Read Falling Out of Time Online
Authors: David Grossman
Falling Out of Time (4 page)
TOWN CHRONICLER:
My own honor, my lord, is easily put aside. But I am absolutely unwilling to allow
your
representative to be humiliated this way, and so I immediately turn to leave—
CENTAUR:
What’s that? Without a kiss? Get back here right now! I believe, pencil pusher, that your edict explicitly requests “
all the information required for the authorities, without omitting a single detail
”! True or false? Well then, open up your little notebook right this minute and start chronicling:
“Someone keeps treading on them, on the dry leaves”—write this!—“walking around and around in a circle, dragging his feet …” Now make a note of this:
khrrrsss khrrrsss
. Like that, yes, with three s’s at the end. I bet that little detail will clarify the situation for the duke
veritably
! That will get it up for him in no time! Are you getting the picture, lap-clerk? Has anyone ever told you your face looks like a waif’s?
TOWN CHRONICLER:
While I pretend to be writing down this foolish drivel, I periodically stand on my tiptoes to steal a glance at the heaps crammed into his room. I make a quick list: wooden cradle, pram, tiny bed, lots of deflated
soccer balls, colorful little chairs, rocking horse, toy boat, rusty cars from an electric train, cowboy hat, Indian feather chain, endless pages of drawings and doodles … Incidentally, this whole assemblage is covered with fly droppings and cobwebs. It all seems withered and brittle, and every object looks as though it might crumble at the slightest touch, if not a mere look. The creature in the window keeps on prattling, cursing, and slandering. I persist. Gym shoes, skates and sandals, books, books everywhere, a small school desk, pencil cases, a green chamber pot, a little bicycle with training wheels … He can blather on all he wants with his filthy curses. I nod at him once in a while. Even twenty notebooks would not suffice. This place contains an entire museum of childhood—or perhaps the museum of one child. Rubber fins and swim goggles, wool teddy bears, furry lions and tigers—
He’s stopped talking. He peers over his glasses at me. He might suspect something. A little accordion, backpack, tin soldiers, paintbrushes, not good, I am disquieted, those bloodshot eyes. I’ll stop soon. Hey, board games! Beloved Monopoly, Snakes and Ladders, decks of cards, props for the budding magician, Boy Scout
uniform, goody bags from birthday parties, bow and arrow—how can you even breathe in this room?
CENTAUR:
You can’t. And now, if you value your life, hireling, get lost and don’t come back. Off you go! Pronto!
TOWN CHRONICLER:
Picture albums, masks, toy gun, pacifiers, whistles, flashlight—
CENTAUR:
Scram, you leech! Otherwise I’ll come out to you—
WOMAN WHO STAYED AT HOME:
Five years after my son
died, his father went out
to meet him.
I did not go with him.
I did not go. I did not go so much
that I foundered. I sat
cross-legged, displaced. I listened
to a voice that reached me
from afar: he
walks, he walks. I did
not go.
I did not.
Not
there.
My heart beat:
he walks. My blood
pounded: he walks.
Spoons and forks clattered, mirrors
glittered, signaled: see
him, see him, day and night, he
walks. I would go with him
to the end
of the world. Not there,
not
there.
DUKE:
… he might be an insurgent; I am
uncertain. My scouts say
he poses a danger:
the coolness of the unruly, of a
stubborn, wayward man.
But his eyes—they report—
shine with the pale blue light
of a child’s gaze.
MIDWIFE:
You will n-n-never know,
my d-d-daughter, that every man
is an island,
that you c-c-cannot know another
from within. A son’s own
mother cannot
be him, even for an instant,
cannot sustain
him, self-sustain herself
in him—
TOWN CHRONICLER:
The town streets are thick with fog. The midwife is at her window, her eyes on the hills, her lips almost kissing the pane as she whispers feverishly. Fragmented vapors appear on the glass like hieroglyphics and quickly vanish, sometimes before I can write them down. From my post—this time behind the crumbling well in the yard—I notice her husband sitting on his stool, watching her longingly, hammer in hand.
