The Book of Intimate Grammar

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.

It’s a heavy gray dinner hour. Aron tries to swallow, but he can’t. He just can’t. The food sticks in his throat. He mustn’t, mustn’t, put any more in. There’s no room left. Through lowered lids he peeks at Papa. At his slowly grinding jaws. Nothing will ever stand in their way. Throw in a hunk of meat and watch them devour it. Throw in a plastic box or a tin can or even an old car, they’ll tear up anything. Furtively he counts on his fingers: twenty-five days now since Mama and Papa stopped talking. And she doesn’t sing anymore, not even “We’re off to work in the morning.” You’re staring at me again. No, I’m not. I want you to eat, you hear, not sit there dreaming with your mouth open. I’m not dreaming. Everyone else is … The last few words are swallowed in an angry murmur. She sticks the serving spoon in the mashed potatoes and fills up Papa’s plate again. He watches, sighing, swallowing spit, and once again he lifts his fork. Slowly he consumes everything. Down to the last crumb. But the question is, will Papa eat the third helping Mama inevitably offers when he’s done? Because a few hours from now What’s-her-name will be serving him another huge meal. As Mama very well knows. As everyone in the building knows. All the same she heapshis plate full. At precisely one-fifty-five Papa ate chicken. Aron is scientific about these things. Yochi eats in silence, her soft greasy face glued to the plate. Aron is watching her out of the corner of his eye in her desperate struggle with the appetite she inherited from Papa. Her hand goes out to the bread basket, with a will of its own. She summons it back. A few more mouthfuls of chicken and the hand slides out to the bread basket again. Next time, the third time, he knows she will succumb. Aron chews and chews and chews, swirling the mush around in his cheeks: if he swallows this, he will explode. It will mix with the pasty mush churning in his stomach. Yochi’s hand goes out and snatches the bread — I was right — which she devours pleasurelessly. No one speaks. Aron picks at the food on his plate. To make sure Mama didn’t sneak in any chicken. The way she does in the vegetable soup. No one would catch him eating food that used to be alive. He chews with downcast eyes to avoid the chicken-wing remains on their plates. He moves the soda squirter in front of him to block out Mama’s plate, and furtively overturns the saltcellar from the Galei Kinneret Hotel on the bread board to eclipse what he can of Papa’s plate. Slowly he masticates the bread and mashed potatoes till he can’t tell the bread from the mashed potatoes, using his cheeks as warehouses. Twenty-five days. And Giora said a man has to do it three or four times a week, at least, otherwise he might burst. Papa’s jaws go up and down. Up and down. And in Aron’s tummy there’s a month’s worth of food spinning round and round. He can feel it spin: like the revolving drum of a washing machine. There go the tomatoes and the mashed potatoes, there goes the eggplant. There goes the rice and the bread and the bananas and sour cream they made him eat the day before yesterday. Yochi asks him to pass the borscht. “With pleasure,” he responds. And Yochi stares at him quizzically, then smiles and says with a perfectly straight face, “Oh, thank you ever so.” Silence. Everyone eats. Those jaws again. Mama scoops another mound of mashed potatoes onto Papa’s plate. The plate he just cleared, gasps Aron. Papa contemplates this latest mound. The steam from the mashed potatoes condenses into beads of sweat around his chin and down his cheeks. He breathes in deeply and lets out a groan. Breadcrumbs fly across the table. Aron grips the edge of the table. Papa unbuckles his belt and lets his body spill out into the room. Aron says: “Would you be so kind as to pass the bread.” Yochi smiles wanly. “The pumpernickel, sir?” Aron laughs. “If you please.” He looksaround with a smile. But Mama buries her face in the plate, and Papa turns red. Aron is mortified: what if Papa thinks they’re making fun of him with their formal Hebrew? But they aren’t making fun of him, honestly. Aron uses words like that in his imagination all the time, when he pretends he lives with gentlefolk who found him as a baby. Maybe he and Yochi should talk like that whenever they’re at home alone together. She’s so good at it. Not that it’s surprising, when all she does is read books or write letters. Aron wants to add something, but first he has to check on how things are going out there; Papa’s forgotten about him; he eyes the heaping plateful before him with dismay, picks up a thick piece of bread, weighs it in his hand, tears out a chunk of snow-white dough, and impales it on the tip of his finger: in his day at the bakery, bread was bread. He squooshes the unfortunate crumb and flicks it at the sink. Then he concentrates on his plate again, picking at the potatoes, noisily sucking on a drumstick. Aron waits till Papa’s eyes turn glassy with the drumstick in his mouth and mutters to Yochi: “How very delectable,” and ducks his head and stuffs more mashed potatoes into his mouth, and more bread, and pickles, anything and everything to avoid looking up again. Because the drumstick has frozen in Papa’s hand. Yochi too buries her face in her plate. Some secret thing inside him, a hazy memory, a quiver of joy, swims minnow-like, shimmering in his blood, while Aron plunges faithfully on, toward the one chance in a million, the flare of union and the spark of life, with Papa behind him, gloomy, dark, thrusting his body forward, and his flabby flesh gets stuck in the entrance — pow!

