“Yochi.”
“What?”
By the tone of her voice, he guessed it was letters. When she was doing homework she welcomed interruptions. Better keep mum, though. But the memory of those high heels in the garbage—
“Yochi.”
She was silent. There was a little brown envelope under her elbow. A sign she was answering her soldier. She had six or seven pen pals collected from the newspaper over the years and she wrote them each a letter a week. Aron recognized them by their envelopes: the university student she’d corresponded with since he was in high school, the kibbutznik from Mizra, and the guy from the agricultural center, and there was one who was training to be an able-bodied seaman and sent her letters from the Shalomliner, and a religious guy, and someone by the name of Evyatar, an Israeli who lived in Australia and was a cripple.
“My valiant soldier, you will not believe what happened to me today …” says Aron artfully, and Yochi veers around with daggers in her eyes: “If you ever so much as touch my letters! …” “Who the heck cares about your letters. You always lock them up anyway. Tell me, don’t you get bored writing the same thing over and over seven times?”
“It’s none of your business what I write.”
“Just tell me that much.”
“Who says I write the same thing to each of them?”
“I hear that in America they invented this robot thing that can copy a thousand pages a second.”
“Aron!”
“Okay, okay, just kidding. Go on and write your boring letters. Just don’t forget to change the names each time.”
He sank down on his bed, tossed this way and that, folded his armsunder his head, pulled a coiling thread out of the hole in his mattress, tickled his nose with it; he’d been thinking of changing his sneeze for a while, because Gideon does this loud hutchoothing as opposed to his own hutchee, but he can’t even come through with a sneeze today. What now? What time is it? It’s pitch-black outside. I wonder if Edna Bloom keeps going to check the broken wall.
“Yochi is a nice name. Kind of like yokel. Or yucky. Or yak yak yak.”
“Watch it.”
“Okay okay. What are you getting so mad about. All I did was say your name. I can say anything I want.”
She turned to him: “What do you want? Why are you being such a brat?”
“Aww, why don’t you write me a letter too. That way at least you’ll ask how I am.”
Again he sprawled out on his bed. He was pretty tired already. Watching Papa break down a wall had proven exhausting. He could fall asleep like nothing now and wake up fresh tomorrow.
“Aron.”
“Yes?” He quickly turned to face her.
“Why are you so jumpy? I was just wondering something.”
“About me?”
“About us. How is it that we never have real fights. I don’t remember the two of us ever having a real fight. Do you?”
“You mean, being mad at each other for a long time? And hitting? No, you’re right. Is that considered good or bad?”
“I don’t know. Brothers and sisters usually fight. And you and I are always together, we even share a bedroom, but whenever I get even the teensiest bit angry with you, right away I feel guilty. Don’t you think that’s a little strange?”
“I don’t know. Never mind. Hey, tell me, if What’s-her-name, Edna Bloom, got married, could she still have kids?”
“Until the age of thirty-five. Or maybe it’s thirty-nine. Once I read about an Egyptian woman who gave birth at the age of forty-seven.”
“Forty-seven?!”
“Yes, but that’s Egypt.”
“And how old do you suppose What’s-her-name is?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. But before, while you were talking, I was thinking something.”
“I know, you’ll match her up with one of your pen pals?”
“No, stupid, I was thinking about why we never fight.”
“Or hey, we could find her somebody in the personal column.”
“See, you made me forget. That’s what happens when you start to blabber.”
Silence. How stiff her shoulders were. He tried to imagine her walking into class that morning. Taking her seat. And suddenly he saw the scene, someone shot a rubber band at her and she ignored it. His heart melted with compassion for her. Couldn’t the other kids see that she was special? No one ever sees a person’s home self. If they did see, thought Aron, there wouldn’t be cruelty in the world. He needed to give her something, a present.
“Did you see the picture she has in the bathroom with the half-man, half-bull?”
“Shush, Aron, you’re being a pest.”
“And there’s this woman stroking his back. Yochi, tell me—”
“Okay, one question, and I don’t want to hear another word out of you!”
“What’s going to happen to Grandma?” How did that pop out of his mouth.
She turned to him in surprise. “It’s about time. So you finally remembered to ask.”
“Why don’t we visit her anymore?”
