The Book of Intimate Grammar

by David Grossman

  31

  As a matter of fact it took her a week to find out what happened. She ignored him and started preparing for the Independence Day party. Almost a year had passed since she and Papa stopped playing rummy on Friday nights, but it was their turn to give the party this time and she didn’t want their friends to think they’d quit just to get out of it. Aron was furious at her for being so calculating. You call that friendship, he cried when she said she would throw such a grandiose party their eyes would pop. What kind of friendship is that, you hide things from them and want them to be jealous and never talk about anything important. He screamed and stamped his foot, startling Mama, who said with a sideways glance, Oh sure, at your age it’s easy to have friends and be palsy-walsy, but wait till you get to be our age, let’s see what you’re willing or not willing to tell each other then. She didn’t stay around long enough to scoff though, she was too busy cooking and baking for the party and making lists, and it wasn’t till later, a few days before they left for work camp, that something inside her clicked, and even then she only suspected. She asked him indirectly, Where is he, why aren’t you with him? I just don’t feel like it today, I’m a little tired, we ran the thousand in gym class, and she transfixed him with a penetrating stare, not saying anything as yet, but next day she barged into his room while he was sitting on the windowsill, looking out and concentrating with all his might on the sumo trick, you can stop tears that way too, and she yelled at him, What are you doing staring outlike a stone, why aren’t you with him,you used to be thick, the two of you, a knife wouldn’t cut between you, and Aron blurted some lie or other, though he knew her brain was already at work, and the following evening, when Gideon and Yaeli had left, cleared out, skedaddled, she suddenly understood; Aron was lying on his bed just then, staring at the ceiling, and she walked into the room and started pacing around him without a word, you could hear it fizzling inside her, and he waited patiently on his bed. Would you mind telling me where he is, that friend of yours? she finally asked through zippered lips, so it wouldn’t burst out of her all at once. The two of you used to be tight as a tuchis, what’s going on, I’d like to know, and Aron took a deep breath and told her quietly, casually, as though he hadn’t just boiled half a cup of stinking oil and drunk it down to feel the Yaeli place in his stomach again. So how long have they gone for? she whispered, her lips turning white and her face sinking under the ash of defeat, Oh, five or six days, he answered voicelessly, and saw how like an avalanche the zap in her heart began. From love and concern, he thought, raising his hand to cover his face, though she wasn’t going to hit him, she merely stumbled backward, her eyes gaping at something in him she’d refused to acknowledge up to now, and then she shut herself in her room, and when Papa came home she called him in and they stayed in for a whole hour, and when they emerged at last they wouldn’t look at him, and for the last two days she’d been running around like crazy, hardly troubling with the party at all; twice now when Aron came home and coughed at the door he found her with Papa in the corner of the kitchen, and right away he sensed there was something going on, this was new, the way they stood there, hugging and kissing with all their might, glued together from top to bottom, so he thought it best to stay out of their sight.

