The Book of Intimate Grammar

by David Grossman

  Breathlessly he studied Gideon’s inscrutable face, alarmed that Gideon had allowed him to become so completely embroiled in his own lies, but he went on delving for new words to offer him, not that words were so important; only Gideon was sitting there, pursing his lips and waiting to see what would happen next. Why wasn’t he talking or lecturing anymore? Why this utter silence? Okay then, he would be silent too, silent like a man. And then, see, this Gideon kid, he’s a born flier, always building model planes, a member of the air force youth battalion, so when the squad commander asks for a volunteer to fly behind enemy lines and rescue the pilot who was shot down—and at this point Gideon might have hinted, indicated by a mere gesture that he was fed up with this pathetic, transparent lie, and Aron would have quit then and there, he would have laughed loudly and told him he was only joshing, goofing around to relieve the tension of the military alert; he had kept the option open the whole time, over the years he had learned pretty well how to maintain his dignity, how to hide the erosion inside, but Gideon didn’t speak, didn’t try to make it any easier for him, he forced him to take it further and further, to the point where it would be almost impossible to retreat with a laugh and a joke, so he sat there with his legs pressed together, watching him with cold, scientificeyes. And then there’s this scene in the movie when Gideon finds his brother in an oasis, and they both swim naked, sure, naked, how else are they supposed to swim? With their clothes on? God, you’re a baby. But you only see them from the back. Right. So what are you saying, the cameraman should close his eyes? Are you embarrassed to take your pants down for half a minute? The kids in our class? What about them? Look out, he thought, Gideon’s bluffing, pretending to be interested, but he isn’t. He’s a stranger already. He’s one of them. And Aron tried to appear calm and innocent, and not to twitch, though he knew he was falling deeper and deeper into Gideon’s trap, but what choice did he have, it was life or death like never before, and just in case, in case there was a minute particle of the real Gideon somewhere, willing to share this moment with him, he said, Who cares about the kids in our class, imagine how jealous of you they’ll be for starring in a movie. Gideon pretended to listen. You could see he was planning to tell everyone that Aron had lost his mind, as if a thing like that could happen in our family. All right, if you insist, we’ll restrict the movie to sixteen and over, but for your information, they won’t let us see the movie then either, or maybe they will, if we promise to close our eyes when that scene comes on, at the grand premiere with the Prime Minister and the President and the air force commander. What are you laughing at, why are you laughing like that? Of course they’ll be there. Now Gideon was laughing to tears. Wiping his eyes, groaning, slapping his thigh. Here was his chance to retreat. To say he was only goofing around. Putting him on. What a gas. But he didn’t have the strength to talk that way. He didn’t have the strength to retreat. He had to see it one more time, in broad daylight with his own eyes. To see what had happened to this body he knew almost as well as his own. And how could he have been fool enough to think Gideon was waiting for him all these years, that he was a friend through and through. What remained of Gideon in the boy here who moved and walked and talked as if he wasn’t afraid of anything; if they dropped him down in the middle of China he would know instinctively how to behave; he bowed his head: it was true. What was left of his Gideon? Even the loyal old Gideon inside him was almost gone by now. A whole bar of chocolate he had to devour, twenty-four squares of friendship-sugar a day to preserve the memory. And from close up it was obvious that Gideon had stoppedtaking the pills: you could see he had made incredible progress: those muscles in his arms, the big strong veins sticking out on his hands, and his voice, it was so deep, and his Adam’s apple bulged, as though the five milligrams of Valium twice a week really had been holding him back all this time. And here you are, making such a big fuss about showing your tuchis on the screen when I’m talking about a grand premiere and Academy Awards and your picture all over the papers; you make me laugh, Gideon, you actually believe I’d pick an actor without making sure he’s right for the part? Suddenly Gideon’s ears pricked up. Not a good sign. Gideon’s sincere, responsible family ears. Sure I’ve seen you, why are you laughing, but that was ages ago, go on, laugh! What are you laughing at? I’m not speaking as a friend now. Forget we’re friends: I’m speaking as a professional. You know what? Don’t show me, okay? Don’t do me any favors. Skip it. Let’s go home. Actually, you go on by yourself. I want to stay here awhile longer. To plan the filming. Who cares about your tuchis.