Yochi thought awhile. “I go.”
“You? Liar. When?”
“Twice a week, at least. I go to visit her straight from school.”
“Does Mama know?”
“No one knows. And if you dare—”
“So—how is she?”
“Same as she was. Poor thing.”
“Does she still sleep all the time?”
“No.”
“You mean she woke up? She’s awake?”
“She doesn’t take the sleeping pills anymore.”
“Then … then how … she has to!”
“The fact is, she doesn’t. She’s awake. She lies in bed looking at the sky. There’s a tree outside her window. She stares at it.” Yochi spoke gently: “The leaves are falling. I tell her things.”
“You mean she …” Oh God. “You mean she recognizes you?”
“No. But I think she feels it’s me. She holds my hand.”
“Hey, could I come with you sometime?”
“Sure. It’s a free country.”
“I really want to come.”
“You don’t scare me. Come if you want to.”
“I mean it, I will.”
“Uh-huh, sure.”
Silence. Yochi returned to her letter. Aron mulled over this fantastic bit of news. Yochi did, but Mama and Papa didn’t? From now on, he too would go. Starting tomorrow. Or maybe the day after, when Papa finished the work at Edna’s. Enough. The age of betrayal is over. How could he have behaved that way. He stood up determinedly. Rummaged through his school bag. It was pretty interesting that he and Yochi never fought. Who had the strength to fight. The little red mirror. That’s what he’d bring her as a present. Maybe she did understand something after all. Maybe she still had feelings. It would make her happy. A memento from Aron. For his little grandma, swaddled in blankets, staring through the window at the night. Maybe she was like an animal now and could see things in the darkness. He lifted the mirror to his face and held his breath. And the mirror stayed clear. There. Caught you, spy! With all his might he blew on it, fogging his reflection.
18
For three days Papa battered the wall at Edna Bloom’s. He smashed it till the iron rods and the rusty grating and the slender water pipe showed through the gaping holes and the silky bedroom was revealed to the audience in the salon. Once in a while Papa rested, luxuriously kneading his arm and shoulder on his way to the window to smoke a cigarette, whereupon the onlookers realized how long they’d been holding their breath and began to unfreeze, to clear their throats and stretch. And Papa inhaled the smoke as he looked out at the sagging gray clouds, so pregnant they almost touched the ground. Then he nodded wordlessly at the naked plane tree outside, stubbed the cigarette on his work boot, and returned to pound the wall.
Mama went to Edna’s every day, with her big brown knitting bag, set down a bulky ball of yarn at her feet, and crisscrossed t
he air with her needles. Not a word passed between her and Edna Bloom, who sat sequestered in her armchair from four to seven every day, staring through her, lost in reverie. Papa applied himself with zeal—how had he kept his talents buried so long—and little by little his body began to manifest itself in all its glory: brawny, rugged, full of beef. Yes, he was still fat and clumsy, but to Edna’s eye, the eye of the artist from her sculpture class at the civic center, that “still” was pure delight.
Papa continued excavating in silence, save for the grunts accompanying his hammer blows, which grew deeper and throatier the more he let himself be carried away by the rhythm. With Edna’s money he’dpurchased some black rubber bushel baskets into which he would rake the scraps of plaster and chunks of wall every half hour, and then load them on his shoulders and empty them through the window onto the growing mound behind the building.
Three days. The guts spilled out of the wall, and Edna hardly budged where she sat or reclined, snuggling into the vague, elemental horror that touched her with a thrill too fierce to endure, like a child hiding under the covers at the approaching footsteps of a mother about to extricate her from the void. A cloud of white dust hovered over the house long after working hours, and there was a permanent trace in her nostrils now of Papa’s pungent-smelling sweat: to remember him she only had to breathe. After the second day of work, when she was left alone to fix her supper—an orange, a slice of whole-wheat bread, and cottage cheese—she suddenly stopped and raised her head with a cunning smile. She dropped the bread, blushed pink, and, with a giggle and an Edna-are-you-mad, danced into the empty salon, daintily holding out an imaginary dress, and sank luxuriously into her armchair: soon the white cloud would disperse and she would see the burly arm again, the magnificent paunch.
