Be My Knife Page 25

  Enough. I’m sick of being buried here, masturbating with words. Why, in this manner I could have you say anything I liked—and this infantile game has been going on for far too long. Two in the morning, and I’ve been writing for more than five hours straight. I’m completely muzzy-headed, and want something substantial, alive, warm, arching in my hands; and here I am instead, whipping myself over and over with thoughts of you. We’re back to whipping me! I won’t send you these; there is a point at which you and I begin speaking in different languages. And what the hell do you understand about this kind of wonder, anyway,when a person who was a complete stranger becomes the living center of all of your emotions and thoughts and imagination? What do you know about being inflamed? About heat between strangers? Complete strangers are the best of all, those familiar with all the amendments of the constitution, for whom it is clear that after the storm, they will go away and be alone. Alone. Do you want to hear something? Do you want to know how it really works, what everyone is thinking, everyone, behind their beautiful words and veiled looks?

  So this is how it happened. After you came—after I did—we lay relaxed, breathing together, gurgling in our satiety—and after a few more minutes I yawned the Prelude Yawn of the “Well, Back to Our Lives” song and dance. You caught me in both your strong hands and said, Don’t go.

  I smiled into your neck, because the strange excitement in your voice made me laugh. And I stayed for a moment or two more, even dozed off for a bit—and then wanted to pull out, because how long could you stay like that anyway?—taken over by the need to straighten up our skins, like re-establishing the front lines after a big battle. A masculine voice was already buzzing with a sore throat inside me, What am I doing here with this strange body in the first place? So, because of that first step back—and because of my usual dishonesty in such a moment—I purred like an exceptionally satisfied cat that I would be willing to stay like this with you forever, and you said, quickly, Then stay.And I asked you, with a smile, Forever? And you said, Yes. For eternity. For today. Don’t go. I laughed into your naked, warm shoulder that it would be simpler to cut it off for you and you could use it whenever you liked—because I still had a few errands to run that day—and you said with that strange urgency, No, please, stay a little longer, as long as you can, as long as we both can—you’re in no hurry to go anywhere today.

  You weren’t speaking with your usual satisfied, wrung-out sex voice, but instead in a slightly frightened, pleading tone; I heard something new in your voice—not a momentary whim but a profound will—for a moment I thought I understood what you wanted to happen between us. I was almost tempted by it; I relaxed the muscles in my back and shoulders so you wouldn’t feel the rebellion inside me, curling over to protect himself, so you wouldn’t hear him inside me complaining, Hey, what’s with her? What more does she want? She got hers already. And you, as if youheard, whispered, Even though you want to pull out, don’t, don’t go—come on, get over it, stay with me just a little longer, and I said, with a quarter of annoyed laughter, What is this? Some kind of human experiment? You didn’t answer, just pressed your warm, soft chest to me, as if speaking with it, you spoke the language of the breast to me—I felt your breath close to my ear and was a bit confused, and didn’t want to hurt you, because I felt you falling into one of your feminine moods, which have always been a bit too profound for me. My dick was shrunken and folded up in itself—as it always is during a moment of transcendent thought—but you didn’t let it come out of you. Don’t forget, I was a bit hungry, as I always am afterward. I lay there, uneasy, as if I had been forced to deposit my destiny in the hands of a stranger—it’s odd you became so strange to me after such an intense intimacy—and the way you were sticking to me was just a shade too intimate for the moment—I wondered when you would tire of this game, when you would finish making this request with your heart, because I could feel around my dick how intently your eyes were closed—my hand had fallen numb behind your back, and my watch strap got caught and tangled in your hair—and I prayed to simply fall asleep, so that he—the recently deceased—would simply fall out and we could smile and forget—and you whispered to me in that voice, No. Help me keep it in.And I started to think that you could read my mind.