  But Gideon didn’t budge. He sat on the rock watching Aron with heightened curiosity, like someone waiting for the next performance to begin, though he looked a little surprised, a little cruel too. Aron was appalled to recognize the malice of Gideon’s father’s face in his expression: Gideon was using everything he had. He was unbelievably cool. He was mature. Aron gave up in silence. From the street above they heard a raucous horn. The Lambretta was coming. Zacky Smitanka, thought Aron resentfully, Zacky Smitanka. Once we were friends. Whole chunks of my life have turned white with mildew. So what were you saying? Didn’t you just say something? So will you or won’t you? So are you or aren’t you? Yes or no? Just let me have a quick look, to see if you’re right for the part. Sure I’m serious. Do I look like I’m joking, or what?

  And just then Gideon came round. Or pretended to. Who could tell. Nobody thought, nobody planned it that way. It just sort of happened. Thank God, said Aron, it’s about time. Get behind the rock and strip, and I’ll only peek for a second. As if anyone ever walks down this way. It’s almost dark. For pity’s sake, Gideon, you’re such a baby.

  Slowly Gideon slid off the rock and stood beside him with a sidelong glance. He considered for a minute, straightened up, turned away unhurriedly, and went behind the rock. Please, please, begged Aron inwardly.Never mind the shame and humiliation. The important thing is to see whether it’s yes or no … After that they can all drop dead as far as I’m concerned, they can all drop dead.

  Gideon emerged from behind the rock. He looked at Aron with an unfamiliar expression: goading, disdainful. Then, quite simply, he turned to leave. He was dressed. He hadn’t taken his pants off. He’d been mocking him all along. Aron froze, then flew at him. Gideon started running, running lightly, effortlessly. The distance between them remained the same, no matter how hard Aron ran.

  He pursued him through the valley, amazed to see Gideon so far in the lead, seeming to enjoy the chase, to be merely trying to wear him out and show him how quickly his little legs would tire. They ran in silence for a moment or two, the distance between them never diminishing, around the soccer field, and past the cave, and across the junkyard, circling widely back to the rock, where suddenly Gideon stopped running and veered around, and Aron too came to a standstill, panting and red and goggle-eyed. Gideon’s face wore a puzzling expression: neither masculine nor quite feminine either. As though taking his time about deciding, savoring his right to choose, leisurely and calm even as it crystallized. Then, with a strange lingering movement, he began to pull his pants down, offering Aron a glimpse of that heartrending weft of gloom. Twice, in broad daylight, thought Aron. Gideon’s eyes glinted with the vicious relief of the survivor, it was almost as if he had been eagerly anticipating this performance all along, that he had an impure urge to mingle with the secretion of Aron’s brain. Again he turned to leave, only this time he didn’t bother running, and Aron pounced on him with a bitter scream.

  They grappled on the ground, panting and snorting and groaning, unable to stop. Gideon was tougher than he was, but Aron’s screaming and spitting like a cat were enough to render him powerless. He barely recognized the little animal with the teeth and nails and foaming mouth, tearing into him and puffing his corpse-like breath in his face, as though trying to break his skin so he could merge with what was inside it. Gideon held on to his pants for dear life as Aron struggled to grab them. His strength was giving out, and a sense of resignatio
n, stuporlike, slowly pervaded him. Helplessly Gideon watched as the rabid creature dug his claws into him, pawed his face, mauled his body, and seemed to be fighting for his life, till suddenly he let out a squeal of fear,appealing to him with a forgotten nickname, not Kleinfeld, not Ari, but as their kindergarten teacher used to call him, Neshumeh, little soul; only Aron didn’t answer, maybe he couldn’t hear anymore; he stripped the pants off the sobbing youth, pulled them down to his knees. Looked, examined. Then nodded as his eyes began to dim. Gideon sprawled on the ground, wounded and violated under his gaze. Aron got up and turned away with downcast eyes as Gideon dressed himself, bawling and shrieking, glancing fearfully in Aron’s direction. Then he took a few steps forward, broke into a run, and fled toward the building project.

  Aron stood cringing a moment or so longer. Then, with cautious tread, he set off through the darkened valley, fixing his gaze on a patch of white, a leprous glow in the shadows of dusk. Farther and farther he wandered, away from the building project, from the street noise, the clanking of pots, the crying of children, till at last he arrived and collapsed on the ground, leaning against the refrigerator door. Slowly, as though trying to remember something, he ran a finger up his body, from his feet to his neck and shoulders. Detached from all emotion, he investigated his flesh, tracing the geography of the unfamiliar zone of hell. Then he stood up, pulled the cold door handle, opened the refrigerator, and breathed in the stench. He folded himself into the lower shelf with his legs dangling out and looked up at the spangled sky. Perfect stillness all around, silence as far as the building project. There in the darkness, beyond the ring of light, he felt the whole nation waiting for the first shot, the great jump-off. Who would win and who would lose? How many would die? Which of those he knew would be wounded? Like Papa, for instance, and Yochi, who was stationed someplace, and he ran through the list of relations, near and far, and acquaintances and teachers and neighbors, and older brothers of his friends, and the soccer players who had been mobilized. He was worried about Manny, the pilot, sorry the scheme for fossilizing faces in the rock had fallen through. Because if anything happened to one of them, God forbid, at least that way there would be something to remember them by. Slowly he began to drain the morass that filled his soul. His clarity of mind returned like blood to a tingling limb.