  At five in the afternoon Aron was playing Pelé on the narrow asphalt behind the building, with the legendary George Banks as goalkeeper for the rest of the world, the only obstacle between Aron and the shining trophy on the desk of the head of the Olympic committee. Pelé was having a fairly weak day: the playing field was too narrow for him to use his powers to the fullest, especially his swift charge up the pitch, as if Aron was used to the green lawns of Wembley and Rio. Yet all the same, when they invited him to play the match of the century on this seemingly modest field, in Jerusalem, as it happens, a benefit gamefor Elanshil, the polio foundation, he didn’t hesitate for a moment, to hell with them. He sat down on the stairs and sulked, and when that didn’t work he groaned and hugged the ball, sinking into himself. He stayed like this for a couple of minutes until the wave subsided. A standard soccer ball. Made of leather, with the faded autographs of the Jerusalem Hapoel team all over it. Papa knew the players personally because of his job at the workers’ council. Every Saturday there were two tickets waiting for them at the box office. Zacky used to come along and stay outside till halftime, when he could get in free and join them in the bleachers. And how the fans roared whenever Ben Rimozh scored. How they swore at the referee’s mother, and the vapors of their sweat condensed in the air, and from under the stands came the reek of urine, and the men rose up and sat down in a body screaming, “The ref is a son-of-a-bitch, the ref is a son-of-a-bitch,” and Aron went up and down with them, chanting inwardly, “The chef is a son-of-a-bee,” because what did the referee’s mother have to do with anything, and Papa sat beside him, sunburned and sweaty, with a big bag of sunflower seeds between his knees, spitting out shells, roaring with the crowd, and quickly winking at Aron and Zacky: Don’t worry, fellas, it’s all in fun, huh? Whuh? And now a hush fell, as though there were no one in the building. As though the city’d been evacuated. The children were gone. Someone came and led them away, playing a pipe only children that age can hear. Again without noticing it he began to slap his kneecap nervously. It would be interesting to know what Papa did with the other ticket since Aron stopped going to the games with him. Nobody talked about that either. Only silence. Again he slapped his kneecap and suddenly lurched out and charged, dribbling the ball from left field, with the entire defense of the rest of the world after him, and the ball practically glued to his foot, in a continuum of motion; never looking back, because they were running behind him, trying to catch up, surrounded by frightened, angry faces; everyone was avoiding him, even Yochi disappeared all day and came home only late at night, when everyone was in bed. Where did she wander, he knew she didn’t have a boyfriend or girl friend to be with so long, she was probably walking around, counting the minutes to her army call-up, half a year from now, and what would he do on the eve of Independence Day, where would he be, where would he go; in the old days he used to go to town with Gideon and their classmates, but then he couldn’t stand the crowds andthe noise and the crudeness in the street anymore, he would stay home with Yochi and play Scrabble, going nuts, and this year the three of them had planned to go together, he, Gideon, and Yaeli, to the show downtown and the folk dancing, and now, because of his parents’ party, he couldn’t stay at home either, so he had to make plans, to think of a hideout; if only he could do something with Yochi, but where was Yochi, where was he, everything was falling apart, and last night he had that dream again, better not think—suddenly he veered around, only a fool lets himself be lulled to sleep by such sad concerns, and skipping lightly over their outstretched legs, he twirled like a dancer, and the crowd went wild. Lithely juggling just for the fun of it, to break the monotony, to thumb his nose at the human race, and he ran around the mound of bricks and plaster and broken tiles left there two months ago, exchanged a pass with Atias’s gas canister, lost the ball, caught it, tussled with the forwards on the rival team, their furious jaws snapping behind him as he streaked across the lawn and positioned himself in place to kick a goal with a spin to the left, but alas, too hard, too high, maybe he was wearing his jinxed shoes, excuses, excuses, and meanwhile, as the coach, Sir Alf Ramsey, calls the players in for a briefing, Aron dribbles with his famous left, concentrating on the automatic hop-hop, dribble-dribble; “dribble” is a wonderful word; and there’s something else he doesn’t understand, but who can he ask, it’s about anger, their anger at him; he dribbles precisely, he’s good at that, once he held the school record for dribbling, thirty-seven times with heading and shouldering, now it’s working because of the word, dribble, dribble, hopping inside him like a tiny frog, ribble, ribble,their anger at him, why, their contempt, even; to some extent, their hatred; he needs his ball now, he hugs it to his stomach with all his might, he’ll never surrender, never, and break dow
n here in front of a million spectators, but why their anger, that’s the interesting question. So who do you want us to be angry at, smarty, who do you want us to blame? Oh right, I forgot: it’s everyone for himself, like rats on an interminably sinking ship, but you do love me, don’t you, we’re such a loving family, not like the Sephardim or the goyim or the Arabers, who don’t care if their children play in the middle of the traffic; no, you always look after me, you’re always there to tell me, Dress warmly, button your top button, eat, eat, look both ways before crossing, and don’t talk to strangers, so why are you acting like that. Like what? Giving up on meso easily. Without a struggle. And then he stormed ahead, in fear, because the words came out so clearly, and he feinted forward and kicked the ball through the opponents’ goal posts, and gave an overly jubilant cheer, even went down on his knees and crossed himself secretly like the goyishe players do, what did he care, we aren’t any better than the goyim, but then he realized that he’d missed the goal, and noted inwardly that he was having a weak day, an off day; Pelé, the black diamond.

  And very slowly—he was familiar with this process, the heart contracts before the mind catches on—the answer came to him that maybe there’s something in the brain like, say, a soccer center, which was closing up on him for some reason, and he checked himself again, with tremulous composure, noting that there did seem to be some deterioration in the brain center for triangle kicks, and he conducted several more experiments, double-passing with the Atiases’ and Kaminers’ gas canisters, only to discover that he was off in his estimate of the bounce, and he was astonished that in the midst of a war his brain should find time to harass him with something so trivial, and he headed for the stairs, concealing his temporary weakness from the fans.