  A bitter gob of ancient essences balled up in my throat, a low and hairy “ahem,” and you felt it, of course—and didn’t stop whispering in my ear, like a prayer, to be with you, and not with him: Be with me, with me, and I told myself to remember that I was planning to start doing back exercises again tomorrow, and tried to occupy myself with the lists of tasks awaiting me at work, I’d been neglecting things over there for too long. You whispered something into my ear—but you were too close, I couldn’t hear you—and you passed your tongue delicately over it—we both contracted, together, my fish’s tail fluttered for a moment, your sea rose toward it, and in my heart I thought, Well, all right, maybe it won’t be too bad—it’s been a long time since I’ve trembled twice without pulling out in between, I wonder how long I can last. You stretched your body out in front of me, and I passed my fingers down, strumming your spine, plucking your vertebrae, and licked your neck, which was a little salty. I thought to myself that the word “flesh” is a bit meaty, butchered—but if, in my heart, I say “Miriam’s Flesh,” it’s as if a soft veil of delicacyand beauty spreads over the word, and in my heart I told myself over and over, “Her flesh, her body, her thighs.” I remembered Maya then, for some reason—and the thought made me wilt at once, my spine sucked the entire thick sap back in, my head fell over heavily, and I said, Well, it’s not working. You said, But don’t pull out, it doesn’t matter, just don’t come out.I asked irritated, Fine, but for how long? And you whispered, as if asleep, Until we’re too scared.

  I thought to myself, This isn’t scary, it’s just exasperating—you have to listen to your body and know that if it wants to come out, you need to let it come out and not molest it. There is probably some biological reason connected to this need or impulse or instinct of ours; your insistence filled me with terrible unease and also a strange animosity toward you. I heard you breathing deeply, concentrating your breathing into my ear—and I remembered our little fancy that day we walked together—the one and only walk we’ve managed to take during our three full wild days together—that the ear looks kind of like the archaeological remains of an amphitheater—and maybe that’s why they designed them like that.

  But for how long are you planning for us to stay like this, I grumbled, and explained that as I am a defective human being made of flesh and blood, I have to pee every once in a while. You hugged me close and said, Pee in me. I thought about it for a moment, and believe me, I did try to enjoy the shred of delightful rudeness that drew me into your offer—and I asked if it wouldn’t maybe be dangerous for your health or something. You mumbled that I was dangerous for your health— and I’m not saying let’s go fly together to the Land of Fire, only that we stay connected, body to body. But what for? I was so annoyed by that point—I feel connected enough to you, I don’t think there is a single place in my mind I could disconnect from you—you enter my childhood memories to meet me in them—your words nest in me and throw out my own fledglings—and I started to work myself into a rage just so I could prop myself up on my elbows and pull out of you that way—but you pulled me to you, hard and close, and said, Does it annoy you that I enter your thoughts?No, our meeting that night on the street was wonderful, as is the fact that I started dreaming again because of you. I can write your diary and reproduce your voice from mine more or less—it’s pretty great, isn’t it, great, fine, but now I wanted to pull out, definitely wanted to come out. You listened, smiled to yourself, and said, Don’t go.

  And I asked despairingly, Why? So we will stay connected for as long aswe can. I buzzed back that any two dogs could be stuck together in this condition, so what’s the matter—and you said quickly, Don’t run away, not now—and what if I suddenly popped out, or didn’t come out, or what if I di
d? Listen(you said)— I need to pee, too.So pee around me. I can’t, I’m too embarrassed. So what do you suggest? And what do you suggest?Do you know what? What?Let’s fall asleep, and then in our sleep we’ll make it together like children …