  Then he set his cardboard toolbox down beside him: through the crack in the sole of his shoe he pulled out the nail file and the rusty razor blade, from under his belt he fished the nail. Then he found thepiece of saw in his trouser cuff, and the matchbook Uncle Shimmik got on the airplane, but decided to throw it out. To leave a trail for them. He felt along the curve of his spine, tore off the fake plaster, and caught the shiny lead nail between his fingers. Then he closed his eyes and gently ran his hand over his things so he’d know where they were in the dark. And all the while a child’s voice inside him asked, Is this it, is this it? He didn’t believe he would do it.

  When he was ready he raised his legs, and slowly, like a pro, he crossed them carefully under him, first the left, then the right, with his right hand on his thigh. It occurred to him that if he did succeed, and of course he would, this would be his greatest Houdini performance, now of all times without an audience, but he didn’t need an audience: he was performing for himself alone. And if he did succeed, and of course he would, if he did get out of here, and of course he would, no one would know. Not even Yochi. Maybe in twenty years it would be all right to tell. But not for twenty years. Even those nearest and dearest to him wouldn’t know: not for twenty years.

  And when these words ran through his mind—not for twenty years—he felt a shock of pain, as though the electricity had gone haywire in his head, and he pressed down on his eyes till the pain faded, till sparks flew out of them, growing into a blaze of light, and his head was filled with a dazzling dawn, and he hunched down in wonder, pressing harder with his knuckles, till he saw the sparks he knew, and then the little angels of light, and then he went even further, was even crueler to himself, because soon, he understood, he would arrive, and his eyes really did fill with something from inside him, a great shining essence, glowing brighter and brighter, like a distant explosion, but gentle, beaming, bursting like the sunrise, and under his clenched fist curled a smile of amazement, a movie show in his eyes in spite of the pain, in spite of the tears that dimmed his vision and trickled down his arms, but he didn’t stop; he wondered why in all his past experimenting he had never tried to reach such a moment, a moment like this, a gift from his body.

  And then, when he couldn’t stand it anymore, he stopped pressing and quietly endured the pain of opening his eyes, of wiping away his tears, watching the slow return of the familiar world. And someone called his name. Mama was out on the balcony, calling him. Papa came out and called him too. Why were they both calling him? Maybe theyhad noticed something after all. Maybe Gideon had run home to warn them. His somber name hovering over the valley seemed barely able to reach him here. He could sense its presence like a heavy cloud floating slowly toward him, beating the air with the vowels of his unbeloved name.

  Haggard with grief they called to him, his mama and papa. Caught in the soft mists, their voices sprinkled over him. A wail of pure anguish. A lamentation. He arranged his feet on the shelf. Bowed his head on his chest under the freezer compartment. Placed the fingers of his left hand firmly on the Houdini tools.

  By David Grossman

  Novels

  THE SMILE OF THE LAMB

  SEE UNDER: LOVE

  THE BOOK OF INTIMATE GRAMMAR

  Non-fiction

  THE YELLOW WIND

  SLEEPING ON A WIRE

  THE BOOK OF INTIMATE GRAMMAR. Copyright © 1991 by David Grossman. Translation copyright © 1994 by Betsy Rosenberg. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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  eISBN 9781466803749

  First eBook Edition : November 2011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Grossman, David.

  [Sefer ha-dikduk ha-penimi. English]

  The book of intimate grammar / David Grossman ; translated from the Hebrew by Betsy Rosenberg. 1st Picador ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-42095-1

  1. Children—Jerusalem—Fiction. 2. Jerusalem—Fiction. I. Rozenberg, Betsi. II. Title.

  PJ5054.G728 S413 2002

  892.4’36—dc21

  2002066777

  Originally published in Hebrew under the title Sefer Hadikduk Hapnimiby Hotza’at haKibbuts ha Meuhad / Sifrei Siman Keriah

  First Picador Edition: October 2002