And Aron too came every day and leaned back against the leather armchair, following Papa’s movements through half-closed eyes. Sometimes he would lazily turn his head to look at Mama. At the way she knitted. So vigorously. Her elbows rising and falling sharply. And the holes in the wall gaped wider. A pleasurable weakness seeped through him here. Slowly the hammer blows were converted into heartbeats, then into footsteps, the footsteps of a giant, the giant inside him who was searching, step, boom, step, boom, turning this way and that, groping forlornly; Aron couldn’t interfere, he wasn’t there, he was unconscious, off in another world, merely tracking the muffled footsteps from the outside, he could sit still like this for three hours, he, Aron, with the ants in his pants, curling into himself; he knew perfectly well it made him look like a runt, a caricature, but suddenly he didn’t care, like the sole survivor on a desert island who maintains his dignity somehow but, when he finally sees help on the horizon, allows himself to let go and weep. Only when Edna turned to look at him did Aron sit up a little and puff himself out, but she was so engrossed in herself, he was free to sink again, running idly in his mind through the four laundry-powder box tops—don’t forget to write down the names offour Shemen products on one of the box tops, send in two box tops from Telma’s Yemenite-style falafel and you’ll be eligible for a host of prizes, including stylish jersey outfits, suede and leather overcoats, and Arctic ice cream has this special offer for you, win a gorgeous key ring, and tomorrow, Thursday, was the day of the national lottery, with a first prize of fifty thousand pounds; his ticket was in his pocket, you wouldn’t catch him unprepared for the grand drawing or the fabulous prizes, he’d been ready for a month already, what are you talking about, a month, six weeks, and at the beginning of April there were gala prizes from Yitzhar, he even bought three bottles of their oil instead of one at the grocery store, accidentally on purpose, for the special red labels, was there a more knowledgeable boy in all the land, and suddenly Aron felt restless and started squirming in his chair, as though the grand drawing were about to take place right here, in this room, and he jumped to his feet and asked politely if he could use the bathroom. “Of course,” answered Edna Bloom today as yesterday, with the same abstracted look on her face, and Mama arched an eyebrow, but what did he care, she’d noticed that he never missed a chance and asked him whether he was trying to grow roses in that cuckoo’s house, and said she’d skin him alive if he ever did it again, and today, before they left for Edna’s, Mama sent him to the bathroom and told him she’d wait. How come I didn’t hear the water? she asked when he emerged. I didn’t have to go, he muttered, looking down, and Mama squinted at him and said, How long has it been like this? And he said, I don’t know, leave me alone, but he realized what she was thinking, that he was starting to get her constipation now, and at least Yochi had Papa’s appetite to go with it, but after an hour here he couldn’t hold it in anymore, and Edna whispered, Of course, watching Papa as Aron walked past the daggers in Mama’s eyes.
He slipped into the little bathroom, lingering over her soft “Of course,” and sat there rocking back and forth, staring blindly at the picture of the girl leaning down to caress the bull—she alone took pity on him, the others had cold Egyptian eyes—and slowly his own eyes close with fervent prayer, and the hammer blows reverberate, the bathroom quakes with everything inside him. Papa must be incredibly strong. It’s thundering outside, getting closer and closer, any minute now, and his body goes limp as he listens from within, from his kishkes. You’re fourteen years old, booms the hammer inside him; fourteen years, threeweeks, and two days, it resounds around him; and she says, You’re doing it on purpose, but I don’t believe that; Aron is deeply shocked and bows to the mighty rumble passing through him. But you gotta fight it, Aronchik, never say die; you gotta try with all your might; atta boy, with all your might! The hammering ceased. Aron leaned back, caught his breath. Silence. He raised his head and waited. The sledgehammer was replaced for the moment by a giant screwdriver that dug out chunks of gently crumbling plaster; and what’s this new mishegoss of yours, Aronchik, whispers the new voice, you won’t eat meat, you won’t eat chicken, we’ve never had anything like that in the family, how do you expect to grow big and strong, Aronaleh. Listen, murmurs the voice, maybe I’m not explaining too good, and I wish I could help you; you are my son, and I hope someday we will walk together, shoulder to shoulder, like the father and son in Capture the Hill or Die. Aron nodded, full of emotion: how inspiring Papa was; again the house reverberated to a mighty blow. Harder! Harder! Help me help you! Aronchik!
