The Book of Intimate Grammar

by David Grossman

  He jumped up, forgetting they might see him, and ran with a pounding heart all the way to Memorial Park, but here too there were groans and whispers and sucking sounds; where could he run now, where could he rest awhile and understand his mounting fear, how long would they go on dancing up there; again he stumbled back toward the building project, beating his temples with his fists to silence them, it’s nothing,it couldn’t be, it’s all in your mind; he could hear the music from afar, Mama was dancing too. Who with? Whose arm was holding her, whose masterful hand was guiding her to the beat like a fish through water. Hello, hello, he whispered from his hiding place, what are you doing, what have you done, you already have a girl and boy, right? But there’s no answer, no answer, muttered Aron to himself, retreating half asleep, hungrily drifting through the drowsy streets; no matter how he tried, there was still no answer; why this anger, why this hatred, hadn’t he been trying his level best for the past three years, sitting for hours in front of a faucet that dripped once every second, he thought that would have an effect, collecting cigarette butts in the street and smoking them secretly in the bomb shelter, breathing in and out through his nose so the smoke would get in and make him sneeze so hard it would jolt it; and he would go to building sites and open his mouth and inner self when they dynamited the rocks, and once he swiped a huge magnet from the science lab at school and slept with it under his pillow all night, though he knew it could cause terrible damage, what if the good came out with the bad in one big hodgepodge, did he have a choice, and nothing happened; it was enough to drive you crazy, so near and yet so far, a fat little mound with a drooping eye in the middle and pouting lips, and little warts all over, the memory center and the laughter center and the speech center and the sports center, and maybe there’s a love center and a happiness center too, glued to it, dependent on it alone; now we will hurt this mound, we will injure this gland, this Hitler, we will stick pins in the veins of our hands and feet, ice on the jugular, you won’t get any blood or any air, a total blockade; he put his hands around his neck and choked himself for thirty seconds, forty seconds, forty-five seconds, black circles whirled around in his head, dark birds, wake up, bitch, wandering around the house with an upturned lid; granules penetrate it. Infection. Pus. He smeared a drop of nail-polish remover inside his nose and screamed when the burning started. But he didn’t give up, how could he, this was life or death.

  A week has gone by since Independence Day and they’re still not home from camp, where are they; he poked little things into his wounded nose: a tiny piece of dough with a Trojan horse of yeast inside it and a note with the ineffable Name, like the Golem of Prague, and nothing. Please, wake up, give a sign of life, say that someday everythingwill work out. Even if it’s ten years from now, I don’t care, just let it work out okay in the end. He wrote with his finger in the sand, in the air, he didn’t care that people were staring, he wrote begging letters, appealing to its common sense, and what did it answer, nothing, it ignored him. So he had no choice, he sat down and wrote out a vicious threat, cutting out the black letters from the obituary notices, It shall be neither mine nor thine.His hand trembled as he folded the paper into a tiny ball and pushed it up his nostril with a matchstick, ten times at least the gland tossed it back to him with a sneeze, till he managed to push it in beyond the sneeze line, and for three days now the letter had been carried upward by a courier or the shadow of a courier, or a child, white and pure and tiny, running with the letter in his hand, winding in and out of the nasal cavities, onward, onward. Aron to Aron, where are you now, over; Aron to Aron, still far away, over; and so day in day out, whether he was walking in the street or sleeping or eating supper or Aroning, inside him burned an ember with a little dancer and a green-eyed boy whose ears were pointed with seriousness and responsibility, and Aron was with them too, three friends, three in one, quietly planning how to salvage the one, and meanwhile, the misty courier crosses the white plain, the ossified reticulation in the forehead, and works his way upward, over a scaffolding of bones and pipes and cords, and suddenly stops in fear: before him, all alone in a red-black sea of cool clotting blood, floated a large marble egg, or was it a pale-yellow coral, forsaken, full of fissures, covered in a frosty film. Aron to Aron, how will I cross the sea, over; Aron to Aron, an anonymous paper boat is waiting at the dock to take you, over. A misty boy floats in a paper boat, rows quietly across, careful not to wake the Cyclopean eye in the middle of the fatty mound on top of the coral, and the sea is thick, its tides slow and lazy, and before the boat lies the sleeping coral, and coming closer he can see it was swollen, yellow, you could scarcely feel it breathing, and the three-in-one awaited the news, silently cheered