  And you laughed, because of the time I told you—or told you in my thoughts—how once, as an adult, I tried to pee in my bed and simply couldn’t do it. And you knew, of course, why Iwas laughing—I was filled with pleasure at how you know everything about me, all my thoughts and the tiniest details of my stories—it suddenly so pleased me, when a moment ago it had annoyed me so much. I don’t understand that. I don’t understand myself with you—just as you said, in the place where I am the closest to you, I run away the most at the same time. Beware of me in that place—come to that place and I’ll kick you like a horse—trust only my treachery—this is how you’ll be protected. You, as if you weren’t listening, said that even if we got soiled in that way, purity would be left, and we would possess it between ourselves. This time I allowed myself to be swept away by your high-flown sentimentality—you use words, I swear, that are like those community ceremonies from the fifties. I stupidly said that I believed you could purify me—and you asked excitedly, Do you really think so?Your left cheek blushed—and I said, If anybody can, you can. You closed your eyes and looked as if you couldn’t contain it—I heard your thoughts, the clench of your flesh around me, and I knew you, again, were making a tremendous wish—but I was wrong. It was a vow. Apparently there are a few more letters of your body I still cannot read. It is a vow between me and myself.What is it? I asked, but I knew the answer immediately, without stopping it streamed from your body into mine. Say it.You vowed to sleep with me once for every time I have ever slept with a woman without love. You’re right. Actually, you didn’t say anything—I just felt your lashes down there caressing me. But I also started feeling trapped inside you, you weren’t letting me breathe—you were wrapping yourself around me, holding me back in some unbearable way. You of all people should know how capable I am of having claustrophobic panic attacks, in someone else’s body as well, if it locks around me suddenly. You clung to me and said, But please, don’t come out—I have to know what happens when you stay inside me this way, ithas to happen with you. And I said, I’ll tell you what happens. We will rot here, together, in piss and shit, and maybe we’ll even decompose and fuse together—maybe something else, something you can’t even imagine, will happen to us. Some kind of mutation.

  This is exactly what I hoped you would say, that perhaps something happens to two bodies that stay together in this way, in spite of everything, in spite of the natural impulses separating them eventually. I continued grumbling, again desperate—just what could happen? Your insistence became somewhat strange and burdensome—I started feeling like a child forced to kiss his aunt—explain it to me, what could happen except for another such half an hour? We’ll be completely sick of each other! And you said, But maybe we will discover something, some secret human beings mustn’t find. Maybe we will travel together to reach some final, ultimate spot—and if you touch it, you will never want to separate anymore.

  But for how long! I yelled out—and you said, as if to yourself, Until all the hairs on our bodies stand up in fear—not from embarrassment, or discomfort—I am talking about unbearable fear, combining with each other in totality—all boundaries falling apart—the absolute nakedness I thought you wanted so badly.You weren’t talking to me anymore, you were mumbling to yourself with some kind of odd decisiveness, trancelike, it didn’t matter at all to you if I was listening, or comprehending you—the same way you sometimes dive into yourself in front of me. Those times, when you mumble to yourself—I truly feel that I am only a device for you, Miriam—that you actually strike a spark from me to ignite yourself to life—that this is truly a life-or-death war for you.

  I don’t like those games, I said—my voice sounded a little hollow, like a complaining child. You immediately responded, This is not a game, I’m not playing with you—this is terribly serious. You caught my face in your hands: Look straight into my eyes, and I backed away. I hadn’t had the chance to warn you yet—these kinds of looks are dangerous to me; I suddenly start to feel my face as a network of thousands of tiny muscles, and then it’s impossible to prevent them from starting to tremble and go wild, because the wonder is, all these muscles, cells, bones, nerves—they manage to stay clenched together as one entity in everyday life (these are things I mustn’t even think about)—and how many thousands of muscles have to function, constantly, working so terribly hard just to hold a pairof lips together in a normal state—not to mention the strength of those tiny dams holding tear glands constantly closed—and it is so tempting to simply melt and drip into your body and be with you until you are dust. You scare me. You want to swallow me, you want me to disappear inside you. And, I whined, I’m also very hungry. Take some grapes. They will give you strength and glucose.

