The Book of Intimate Grammar

by David Grossman

  “Want a massage?”

  “A massage?” he squealed. “How come?”

  “No special reason. To thaw you out. You look frozen.”

  “Uh-uh … A massage, are you joking?” He shrank even more. With a little giggle. Staring fervently at the ceiling.

  “You wait here. Take off all those layers of clothes, meanwhile.” She jumped up a little overzealously and hurried to the bathroom, pursing her lips. He feared these militant moods of hers. It was exactly how she looked the time she took him into the living room to embarrass Mama in front of her card friends. He lay still. A little frightened. Unconsciously clasping the binding of his sweater. Drawers flew open in the kitchen. Plates clattered. Mama’s angry. Don’t move. Squinch yourself up and wait. It will all be over soon. How long can it take to wreck a house?

  Yochi came back with a towel. And some cotton. And a bottle of 70percent alcohol. “Hey, come on. Start stripping.” What did she want from him? Where’d she get all that vigor and vitality? “Come on, Aron. I know, you feel a little neglected, don’t you? Everyone’s busy with their own problems, huh? Say, how many layers of clothes are you wearing? How do you expect your body to breathe under all that armor?” She yanked off his sweater, his Leibeleh pullover, his undershirt. He shivered. Covered himself. Afraid she’d notice his swollen belly. “I can’t believe you’re shy in front of your own sister.” She giggled irritably, tickling him under the arm. “Gitchy-gitchy-goo!” Her eyes were shining, but not with happiness. She was relentlessly playful. Rigorously jocular. Maybe she was going through something, the thought occurred to him, maybe someone had hurt her, insulted her. “Lie down straight. Nu, will you please lie down already!” He did. He rolled over, facedown. His stomach was distended. It looked weird. How long before he simply exploded. Yochi leaned over his half-naked body. A fresh, lemony fragrance bloomed in his nostrils. He knew with his eyes closed that she was rubbing in the cream Uncle Shimmik brought her from Paris. Lemon can be used for invisible writing. Now he cringed in anticipation of her touch. His impetuous body. “What are you—Hey, quit it, Yochi, I don’t need—” “Shhhh! The whole world can hear you.” Her palm was on his back. Near his spine. A cool, smooth hand, rubbing in the cream. Slowly warming. Drawing little whirls of softness on his skin to take away the chill. He squashed his face against the pillow. “Your back is in knots,” she muttered. His finger drilled into the side of the mattress, found the hole there, poked at the crisp, curly fronds of Algerian seaweed, that’s what it said on the label; what strength she has in her hands, her fingers press down on him, they crack him and knead him, she probably misses giving Papa massages, it’s almost a month since he got one after the “thorough” but Papa has the kind of back you can really go wild on. “You’re purring like a happy kitten,” she whispered in his ear, giggling. “I hadn’t noticed.” Why was he whispering? Why were they both whispering? Under his helplessly goofy face, there was a sudden rustling of invisible seaweed as his finger bored deeper into the widening gap, into the tangled mass of kinky roots. All he could hear now was the sound of her grunts, who would have believed she was so strong. She was bursting with all that strength inside her. Why didn’t she go out and tear down a couple of walls? He managed to open an eye in his pancake face, saw her pudgy little foot beside thebed, pink and swollen, and breathed in the wondrous strangeness of it, that foot, God, you could sink your teeth into it and eat it up. Now Yochi settled on his tailbone, but it didn’t weigh down or hurt too much, though the residue of his brains squirted out with a final groan, and the mattress creaked rhythmically beneath him, and Yochi’s breathing in his ear, muffled, powerful, like his own, and her fingers and palms moving over his back and shoulders and down to his waist, unloosing, dissolving, flattening his flesh like a rolling pin, dividing him lengthwise, widthwise, propelling him onward, till a knife dropped suddenly, somewhere far away; but she didn’t stop, she galloped ahead, instilling in him a rhythm of open spaces, onward, onward, to the new frontier, rubbing him with her lemon cream, squeezing out an admission he denied before he even heard it: Stop, Yochi, enough. What is this—a few minutes ago he was lying here Aroning, and now, this; all right, he would make in his bed, like a baby, if only he could, at last, even in bed, but suddenly he felt a mysterious honey trickling down his spine, his neck and shoulders were imbued with strength and straightened out, awash in pungent perspiration; smooth and bold he rose from the mattress like the darkly glistening belly of a monster of the netherworld, spangled with a thousand papillary eyes. It’s coming, it’s coming, but where is it coming from, it’s great, it’s marvelous, only don’t make a mess, and suddenly, before his dazed and blurry eyes, a figure approaches—watch out, it’s all over—the figure of his mother, Mama, a sidelong gleam in her eye, an electric flash that fizzles out in the well of her pupil, and her mouth bolts shut, and with the kitchen towel in her hand she reaches out and swats at Yochi, at his burning back. What’s the matter with you, have you both gone crazy, I’ve got my own tribulations, I don’t need you two fighting like a couple of five-year-olds, and Yochi held her hands up to protect her face, yowling and spitting at her like a cat: Just you wait, I’ll enlist in the army right away. Too late, dearie, you’ve already signed up for a deferment and they’ll never let you out of it. Oh yeah? Watch me, I’ll declare myself a soldier without family and I’ll never set foot in this house again. Who needs you home, you dirty cow, let your precious army pay your way; and Yochi covered her right ear with her hand, as Mama screeched to a desperate halt: We’ll see how long they keep you in the army when they see the way you eat. Isn’t the whistling supposed to be in her left ear, Aron suddenly wonders. Watch me, I’ll marry a Kurd, you waitand see who I bring home to you. Who’d have you? Seen any amorous Kurds around here lately? And Aron buried his face in the pillow, which also retained the heat of his childhood, and the whisper, the trembling that seized him a moment ago and was severed halfway down his spine, where it retreated with a cool hiss, so what was that big thing that gripped the creatures of his back in one tyrannical fist and almost succeeded in squeezing something out of him, in bursting the bounds, before it melted, faded away.