him on with the loveliest, purest words in the world, putting their heads together, fusing into each other, never to part; they have a single language, rings of warmth spread out from them to his stomach, to his legs, and in birds’ nests lined with colorful fluff lie the invalids, squeaking through their gaping mouths at Aron the savior; today’s atrivals are “longing” and “wandering” and “heron” and “diamond” and “autumn” and “lonely” and “a purple scarf” and “beauty unadorned”and “Jerusalem of gold,” all culled from the Hit Parade on the radio, an excellent source of words; in the middle there was news, Nasser Kasser Basser Yasser, and later that afternoon he would be releasing “lamb” and “twilight” and “train” and “midnight” and “kiss me by the sea” from that pretty new song, so he must send them off with supplies for the journey, three squares of friendship sugar and a spoonful of royal jelly, and he opens the jar of sour cream and licks off the buttery coating; Mama was standing behind him but she didn’t say a word, she saw he opened her refrigerator without permission, but she watched in silence, she wouldn’t dare say anything now. He crosses to the sink. Turns the tap. Turns it some more. Her eyes bore into the back of his neck. He doesn’t turn it off. Stomps away; the water gushes, splashing him as far as the pantry. There’s a tap in the bathroom too. And a flushing toilet. The water comes from far away, from deep wells and vast cisterns, and electricity reaches us from distant cataracts, and whirlpools and rushing rivers, and gas to cook the chicken soup with noodles gushes out of the earth, in the beginning there was tohubohu, he runs his finger over the gas switch, he can feel a giant rig boring into the sea, into the ground, he hears a high-pitched whistle, and sniffs a pungent smell, and the spirit of God hovered over the face of the waters; slowly he walked out of the kitchen, directly in front of her staring eyes, and a mighty stream of water flows, and the courier in the paper boat has secretly reached the shores of the coral island, tied his boat to a blighted bush. Aron to Aron, have reached shore, am on my way, over; Aron to Aron, what do you see there, over; silence. The only sound coming through is the sound of his astonished breathing. Aron to Aron, I repeat, what do you see, what is it like, tell me, tell me, over; silence; and the tender boy, misty and white, fades out as he slithers over the chilly ash-or-frost-dabbled earth, creeping cautiously over the crimpled terrain and the pearly-gray craters. Aron to Aron, you wouldn’t believe how horrible it is here, over; Aron to Aron, I hear you, over. And a little boy crawls through crevices and crannies with a black letter in his hand, and withered bushes scratch his face and crumble at his touch; once everything was full of life here, the bushes flowered and thrived, there were four flowing rivers, blue and clear, he had original ideas, innovations, children enjoyed them. Where am I today and where are they, thinks Aron, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, there are no children here, they all stayed to fill in the dwindling ranks for theharvesting or reaping or gathering or gleaning or whatever, and at night they sit around the campfire, singing to the strains of the accordion, and there was only one important question left, namely, was Gideon still loyal, was he still waiting for Aron, and the courier presses on in silence, his eyes open wide, and he ran his grief-stunned hand over memories and sights and reflections and laughter now gray and musty as withered fruit, the Aron it had cursed and turned to stone b
y growing over his life and stifling it; and suddenly the ember in his stomach glowed with a soft red light that spread through his limbs, warming him inside, trickling down to his feet. An idea, an idea, he had an idea, eureka, we’re saved, ideas were coming out of his new place now. Aron to Aron, an urgent message: pick up everything you can, do you read me, over? Aron to Aron, message unclear, repeat, over; Aron to Aron, collect whatever you can and smuggle it back here on the double, everything must go, remove it and evacuate, over and out; and Aron jumped from his bed, bewildered, why hadn’t he thought of it sooner; and now we have to help him, muster our forces, call up the reserves, the volunteers and the civil guard, and declare emergency measures; the windows were crisscrossed with black masking tape already, Mama and Papa did that yesterday while he lay abed watching them divide the sky into squares; that’s how life prisoners see the world, but he would escape, he would slip out of his cell and break through the siege, through the naval blockade, the fire brigade, the bire frigade, he ran back to the kitchen, the taps were closed and Mama was staring into the open refrigerator, holding two bottles of milk, weighing them in her hands, and suddenly she sensed him there, she veered around and let out a scream, an unidentified expression appearing on her face; Aron stares at her, perceives a primitive stratum, and freezes, shocked; who is she, who is she, reaches into his pocket, and Mama recoils as if he were about to pull out a knife; he gropes in his pocket