  He sat down, calmed himself. Pounded his kneecap nervously. A lubberly piece of flesh. Come on, get up, play another game, a corrective one, but he didn’t have the strength for it. I’m on the bench, second string. It’s five-thirty already. Where are they—by now they’ve finished working in the fields and croplands, or in the barns and silos, with the plowing and the gathering, the mowing and the grape picking. He never could remember which came when. And they’d all go in to shower together, Aron among them; he would approach the leader and gravely show him the sore on his foot which prevented him from getting his body wet for the duration of work camp, either in the public shower or the swimming pool or water tower. But there were other ways; for instance, he could say he was allergic to the chlorine, it made him break out in ghastly hives, or he could fracture his arm again, like he did last summer in defiance of the trip to Tel Aviv, yes, there goes Aron, strolling through the kibbutz, his arm in a sling, a mere broken arm couldn’t keep him from going out with the rest of the class, colorful doodles and scribbles cover the plaster, just like last time he broke his arm, a chart for crossing out the days till the cast comes off, words of encouragement and the barely legible autographs of friends on the curve,it isn’t easy to write left-handed on your right arm; and after the shower we go in to eat, you should see how they feed us here, not like at home, here nobody coddles you, unpeeled cucumbers with all the vitamins and the natural taste of earth left in, and at midnight we steal chickens out of the coop, or catch a fat pigeon and wring its neck, ping its peck, ding its deck, with a single twist they wring it, they’re capable of that, you know, already they’re capable of it, they aren’t tortured as he is by dreams of a moth implanted in a sticky web, its antennae twitching accusingly; he slapped his knee, hop to, poor flesh—like if you shine a light in your eye, the pupil contracts in seconds, that’s a reflex too, that too is something Aron can perpetrate against his body; “pupil,” now there’s a word for you, Gideon’s father has a flashlight he uses for his coin collection; he groped in his back pocket, the coin was still there, he’d had it for almost two years now, couldn’t get rid of it, and his knee jerked up and down, what will happen when they come back from work camp and notice his latest chendelach, making his knee jerk over and over. And now they’re probably in the dining hall, it’s self-service, there’s a basin on the table for leftovers, and a groundskeeper and a dairyman, and boots and mustaches, and the children’s home, and they smoke in the shadows so the leader won’t see, and at night they have fun painting each other, but only after the campfire, or after skinny-dipping in the pool, don’t skip that in your thoughts.

