The Book of Intimate Grammar

by David Grossman

  The house was in ruins. Bricks jutted out like bones from the walls still standing. Extended cracks crawled over the ceiling, and the floor was littered with plaster and dust and newspapers and electric wires and leftover food. Four or five doors were stacked against a wall, leaning on each other’s backs, hugging in silence.

  But when he glanced around the ruins he discovered Edna: doubled over in a swoon on one of her lacerated armchairs, a shabby blanket wrapped around her. Her face was dusty white like a death mask, and the crown of her head glowed red.

  Aron took a few steps forward, went limp at the sight, and sank to the floor in the corner by the piano. The outer walls and a few supporting pillars were left, but the apartment seemed bleak, exposed to raging winter winds. He shivered. Soon it will be spring, he thought, but who knows, maybe spring won’t come this year, winter might go on forever, orbiting around itself … The persistent pounding penetrated his stomach and head now, and he let it in, a little top-heavy, but he had a job to do, he had been sent for a purpose; wake up, shake an arm or a leg, show you’re alive, but first, rest here, unwind from your rigorous journey, let yourself go a little, who knows, maybe now at last, but he was tight as a fist from head to toe; and he leaned against the wall, yielding to the hammer blows, to their dull reverberation inside him, and he realized that this wasn’t it either; the hammering was loud, true, but it didn’t sound right somehow, it lacked spirit, maybe Papa wasn’t up to more than that, too bad, too bad, and he shut his eyes, sliding down the wall, taking a breather; let’s see now, where were we, this Saturday the Jerusalem Hapoel team is playing Hapoel Haifa and he bet 2—0, but now he regrets his betrayal of the home team, he should have betat least a tie score, and in tomorrow’s paper the winners of the Blueband contest will be announced, and he sent in ten wrappers; he dozes, organizing next week’s missions in his head: to snatch three pounds out of Mama’s wallet again and buy a lottery ticket, how come he never even won the small purse, or at least let him find the white Valiant, license number 327—933, that was stolen in Jerusalem, or the German shepherd with the brown collar who answers to the name of Flash, generous reward for the honest finder, that would be okay too, and in the afternoon paper it said Coca-Cola will be opening a plant in Israel this year, maybe they’ll have a contest for a Hebrew slogan, how about “From Dan to Elat, Coca-Cola hits the spot,” though maybe he wouldn’t have to wait that long if he won the lottery first, or the Toto, or even the “Find the Seven Differences”; he was getting closer all the time, he could feel it in his bones, why, one of his letters or postcards or bottle caps or Popsicle sticks had probably just arrived at the editor’s desk or at the factory where the boss opens the envelope and reads the entry, and a wide grin spreads over his face, his gold tooth positively gleams with joy, and he stands up and beckons the workers; they leave their cumbersome machines that go up and down, pounding, groaning. “Folks, we have a winner!” shouts the boss, jumping on his big black top hat, crushing it in jubilation. At long last, somebody’s found the answer! It’s incredible! Like a ray of light straight to the core of the problem! We have been redeemed!” And the workers return to the production line, their voices lifting in a mighty song, and the machines steam up, shooting sparks through their pistons, flamboyant fireworks in the air. Aron trembled, he thought he heard a scream in his ear, he opened his eyes, looked around; Papa was still pounding down the hall, boom, groan, boom, groan, but Aron could no longer believe, and he knew he had missed a unique opportunity.

  But it really was a scream. Mama was calling him from down the stairs. He had completely forgotten his errand. How could he stop Papa in the middle? Mama yelled his name again. God knows what the urgent thing whoever it was had called about. Mama did turn white as a wall. She did clutch her heart. Aron shuddered: maybe Grandma was dead.

  He let out a whimper of grief: His own dear grandma—how … but … it can’t be … and then quickly restrained himself; yes, when it comes it comes, the will of heaven, here today, gone tomorrow, he mumbled as if in prayer, but deep inside he felt a disagreeable chill.And you, what did you ever do for Grandma? Me? I spent loads of time with her. Oh sure, in the beginning, when it was all new and exciting. And I took her clothes and her shoes and her braid out of the trash bin and hid them in the furnace room. Traitor, deserter, did you once ask Yochi to take you there? Well no, but I thought of going, I even had a little present for her: a little red mirror. Right, presents you’re good at, and writing sentimental cards to go with them, but when it comes to action, you’re as bad as the others, you traitor, you lousy traitor. Some such muttering went on inside him, though both the plaintiff and the defendant were hollow, false, and what he was really thinking about was the beard Papa would have to grow during the seven days of mourning.