and doesn’t find it, though he understands well enough without the onion, it’s flickering at him, out of the depths of her Cain-like guilt, a needle of rage and retribution. It’s all your fault, said the onion, you brought it on us, you have only yourself to blame for what happened between me and Papa, and he drew back from the animal look in her eyes, farther and farther back, his hands flying out behind him to keep from bumping into anything, he could knock something over, now let’s see how fast you catch. He bumped into the wall and stopped. Get out, he shouted,moving toward her, get out of here right now, and she retreated, not looking at him, yes, suddenly he saw: she couldn’t look at him. Or maybe she could, and now she did, so what did it mean, groping her way backward. Aron, Aron, come back and be yourself again, she murmured; her voice, she was afraid of him now, let her say more: Aron, I’m asking you, I’m afraid but I’m also worried, what’s become of you lately; if only she would go on looking at him, but she looked away, she did, what could he do to make her look at him again, how would he make her give him that long, deep gaze she used for calming him and winning his forgiveness, now he would really shock her; Eef you vant to be a bradher,he nearly screamed at her, though he didn’t dare, how could she help but guess what was frightening him, when once, before the problems started and her heart was open and quivering to him, he had a horrible dream about her and the whole next morning he could barely look at her, he was so frightened and remorseful, and she guessed, naturally, and sat him down on the edge of the bathtub and said, You dreamed something, didn’t you, and he nodded. Something bad? Yes. And she tilted his chin back and peered into him, through his eyes, and rolled herself inside like a little ball, and washed through him like a storm, through the caves and crevices in him, and came out again and sat facing him like before, only now she was panting; You dreamed I was dead, tfu tfu tfu, and now everything is all right again and I forgive you, and he snuggled up and cried and cried till all the knots came out of him; she knew how to save him, it was easy for her; but don’t you see, she’s trying now too, her eyes transfixed him, her lips suddenly trembled, searching for the words in her mouth to save him. They’ll put you in the crazy house if you don’t start being yourself again, Aron, she implored in a whisper, and in her throat, or was it his, he felt the stab, the spears of all the tears she had swallowed. Ice baths they’ll give you there; he knew: it was her love talking; he listened for the tumult in her voice riding the crest of a tidal wave of tears. Electric shocks they’ll give you there, Aron, and only he and she understand this language, and if not for the pillar of tears Aron and she would be drowning all the time, in a never-ending, a primal scream. And I suggest you get hold of yourself while it’s still possible; but why doesn’t she look at him, who is she protecting, it can drive you crazy, but she has been looking into him, clasping the two milk bottles. Maybe I’ve made some mistakes too, she whispered, we’re all a little tense thesedays, with Yochi going into the army and the military situation, and you’re not so easy to get along with either, you know, maybe you are a special child like everyone says, with your brains and your talent, kineahora, and maybe we’re not smart or educated enough to understand what’s happening to you, Aron, and we haven’t read books or studied in the university, but what, you think I don’t worry about it all the time, and even though your papa never had a father himself and doesn’t know how to be a father and makes mistakes sometimes, and I grew up without parents for most of my life too, we try; so why wasn’t she looking at him again, she remembered suddenly and looked away. And you know we’re only thinking of your good, don’t you, even when we get angry at you, what do we have in this world but you and Yochi. Oh please, let her say it again, let her swear it on the Bible, and now both eyes are definitely on him, big and open wide, swallowing him in; so what’s real, what’s true, let her say it already, let her say definitively, is she or isn’t she, and everything will stop and he’ll relax, and she continued looking at him, taking him in, her arms going out to him, and he too went toward her, everything collapsed inside, but at the last second before he fell into the whirlpool his hands fluttered at his sides and flew out at her and struck the bottles hard; he knew she’d catch them, though, he simply had to do it before the reconciliation, her eyes already promised she would catch them easily, so what did he need this for, and he continued to bellow and lash out at her, blind with rage and humiliation, at her, at himself, and the milk flowed out, all over her body, milk and broken glass, and he pushed her and pushed her: Get out, get out of here, whore, spitting and screaming, and he returned to the refrigerator and stuffed his mouth full of sour cream, and halvah by the handful, to fortify his new place, to defend it and expand it, there was a lot of work to do. Aron to Aron, what have you found, over.