Suddenly the pounding ceased. Too bad. Well almost. Silence. And a different sound entered the world: the sound of rain. A driving rain at last. No more arctic winter. He sat awhile longer, rain, rain, beautiful rain, everything was flowing now. A few seconds more just to make sure, but it was no use, and yet—this was an omen. The first rain! He got up quickly, filled with excitement, he felt as if the rain were falling just for him. Fearlessly he pulled the chain and flushed the toilet, what a torrent, what a surge. Too bad he couldn’t make today, though. In here of all places, where he had never had any problem before.
When he entered the salon Mama gave him a scathing look, she heard the water flush, what did he care, it was his body, and Papa was at the window, leaning halfway out, whooping joyfully at the rain. When he ducked back in, his hair was wet and there were drops of laughter in his eyes. He scratched his Poseidon-like mane and set to work again with redoubled zeal, hopping over to the wall like the Transcaucasian Butcher from the wrestling matches on Lebanon TV. Aron quickly returned to his seat and sank inside himself, listening to his blood throb with the mighty hammer blows, with the ponderous footsteps anxiously pursuing him.
Papa banged uninterruptedly for a time, during which Aron neveronce opened his eyes. At seven o’clock Mama proclaimed “Enough!” but Papa shook his head defiantly and continued to strike the wall, and Mama shouted “Enough!” again. Aron lazily opened his eyes, amazed to find that a whole hour had gone by, where was I all that time, and again Papa assailed the wall, drunk with the rain, or maybe he hadn’t heard her, but he didn’t stop when she shouted a third time either, everyone was sitting up by then, looking from Mama to
him; he was like a giant coil unsprung, and the holes in the wall gaped wider, sometimes a single blow was enough to join two holes together, but Papa would purposely delay the final blow, as if sensing Edna’s anticipation behind him; ten minutes went by, and still he didn’t stop, and Aron sat attentively, with his feet pressed together and an impassioned smile on his face; this is Papa, my papa, without shame, without guile, like Samson the hero, a runaway lion, a giant geyser suddenly erupting; and there before Mama’s monumental silence and Edna’s languishing eyes, Papa ran through the gamut of his styles; circus ponies and elephants, torches and tigers, acrobats and clowns, sheer talent he displayed, his body as the paintbrush of his soul, though he unabashedly wore the motley too: because it was him, and he was in command, he could even play the fool with dignity: he could strike the wall like a whirling dervish, or deliver a side blow with an elegant flourish, transform it into a mountain cliff or a coquettish woman with a gleam in her eye. And there were rousing, one-handed blows; and hammer slides across the wall like a caress on the head of a darling child; or the sudden assaults of a hero rescuing his damsel from an enchanted rock. Watch, thought Aron, watch carefully.
Papa’s magnificent encore lasted forty-five minutes. Edna Bloom leaned forward, staring so hard she seemed to see strange new vistas inside her, cleaved by the blade of a giant plow, or the huge propellor of a ship. Even the noise didn’t disturb her, she who had always slept with cotton flying out of her ears; she who had been taught the secret of Tantra yoga by a gentle Indian student in London some years before but had never dared to take that plunge in her building, because what if, at the supreme moment of silent meditation, when the kundalini serpent rose up from the lowest chakra and wound its way through the five brains to the third eye, the locus of union, she should happen to hear a disturbing shout from a nearby balcony or a toilet flushingsomewhere. She knew now that she was longingly anticipating not merely the reverberation of the sledgehammer in her bowels but everything that went with it: the smell of his exertion, the beads of sweat, and the words exchanged over the past three days among her visitors, and the ensuing silences, all abuzz with secret communications, unintelligible to her; the father, and the son watching him with adoration; and the pudgy teenage daughter glowering at her mother; how wrong she had been about them! She rebuked herself: they had seemed so pathetic to her with their lumpish sheep faces. You were wrong, you were wrong, Edna, see how the air around them shimmers, and learn a lesson from this; maybe you were wrong not only about them but about life itself, about everything, go on, have a good cry, maybe you came close to dying, and maybe you were almost, she gulped and uttered the ghastly word, barren.
The Book of Intimate Grammar Page 19