  Sudden blasts resounded. Papa stopped what he was doing and listened to the clouds, ready to answer them, to send them back to the four winds. But the blasts came not from the sky but from the door. He veered around in amazement and wiped the sweat from his brow. His eyes were filled with bloody froth. Then he noticed Aron and wasn’t even startled.

  “Aron!” boomed Mama outside the door. “Tell him to come out here right away!” Aron gazed questioningly up at Papa.

  “I know you’re in there, Aron! Tell him to come home immediately! Because I wouldn’t go in there if my life depended on itl”

  Papa looked at Edna Bloom, but she seemed to have lost all touch with her surroundings, and was rocking back and forth with her eyes shut tight, to the rhythm of an imaginary hammer. He crossed to Aron. What did she want now? Aron shrugged. Papa grumbled again. At Edna Bloom’s, his voice sounded gravelly, as though he hadn’t used it for a long time. Impatiently he glanced at the pyramid of bricks awaiting him at the far end of the shattered wall. Then he instructed Aron to put his hammer in the bathtub and turned to go. Aron grasped the heavy tool. Something stirred inside him, inside his head. A barely audible hissing sound. How could Papa lift a thing this heavy? Edna Bloom woke out of her stupor and watched him, waiting to see what he would do. Aron cast a bewildered glance around the room and noticed the dismantled doors, stacked against each other like a giant deck of cards; he tore himself away and headed for the bathroom. He trudged down the hallway looking out for mounds of rubble, carefully stepping over the torn remains of a picture showing a kindly outstretched arm. Ednastood up to watch him. Slowly she shook her crimson head from left to right. One blow, just one, thought Aron, struggling with the heavy hammer, with the piercing hiss of mockery. Papa will be glad I finished the job for him, he said, trying to swing the hammer over his head. Tsss tsss tsss.But Mama, he thought. He dropped it heavily in the broken tub. Edna went on shaking her head like a metronome as he passed her with downcast eyes on his way out the door. At home he heard the news from Mama.

  24

  When Mama heard that Papa was going back to tear out the tiles at Edna Bloom’s, she announced her intention of supervising the job. Once more the gloomy procession wound its way from Entrance B to Entrance A, with Mama in the lead, lofty and imposing in a turquoise sheath; she had wisely ruled out the brown cassock of the first visit on the grounds that it was too austere; she tried on and eventually decided against the checkered jersey, which, though respectable enough, created an ill-advised impression of severity; the bottle green was out because under the circumstances it might appear too frivolous, too gay; in the end she opted for the turquoise sheath, because it was sufficiently respectable but had softer lines that emphasized her bosom and rippled over her ample thighs, calling to mind the children tugging at it long ago; thus dressed, she marched up the stairs, clutching her knitting bag under her arm, jutting her chin out like Ben-Gurion.

  Edna opened the door for her and slinked off like an ailing cat. When Mama set eyes on the islands of debris, all the color drained from her face. Only now did she grasp the extent of the damage. Such wreckage, such excess, called for retribution, demanded a victim. In a flash she understood that this was no
longer the concern of three individuals but that a mighty struggle was in progress here between the forces of chaos and order civilization and insanity. Dauntless, copper-faced, she stamped over the ruins, enthroned herself on one of the torn leather armchairs, and crossed her arms over her bosom.

  “Begin,” she said to Papa.

  Edna Bloom, wearing a hollow expression, did not interrupt the ceremony. She walked in from the kitchen bearing a goodly tray with Papa’s second lunch. Papa looked from her to Mama. An hour and forty minutes ago at home he had polished off a plate of pupiklach drowning in gravy, vegetable soup Moroccan-style, a thick slice of turkey in curry sauce garnished with tawny onion rings, and a generous helping of rice; only Mama knew the rice should have been served with piñones, but that stinking one-armed vendor from the spice shop in the arket charged such a price, to hell with him; and for dessert, homemade applesauce with the peels removed. Now she inspected the regal feast that Edna Bloom was serving him. Papa pulled up his usual chair aNd, fixing his eyes on Mama with a little gasp, proceeded to tuck in.