  Mama thrust the window open. You stunk up the whole room with your roughhousing, she grumbled, feigning anger, wide-eyed with a concern, with an astonishment that Aron could only sense. Are you a couple of little tots, raising such a rumpus and hitting each other, and she steered Yochi out of the room to set the table and, leaning over Aron, whispered, Who started it, tell me the truth now, who started it? And Aron, bewildered, gave the answer she demanded like one possessed: She started it. And even sobbed: Yochi did. She started it. Mama stood over him. Look what she’s done to your back, the murderess, feh, why didn’t you call me right away, it’s a good thing I heard you. Lie down a minute. I see a big one with a yellow head. Lie still.

  He buried his face in the pillow. No longer there. He didn’t have the strength for this. Quietly he sobbed out the grief Yochi had caused him, he couldn’t quite remember how, and nevertheless, his phony sadness choked his throat, a lozenge of misery melting down to relieve the bitterness of heartbreak.

  Mama pinched the skin around the pimple. The hem of her bathrobe brushed against his puffy flesh. He waited for the prickle of pain, for the quick spurt. He arched his back: let it come already, let it out, let it hurt and be done with, but she suddenly winced. Pulled angrily away from his protruding rib cage, from his puny, disappointing body. Nu, get dressed already. I don’t have time for you right now. Why are you looking at me like that? Take a look at yourself instead, why don’t you ever wash? I can smell you clear over to here. And what have you done to your mattress! Look! With upraised fingers she charged at the mattress and tried to stuff the seaweed back in, You throw dancing parties on your mattress at night? You think we have the money to buy you a new mattress every other day? She gripped the frayed edges of the fabric and stuffed in more of the crimpy tangles, which managed to slip out between her fingers. Cho
leria take it, with you and your sister, willyou look at this room, feh, how you stink, I pity the woman who marries you, and what are you doing lounging around here in the middle of the afternoon, you think this is a hotel or something?

  “I’m tired.”

  “So I noticed. A boy your age, you should be”—she searched for the words—“sucking out life till it dribbles down your chin.” Ha, what a life, she thought, his father’s turning into a regular he-goat and this one’s like a piece of stale bread.