  32

  The evil Cyclopean eye. Fixed half-open on the pale child, the silent child burrowing frantically in the lifeless earth. He digs with his fingers, throwing anxious glances over his shoulder at the immovable eye. Is it watching him? Far in the distance the wind is wailing, ululating, and the child, white as a leper, cracks his nails on the stony clods. He is a misty child, the child in the formaldehyde, who for three or four years has been banging his head against the glass, blinking at his fellow in the neighboring jar, or is it his own reflection, nebulous, like absence, like a cloudy human fetus slowly disintegrating; but not Aron, oh no, Aron will fight, he will find new life, a land of the living, he will flee the solitary and deserted land inside his brain; but the eyes of his fellow fetus start to flutter, the filmy lids on his polliwog eyes conceal a wan, ironic smile. Aron to Aron, hurry, hurry, over; and in the room next door Mama is blowing her nose with all her might, fearful of him, afraid to come out. Even now you don’t hear crying out of her. And he remembers, he’s been neglecting his tear experiments, the effects of a single grain of salt in the corner of his eye, precisely at what distance from the olive tree in the valley does it start to tear. Aron to Aron, I’ve found something, over; because the coral island puckers around his broken nails: leave it! The bubble ember inside him burns. Jars of formaldehyde float in space with a somber reddish glow. Stillborn fetuses heave a deathly sigh. Faded umbilical cords swing limply, searching for something to fasten on, to suck. Aron to Aron, what did you find,report at once, over; the leprous child runs through the cracks of the canals, the sorely puckered mounds, pursued by electrical chirring, and in his hands, the slowly flashing beacon light of a diamond, a waking memory, how he used to get lost when he was little, never missed a chance to, at the market, at the seashore, even in the street sometimes he would let go of her
warm hand for a moment to look at something, and suddenly he could no longer see her through the curtain of strangers that intervened, she was carried away from him, but then he would hear her, desperately calling his name, and he would stand there listening to the motherliness that issued forth as if through a secret conch inside her. Never had his name sounded so clear as then, and he wasn’t frightened, wasn’t alarmed, even that time in Tel Aviv when she actually did disappear and someone led him to a policeman, who ruffled his hair and bought him a bottle of orange soda and took him down to the station, where everyone fussed and joked with him, and at just the right moment Mama and Papa walked in together and ran toward him, calling his name in a very special voice, with an animal whimper, and they hugged him with all their might, and he laughed and cried with them, and in his heart he knew he would get lost again at the earliest opportunity, but after that they watched him like a hawk and neither lost nor found him, and today if he went missing the radio announcer would probably say, “And here is his description.” And then he’d know what he looked like to them, because “And here is his description” is uncompromisingly scientific, it tells about you like an automatic glass door. Aron to Aron, load the boat and return to search again, over; Aron to Aron, must I take everything with me? the bad with the good, over; he reflects a moment. Hesitates. I don’t need it all, why should I spoil the new place too? It’s bad enough as it is. But Aron to Aron, you have to take it all. Leave nothing behind. A wholesale exodus. Over and out.