  He devoured the first course of eggplant in tomato sauce glistening with pearly garlic cloves; he lapped up the creamy onion soup with the crispy croutons on top; he feasted on succulent tongue of veal, seasoned Hngarian-style and flanked by heaping mounds of rice studded with piñones.

  e dined in silence, his great jaws occupied with course after course. Mama watched him with a new look of empathy and wonder. She had never believed there was love between him and What’s-her-name; in fact, she didn’t really believe in love at all. What’s love anyway, she once said to Yochi, a moment or two in a lifetime of putting up with another person’s craziness. Now she was beginning to appreciate the earthier dimensions of Papa’s victim. Edna brought in the dessert: stewed fruit, a glass of orange juice, and a square of Splendid chocolate, and Papa ate, and wiped his lips on a lily-white napkin with a wooden ring around it, and cleaned his teeth with a fine little toothpick, concealing his mouth behind his hand—he forgets where I found him, you’d think at his mother’s they ate off Rosenthal—and, finally, belched, quickly excused himself, and returned to the job.

  Wielding a small-sized hammer and chisel, he set about removing the floor in what used to be the hallway at Edna Bloom’s; he cracked the tiles like so many eggshells, working slowly with an air of doom: while he was tearing down the walls it was a comfort to imagine something growing here, gestating in the stone; but as he pulled out the tiles, formerly overlaid with brightly colored carpets—which Edna sold to the rag man for money to pay Mama and to buy the food she sacrificedto Papa—the nubbly concrete exposed underneath, the rusty rods, and especially the stratum of sand below them, gave off a gloomy chill. Papa tapped and uprooted and slowly excavated the floor as Edna sat gaping at him, nodding her head and humming in a monotone.

  Solemnly Mama picked up her needles and plied them uninterruptedly throughout the ensuing days of Papa’s labors, knitting her surroundings into the fabric that soon became a woolly gray sweater; even when clouds of dust blew up she restrained herself from coughing. At last she realized how badly her rival was beating her, how cunningly she had laid bare that which Mama tried so hard to cover up over nineteen years of marriage.

  Next morning, as she hung the winter quilts out the windows to air before putting them in storage, Mama caught sight of two rugged-looking movers hauling Edna’s dusty black Bechstein piano. A number of neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk to watch: Sophie and Peretz Atias, Felix and Zlateh Botenero, Avigdor Kaminer, who seemed to have perked up a bit since the death of his wife and even started dyeing his hair. When they noticed Mama looking down, they angrily turned away: they knew it was Mama’s greed that had made Edna sell her piano. But another thought had occurred to them too, that she was selling the expensive instrument because there was no room left for it in her little apartment.

  It had been the only piano in the building, the only one on the block perhaps. And though Edna had played it no more than once or twice in the past few years, there were some among them who could still remember the occasion of its arrival here, and how Edna would practice a little Chopin in the afternoon sometimes. Mama had backed away when she saw them glaring at her, and now she reappeared in the window in all her majesty, shaking out the quilts with lofty indifference. But suddenly she too was seized with sadness. She stopped what she was doing and wadded up the rag in her hands as though to salute a passing coffin. She too, in those bygone days, had sometimes paused to listen, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Sighing. When the movers drove off, the neighbors bowed their heads a moment, and a shiver of woe passed through the building.

  And in the midst of all this, Grandma appeared. For months she had lain immobile, till the elderly doctor who suggested a new treatment the year before broached the subject again to Yochi one evening as shesat beside Grandma at the hospital; the doctor had been watching Yochi take care of Grandma for quite some time. Now he showed her Grandma’s records. What a shame, he said in his broken voice, and waited for an answer as her childish blue eyes stared down at the floor. How he must suffer, thought Yochi, with his voice cracking every minute. “Your grandmother could go on living,” he whispered again, and Yochi thought, He certainly doesn’t look like someone who chops people up for diploma practice. She said she needed time to decide, and pondered the dilemma without consulting anyone. A few days later she told him she simply didn’t have the strength to make a life-or-death decision. Let him decide and she would hope for the best. And the following day the doctor wheeled Grandma to surgery and did the deed: he cut a tiny drainage canal in her brain; the fog lifted, and one week later Grandma Lilly blinked an eye, sat up, and smiled, and when they showed her how, she started to walk again.