  She was pacing up and down the little room, swatting his desk with the kitchen towel. Dusting. Grimly her arm went up and down. Aron felt sorry for her. Almost unconsciously he rolled over on his side, bowed his head, got ready for her to notice his ear.

  “This morning I ran into Whozit—Zacky Smitanka,” she said with an edge to her voice. Angrily she folded Yochi’s blouse. In the army they’ll make a mensch of her, she won’t have any servants there; and still she hadn’t noticed his expectant ear. “That Zacky, look at him and look at you.” Aron was silent. He and Zacky hadn’t spoken in months. Neither at school nor around the building. And in the interim Zacky built himself a Lambretta out of spare parts he’d found or acquired or maybe even stolen. His big brother Hezkel said he’d kill him if he ever caught him riding it before his sixteenth birthday, but when Hezkel isn’t around, Zacky rides, and how he rides. Once he rode by Aron in the street, at night, on his Lambretta, with a girl hugging him from behind, maybe even Dorit Alush, because the legs around the Lambretta reminded him of those toy divers her father sold in his stall at the market. “He’s miles ahead of you.” Aron didn’t utter a sound. He forgave her, in advance, for everything she was about to say. He could tell how miserable she was. Let her know at least that Aron was faithful to her. Maybe he had been a little confused at first. The hammering drove him crazy. Now it only bored him. The minute Papa started hammering, Aron fell asleep. He didn’t even bother going to What’sher-name’s to watch anymore. Faithful to the end, to Mama, in ways she couldn’t even imagine. A dozen torturers wouldn’t break him down on that score. “I saw him with his mother, Malka; she barely comes up to his shoulder. They almost look like a couple together.” There was a different shade of envy in her voice, not the envy of a mother. Again he proffered his ear. A peace offering, a modest declaration of his loyalty. And she stood there, mocking him, holding out herhands despairingly, till finally, she was trapped: “What’s that in your ear. It’s like a warehouse in there.” He concentrated on her eyes. The blank expression. The steely look when she forgets him and focuses on the yellow in his ear. But at least she wasn’t thinking about her problems now. He took his time and studied her: first she wiped her finger on the other fingers. Little rubbing motions, like a fly about to dine. “Sit up straight. Let me get it out.”

  She sat him down. Bent his head. Carefully inserted her finger and began to pick. Digging deep. Saying, as if to herself, Zacky’s miles ahead of you, what a physique, oho, what a walk, he’s a man already, wait, stop squirming; he surrendered to the burrowing finger. But through it he made his way into her, into her ever-swelling heart, like a huge purple grape bursting with juice, the heart she used to clasp him to once upon a time, when he was a little boy, before the problems started, and thinking about it he could feel what was sticking in her throat, a pillar of salt she had sticking in there, sternly separating her kindly heart from the words she uttered. She was more bitter than ever today. Something must have happened. She still wasn’t over it. Pouring out her wretchedness, not to him, he felt, but to the dirt, her ancient adversary, her ally in reverse. “How long have you been storing that filth in there? Fourteen years old and your mother has to clean your ears for you. It’s unbelievable. Give me the other one.”

  He turned his head obediently. Following her. She didn’t even notice. She just kept digging, muttering to herself. And what a voice. Baaaa! Like a bull! When he talked I could feel the rumbling in my stomach! Would you mind explaining, just so I’ll know, why your voice still goes peep-peep-peep, while his has changed already. And now you’re turning into a vegetarian. As if one dowry wasn’t enough. Look at those spindle legs. How do you expect to grow on lettuce and carrots? She wiped her finger on the kangaroo apron. Spreading the harvest around in little swirls. Suddenly she noticed his watchful, scientific gaze. Jumped up. Hid the apron behind her back, suspicious of an affront here. “Go look at yourself, Helen Keller Kleinfeld.”