Mama hurries to the refrigerator, and a strange blush spreads over her cheeks, but Aron peeks and sees she’s trying not to smile. She’s on my side. She understands that I’m loyal to her. Now he feels a little like a matador, advancing and retreating, cheered on by beautiful women. They continue to eat. In silence. And suddenly Papa says with his mouth full, “Pass me the salt whatzit.”

Unthinkingly Aron blurts out, “The saltcellar.”

A terrible silence follows. You can hear the drumming of the rain. Papa bulges invincibly. “What did you say?”

Aron is silent. He turns pale. Caught out. The quivering inside him has stopped, the pleasure has vanished.

“Repeat what you just said.”

“Here, take it, Papa.” He holds the saltcellar upside down. He dare not turn it right side up. It trickles into his hand.

“What’s that you call it?”

“It’s … a saltcellar.”

“Now listen here, Mr. Inallectual: you open your ears and hear me good: I say we call it ‘the salt whatzit.’”

“Okay. Here, take it.”

“No. First repeat after me: ‘the salt whatzit.’”

“Please, Papa, take it.” His whiny voice, his boy-soprano shame. He is pouting and the tears well in his eyes. The salt trickles out on the table. Mama is silent. Yochi is silent.

“You say ‘the salt whatzit’ or so help me, I’ll take my belt with the brass buckle to you.”

“Say it already!” shrieks Mama, who only a moment ago was gloating at the sink. “God in heaven! Say it already so we can have some quiet!”

Aron tries. He really does, but he can’t. The words just won’t come out of him. His lips twist and tremble. Let me go, Mr. Lion, and one day I shall help you in return; how can a mouse like you help the king of beasts; I have a plan: I’ll win the lottery, I’ll win the Toto, you won’t have to work so hard at the workers’ council anymore, I’ll save our home, the light will shine again. Yochi watches pityingly. Her mouth is full. Papa cages him in, his face swelling ever larger.

“Let him be, Moshe!” screams Mama, throwing down the drumstick. “Never mind all the food I cooked. What do you want with him? Eat and be quiet!”

“I won’t have him laughing at me! What does he think, he can laugh at me in my own house? He won’t eat his dinner, our food’s not good enough for him! And the way he talks, just like a girl, tatee-tatee-tata! Thinks he can look down on me, like a, like some damned commissar. And I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut. You say ‘the salt whatzit’ right now or else!”

“Nu, Aron, say ‘the salt whatzit’ already, so we can eat in peace!” shouts Mama, and Aron gives her a long look; he really does feel sorry for her, slaving in the kitchen all day to feed him so he can grow up and be normal. He shuts his ears from inside, Aroning slowly down, till suddenly they’re speaking a language he doesn’t understand, these strangers from far, far away, and he vows to stay with them, to helpthem cope, to bring a little sunshine into their trying lives; see them scowl as they tell him the news of some terrible disaster, some evil, hateful person has hurt them. Saltcellar, thinks Aron, somersaultcellar, his heart leaps: what a funny word, but something has happened meanwhile, a wicked emperor captured Mama and Papa, and he’s threatening to execute them unless Aron swallows a bite of the “birdy” in his defiant mouth; he swivels his head from side to side. Locks his lips. A heavy hand, red and hairy, squeezes his cheeks together, forces his mouth open, and thrusts the wing inside. Okay, maybe it’ll accidentally knock out his milk tooth. And his poor, poor parents, tied to the stake, they know he took a vow, they’d never ask him to do such an ignoble thing. His eyes blur with tears. I’ll do it for your sake, he whispers, with the tender flesh between his teeth, and he takes a bite of this once living chicken and chews it and swallows it, and the drum in his tummy spins the yellow meat around. But don’t worry, he bravely reassures his weeping parents as the emperor’s men untie their fetters, they may defile my lips, they may defile my body, but the essence of me will be pure forever. Long live the saltcellar, long live the somersaultcellar, and Aron, with a chicken wing sticking out of his mouth, flies blissful as a light beam, in the radiant splendor of his word.

They ate in perfect silence again. Aron swallowed. But he never betrayed himself, he never said “the salt whatzit.” Papa sat down, growling with malevolence. Staring at the heaping plate. Yochi’s foot touched Aron’s reassuringly. Forks scraped. In a gnarly, tearful voice Mama asked Papa if he wanted more, the chicken came out so good today. With great effort Papa raised his head. He stared at her in horror. Slowly he turned to the clock on the wall. His bull neck reappeared between his shoulders. Shutting his eyes, he nodded in reply.