  It was truly wonderful, but terrible too. Grandma was home, but no one dared to look at her—they were ashamed of leaving her like that, like a dog, alone in the hospital, but they were also ashamed of having seen her in such a pitiful state, of having handled her body as if it were their own. Mama gasped, remembering the things she had divulged while Grandma was ill. She blamed it on Papa, on the banging at Edna’s, it had shocked the foundations of order and reason, he’d raised the dead with his boom boom boom, and she bit her fingers with an anxious glance at Aron, as the three of them grasped what Mama would never acknowledge: that the family accounts with Fate were a mess; the letters had been switched.

  Grandma came home by taxi. Papa went to fetch her at the hospital, stuffed respectfully into his only suit, the fusty one from his wedding day, and he had to breathe carefully not to pop the buttons on his barrel chest. Mama served coffee and a fallen torte, and they all sat frozenly around her, afraid to open their mouths. Grandma regarded them with her seeing eye, and the crooked new expression on her face looked sharp, disdainful. Her eye roved to the new buffet, the recently painted walls. “Remember, Mamchu, remember the mildew and the stains on the ceiling,” Mama gushed, “you were still here the time we had the leak from the sink upstairs at the Boteneros’, weren’t you?” A bitter smile floated over Grandma’s lips. Mama tormented herself for having trusted Grandma even on her deathbed. Still Grandma saidnothing and they couldn’t tell whether she knew how to talk or not. The whole left side of her body was paralyzed, but her face was barely wrinkled at all, as though she’d been living in a state of suspended animation beyond the ravages of time. One lid drooped over her eye, and from the side she looked like a fortune-telling gypsy. When Papa started cracking his knuckles she turned to him with amazing speed and he froze under her gaze. Mutely she examined the armature of his body, the new might of its bulwarks, and right away she knew everything, as though someone had whispered the story in her ear. There was no doubt that she knew. Slowly she turned to Mama and transfixed her with a long, apocalyptic stare, which only Mama understood.

  Then she turned to Yochi. She stripped her naked with her eye and embossed a design of wasted youth. Yochi squirmed. Mama smiled encouragingly and whispered, “This is Yoc
hi, Mamchu, you remember Yochi. She’ll be graduating from high school soon, she’ll get a deferment from the army and go to the university! Maybe she’ll be a doctor someday, a doctor!” Yochi didn’t even bother to protest. Grandma’s eye twinkled. Maybe she remembered something, a special moment out of her many hours in Yochi’s care. She smiled at her. Yochi wept softly, not bothering to wipe her eyes. Mama held out a handkerchief, but Yochi ignored her outstretched hand. The tears welled in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks, onto the chair and the carpet, and Mama watched in deep amazement, thrusting the handkerchief in Yochi’s face. “Enough already, nu, you’ll cause a flood, wipe your tears now, aren’t we happy to have Grandma home,” and Aron peeped at the tiny drops: what if Yochi went on crying forever, till her tears became a trickle, then a stream, then a mighty waterway coursing over the floor in search of Mama …

  Then Grandma turned to Aron. Astonishment spread over her face, and her mouth skewed up inquiringly. Mama, Papa, and Yochi hung their heads. She seemed to be trying to say his name. They all looked up, surprised, hopeful. God Almighty. Aron’s hands were sweating. He remembered the golden thread she had given him once. Maybe now she’ll give me the real present, he thought. Grandma Lilly wagged her head, shaking off forgetfulness, fatigue. Her face turned sallow with effort and frustration. Aron sank back in his chair.

  That day Papa didn’t go to work at Edna Bloom’s. Maybe Mama’s accusation worked and now he was frightened of himself. After theyput Grandma to bed in her alcove, Papa tiptoed around the house, and Aron tried to stay out of his way. With Papa in the house, even the door frames and the furniture, everything looked tiny around him, and Aron reckoned the days that had passed and knew only a miracle would save them now; something had to happen, one way or another, it had to, he was about to explode: the food he swallowed in tiny bitefuls clogged up his stomach, and how long would his heart be able to pump with all that mush inside him, it did seem to be beating more sluggishly of late, he had actually noticed that, maybe food particles were filtering into his bloodstream, congesting the chambers, the auricles and the ventricles; Aron could picture it clearly: the atrium, a muscular pouch, filling up with liquid food, and his heart struggling to pump it, barely able to contract, it was so glutted with goop; and all night long he tosses and turns, burping those little burps that burn and smell like rotten eggs, and next his throat will fill up and push out his Adam’s apple, and then the stuff will ooze into his face, and his cheeks will balloon, he’ll look like a freak, and from there it will pass into his brain, and then he’ll blow up, then they’ll really have a mess on their hands.