  22

  It took five days, by fits and starts, to tear down the walls in the kitchen and the hallway. Edna, meanwhile, went off to visit her parents in Bat Yam, where, much to the astonishment of her aged mother, she asked for instruction in the spellcraft of Hungarian cooking. Sitting beside her in their dingy grocery store, she recorded her mother’s every wise, long-suffering word, with notes in the margins, and joked with her father as never before. In the evening the three of them went out to a restaurant. They asked no questions, were loath to interfere. Though they must have sensed something was amiss, they were too kind to spoil their daughter’s pleasure. Edna gazed at them through eyes of love, cherishing their meekness, the old cobwebs of intimacy, the crumbs of merriment they allowed themselves. For thirty-seven years, since arriving in Israel, they had lived behind the store counter, and the only way Edna could envisage them was huddled together in the back like frightened sheep. And then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, she began to tell them things: about a romantic episode in Portugal eight years before with the banjo player from a little club, and their night together, which was more like a year; he was ready to give up everything and marry her, he was so foolishly smitten he asked for her ring as a keepsake, yes, the little red one they’d given her when she turned eighteen, and now she had a little diamond in Portugal … She shrugged with regret, with disillusionment, and they nodded silently, staring down at the plastic tablecloth. She’d written him several postcards,first in English and, when he didn’t reply, in Hebrew; she laughed, not because she missed him, but because she missed the person she had been with him, and maybe too, she realized only now, as she spoke, because she longed to transport a part of herself to a more lovely site. And then she told them of her years at the university, about her disappointments there, strange that she had never shared this with them before, and they could hear what she left untold, the story of acquaintances never made, friendships never formed; she had felt like a little mouse among the sophisticated students with their silver tongues, but when she needed blood after her operation, nobody came forward except you, Father, you took the bus all the way to Jerusalem and gave your blood … She clasped his hand on the checkered tablecloth and held it there, small and twisted, dry and furrowed, but soft and warm inside. And when her tears stopped flowing, they began to reminisce about her childhood, evoking a past she had been afraid to remember: the arduous journey by boat and train, and the many lands they had fared through, so happy together they were almost reluctant to arrive at their destination, and how delighted Edna had been at sea, our little princess, Nona del Mar, the captain called her, and in Italy a street singer fell in love with her and serenaded her for an hour as she stood before him in a wide-brimmed hat, a three-year-old beauty with yellow curls, and in Athens a gendarme took her for a ride on his shiny black horse, but the horse bolted, it was a wonder the gendarme managed to draw rein … The light glowed softly over the table as they exchanged their airy offerings. Once a week we go to a movie. But why didn’t you tell me? she asked, amazed. You would have laughed at us, two old-timers out on a date … What sort of films do you like? she asked them eagerly. Well, probably not the sort you like, just simple entertainment for folks like us. Tell me, tell me, tell me, she entreated, anticipating further revelations; sheepishly they named a few. What do you know! she exclaimed with tears in her eyes, I saw those too. And later that night, back at their tiny apartment, they embraced in their overcoats, tremulous with emotion, with the joy of meeting and the joy of parting.

  But Mama was not about
to sit idly by. It was more difficult in her case, though, having to begin from the beginning in an area where she had earned much glory and self-esteem. Not that she would stoop to buying a cookbook; there wasn’t a woman on earth whose tutelage in the culinary arts she was prepared to accept, pshee!Instead, she ralliedher senses in a sly campaign of espionage: memories overwhelmed her as she set off once more on shopping expeditions to out-of-the-way markets, to remote and tiny stores in neighborhoods she would not have set foot in as a rule. Cleverly, wisely, for she was nobody’s fool, she scarcely altered her cooking style, at least, not all at once: with the subtlety of an artist she seasoned her chicken soup, a dash of coriander, a hint of Indian curry, in minuscule amounts at first, like drops of precious perfume, and then more boldly, with a reckless flourish, almost grateful to What’s-her-name for kindling this rivalry and her blood … Slowly but surely she varied the menus; she was cooking with more than her hands again, as she had for her starving refugee long ago in their home in the old neighborhood: she cooked with her heart and soul, serving up vegetable side dishes with the chicken, grape leaves stuffed with spicy rice, stuffed cabbage and peppers, and even tomatoes. And she garnished every course with a ribbon of cucumber or pimiento, just for the beauty of it; we’re not animals, you know. And she invested much of the pay from Edna in a variety of fancy foods. Suddenly the dinner dishes came alive, evoking colorful market stalls. And a dying winter pressed its pallid face against the window, watching them with famished eyes.