  You reached a hand to the fruit bowl by the bed and pushed a grape into my mouth, saying, This is not a grape, anav; this is ananava—as if a grape could be a she-grape: the word sent a shocking wave of heat into my body—I bit into it, and juice sprayed onto your cheek and ran down. One drop hung on the corner of your lips—I licked it and passed half a she-grape from my mouth to yours—and I passed the whole of my tongue over your beautiful lips. Come, my darling, lie inside me, you whispered in your heart—and I was instantly filled—again, suddenly—and we entwined even closer to each other and fell into eternal time. I remember how you lifted your white legs up straight and tight in the air in one mind-blowing motion—and I tilted them so they both rested on my right shoulder—I leaned my head on them and thought, Mew-ssic. We both watched us, you and me, together, a player with his white cello—and this, together, pushed us even deeper into the heart of consummation—and enflamed us into fire—the smell of my sweat was as strong as it is now, as I write you—my body sticky, hot, my lips burning, my skin stinging with madness—we both came. We didn’t care at all about the other’s pleasure, didn’t keep track of it in the way I am inclined to do—and the pleasure was so intense I had to think about something else immediately—the same way sometimes I have to read your letters through half-closed eyes—so I thought that the thin voice wailing out at that moment was my voice, and how strange it is that when I am with you, I come with a terribly squeaky voice—so I immediately made some thick basso sounds, even though I clearly know that, in your opinion, I was the most myself when I was screaming before. So, in order to put my manliness back in order, I roared out, as is customary, that the second time is always so much better and harder. For a moment you couldn’t resist the light rudeness in my voice and drawled back in a deep, slightly exaggerated voice, Oh yeah? What do you know, anyway? Poor men, who have to be satisfied with so little. And we knew we were both only paying lip service to our sexes, that really, something was truly happening to us, because we were no longer representing them as is customary and appropriate. Wemanaged, by some miracle, to escape from the usual political system of men and women—and because of our intimacy and our wallowing in each other, it’s as if we had found a way to realize that our bodies are, after all, only a coincidence. Right? Just a few chunks of meat that happened to be stuck together in one way and not another. A man came out, or a woman—and it’s true that this coincidence determines it—but just knowing that changes everything again. It’s scary to write it down—as if the words themselves are capable of bewitching me—and then I would want this to last forever, the ability to move freely between sexes, to have my spirit finally fly like the bird in the oath of Bein ha-Betarim, the covenant of the flesh—

  Miriam, I am still terrified of this feeling starting to rise up within me—that another step forward—I mean—if we walk another step forward—or further inward—we might both break the laws of personal possession in their most elemental sense, the sane sense, I mean. I am especially worried about you, yes, very worried—that you don’t know how to k
eep a hold on yourself and are really capable of any insanity. There’s nothing we can do—you have to acknowledge the facts. You’re so exposed—your totality scares me. It is that clear to you that my feelings could never compare to yours, isn’t it? Your wide range of shades and depths, and your abandon—and also your hidden demands that I be loyal to myself at least in the same way you are loyal to me, that I mourn being distinct from you—you have been broadcasting this to me this entire time, in these words, and in others—Don’t even try to deny that you want to be me!

  Just a minute, no—don’t be easy on me—clench me with all the strength of your groin clamps, wrap your two legs around my body and whisper in my ear that this is you, and this is me, and that I won’t pull out—fight me! I’ve been writing for hours, my words are starting to fall apart, I am in a state of exhaustion—I no longer know what to do with you—and that is the bitter truth. It’s not that I am suddenly retreating, and I’m not saying that we should end things now, even before that stupid ultimatum, that guillotine finally—

  Maybe we should stop this now, before it’s really too late, Miriam.

  October 13

  Yair. It really is Yair. But I won’t give you my surname.

  I truly would have liked to tell you, tell you everything. What do youthink? I could so easily write it down for you, here, in order—name, address, telephone number, occupation, and age—so there can at least be a clear path to the recipient of your feelings of disgust. But then, all those sweaty molecules will start sticking together into a new, epidermic story—and we will both die twice.