind to her than any husband to his wife. His moods were not him. They were the other Kolker, born of the metal teeth in his brain. And she was in love, which gave her a reason to live.
Whore poison bitch! the other Kolker would howl at her with raised arms, and then the Kolker would take her into those arms, as he did the night they first met.
Filthy water monster! with a backhanded slap across the cheek, and then he would tenderly lead her, or she him, to the bedroom.
In the middle of lovemaking he might damn her, or hit her, or push her off the bed onto the floor. She would climb back up, remount, and begin again where they left off. Neither of them knew what he might do next.
They saw every doctor in the six villages—the Kolker broke the nose of the confident young physician in Lutsk who suggested the couple sleep in separate beds—and all agreed that the only possible cure for his disposition would be to remove the blade from his head, which would certainly kill him.