  He ran. Ran across the Wizo Nursery School, up Halutz Street and Bialik Street, all the way to the tree-lined house where she lived, and into the yard where the laundry hung, cool sheets that draped around his face, caressing his cheeks as he slashed his way by them, and they let him pass, led him gently from one to the next, as though helping him out of there. It’s no use, child, go home now, there isn’t anyone here for you. Breathless and exhausted he swept through, emerging at last with a frightened backward glance at the armada of sheets billowing in the wind. He pressed his burning face against Yaeli’s window, peeked through the blinds at her little room. It was dark. No Yaeli in there. But even with his eyes closed he knew this room. There was the bed and there was the bureau and there was the closet and there was her desk. And there was the shelf with her doll collection from when she was a little girl. He smiled. And up there, the cardboard box where she kept her collection of fluffy bits of yarn; Aron himself had supplied her with threads from every sweater he had, the orange one with the stars,the brown checkered one, the abadayat sweater from his bar mitzvah; Mama noticed, when she changed the mothballs, that the sweaters were a fraction of a centimeter out of place, and she waylaid him and caught him in the act, she would skin him alive if she ever found him pulling threads out again, she used the same wool over, year after year, was she a Rothschild, no, she was a balebusteh who could knit the old into new, but he risked his life to pull out more threads for Yaeli, even from the green one, his newest, with the big white triangles; he plucked it out and gave it to Yaeli, to hide in her treasury of fluff, like a woolly nest with carousel colors; and in his mind’s eye he saw her messy desk, with the ink spot the shape of an apple, and the clipping from Maariv Magazine for Youthwhich she’d tacked up over it: Love is calling. The flame of love is calling to you. You must love the trembling lips that say it: Love. You must notice little things, a smile that plays upon tender lips. A dreamy gaze. A teardrop hiding a mute and bitter pain.He read through the slats in the blinds, with mouth a-tremble: You must desire to tread this earth in search of its profoundest secrets, the riddles of the night. You must gaze into a young girl’s eyes, ready to feel the warmth of love, though it burns you till you cry out in pain. True love is single-hearted, a great, strong surging of the blood. Tears wrung out of sacred sentiments… He was worried about this last bit of youthful eloquence by our correspondent in Ashkelon, Ziona Kapach, hanging there before his innocent Yaeli’s eyes; what if she wasn’t ready for such a burning love yet, and was tempted by the pretty words into trying something cheap and phony, love isn’t a game, you know, it’s a matter of life and death, you can save a life with love, and maybe Yaeli’s feelings were lighter than his, a little shallower, maybe she wasn’t committed the way he was; oh, if only he could learn from her the wisdom of that lightness of feeling. As he backed away from the window, something touched his head and frightened him: the laundry again. Sleeves and hems hung limply now. The sheets were like empty sails. He walked through with his eyes closed, lost among them, how did Ziona Kapach from Ashkelon learn to speak so true. He wound a shirtsleeve around his hand, a towel, a pillowslip, meandering through this grove of ghosts, drawing profound secrets and tears and sacred sentiments after him, words to be purified inside before he said them aloud, lightheartedly; and he tasted the name of the stranger from Ashkelon, Ziona Kapach. Who was she? Not one of ours, judging by her surname, and he secretly fleshed herout in a shack full of barefoot children wading in the mud and a drunken father, and in the corner of the shack, by the light of a kerosene lamp, sits a slender girl with a serious, delicate face and glasses, writing the profoun
dest secrets of her heart, and suddenly her father comes up and starts beating her and yelling, Get out of here and earn some money, and her mother laments that Ziona doesn’t know how to cook and sew, she has two left hands, who would ever marry her, a blot on the family, and Ziona looks up, entreating, despairing: from whence will her help come, is there anyone in the whole world who can understand her in her loneliness? If only he had the nerve to send her a letter. She would understand him. He could tell her everything, simply, without digressions. And she would read his letter by the light of the kerosene lamp, transported to him out of her life. She would have stayed. Yes. She would never have left him like that. He was frightened. Because of the betrayal. Again he whispered, Yaeli, till he felt the ember spreading circles of warmth inside him. He reached out. He ran his hand over the clothesline with his eyes shut. He grabbed something. He stuck it in his pocket. Ran away. Ran for his life. At the corner of the boulevard he stopped. He ducked into the bushes, took it out of his pocket: her sock. The green-and-red stocking. He sniffed it: the good smell of laundry soap. He inhaled deeply. Good. Good. Everything was good. Then he wrapped the sock around his fist and was amazed: was her heart so small, then? How could such a heart contain the heart of one who tried to win it? Run, get help, go to Mt. Tabor and rescue Yaeli in a daring night raid. But already he knew that he was too weak, he wasn’t what he used to be, so what was he, so who was he, who was the real twin and who was the one who had slyly taken over, because sometimes while he was pissing he would cover his face with a towel and listen to it streaming out with a different sound, a deeper sound, as though it were someone else’s; what did it mean, who was pissing out of him? He stuck the sock in his pocket and began running helter-skelter, awash with sweat, seeking refuge in the crowded shopping center, pretending to be calm, like a normal boy. But they noticed him right away. He was the only child there. He and the barber’s son Binyumin, who leaned against the door of the barbershop and watched him with interest. And Aron hurried by. As if he had somewhere to go. Straighten up so they won’t think you’re a hunchback too on top of everything. Surely Binyumin would hit him now. Now that he was a head taller than Aronhe would get revenge for the beating he’d taken from him way back when. But Binyumin wasn’t thinking about hitting him. He merely watched him and hinted with his eyes: Over there, over there. Where? There. But there’s nothing there. Except Morduch, the blind man. Sitting, moving around. And Aron turned away with his head held high. Mosco the iceman’s cart horse swerved around and looked into his eyes. Aron tried to fight it, to control himself, but his fingers dug deeper and deeper into his pocket, touching the rotten onion strips: on Moshav Aderet a two-headed calf was born, read the horse through the onion strips, and bared its teeth in wild laughter. Aron recoiled and walked blindly by. Someone turned on the loudspeaker in the square, whistles and squeaks filled the air. A song started and suddenly stopped. Remember our names forever. Preparations for Memorial Day. And there was Morduch again. In the exact same place. Muttering over his rusty tin can. The can of Richard Levy corned beef they always took on the yearly school trip. But why was he here looking at Morduch again, wasn’t he going in a different direction? And he quickly strode ahead wearing a troubled expression, following two big guys who were juniors in high school, and one of them who looked like Mickey Zik, Anat Fish’s boyfriend, said in a loud voice: “So anyway, when the other animals saw it was no go they decided to send the rabbit in to show the lion how you do it.” And Aron froze. It was crowded. He took a few more steps.