MIDWIFE:
Nor will m-m-my self adhere
to your self any longer,
nor will my self
to myself adhere. It has all come apart. They say
there are things in the world. They say things
are c-c-connected. I look in the f-f-faces
of those who say, and see
holes
and crumbs,
specks
of limbs.
CENTAUR:
He keeps stepping on the leaves in my mind, trampling them, day and night, always the same rhythm, never changing, fifteen years it’s been, since
then
, even when I sleep, when I shit, yes, write that down, it should be written somewhere, and there are whispers, too, all the time, like this:
Hmmm … hmmm …
And then he lunges like a swarm of wasps,
buzzzzzzzz
, drilling through my brain: it happened, it happened, it happened to him, it’s forever, it’s forever, and he won’t, he’ll never—
Ummm, look, lackey, this is just inside me, right? You can’t hear it, can you?
TOWN CHRONICLER:
After I left him this evening, I turned around for another glance or two. His large, pale face in the window grew gloomier as I walked away. His long eyelashes moved with incredible slowness. A slim band of light suddenly glowed from the lakeside and quivered over the dark sky. I ran to see—
WOMAN IN NET:
Two human specks,
a mother and her child,
we glided through the world
for six whole years,
which were unto me
but a few days,
and we were
a nursery rhyme,
threaded with tales
and miracles—
Until ever so lightly,
a breeze
a breath
a flutter
a zephyr
rustled
the leaves—
And sealed our fates:
you here,
he there,
over and done with,
shattered
to pieces.
TOWN CHRONICLER:
Now she notices me and falls silent. The entire pier lies between us, but she reaches out as though I were standing right beside her.
WOMAN IN NET:
I was cut
with scissors
from the picture,
solitary ice
of absence
came to singe
my limbs.
I was touched,
I was blighted
by the frost
of randomness.
TOWN CHRONICLER:
She forcibly shuts her mouth with both hands. Her great black eyes fill with terror. If you ask me, Your Highness, the poor woman has not the slightest comprehension of the words that leave her lips! Incidentally, I think she truly believes that if I only came and touched her, this false spell would be lifted. But it has been almost thirteen years since I touched another
person. Now I must hurry, Your Honor: it is almost midnight, and I cannot be late for my wife.
TOWN CHRONICLER’S WIFE:
A clear corpuscle
glowed inside me, a golden
granule gleamed. I knew that
it was me, my soul,
my core, it was the purpose
of my being. Born
with me, I thought, and so
would die with me—
I did not know that I might live
long after it, that I would be
diaspora,
deciduous.
A liar, too—
the kind who easily,
no eyelid batted,
dared to speak of:
me.
WOMAN WHO STAYED AT HOME:
I sank my teeth
into my flesh. I did not
go. I dwindled
like a candle.
Only he still lay
awake in me: now seeing,
now remembering, now crossing
through a hell. Now quiet
with his son. Or
laughing. Tasting
crumbs of happiness
with him—
Do not breathe,
or think
of what he sees, what he recalls,
what ails
his heart—wounded inside him.
Inside me
an extinguished eye lit up,
the eye of a half-devoured beast
in its predator’s mouth.
What does he see
there, I asked, I screamed, I slammed
my head against the wall, and how
swept up, how peeled away, and how
far has he gone
toward the darkness?
WALKING MAN:
I seem to understand
only things
inside time. People,
for example, or thoughts, or sorrow,
joy, horses, dogs,
words, love. Things that grow
old, that renew,
that change. The way I miss you
is trapped in time as well. Grief
ages with the years, and there are days
when it is new, fresh.
So, too, the fury at all that was robbed
from you. But you are
no longer.
You are outside
of time.
How can I explain
to you, for even the reason is
captured in time. A man from far away
once told me that in his language
they say of one who dies in war,
he “fell.”
And that is you: fallen
out of time,
while the time
in which I abide
passes you by:
a figure
on a pier,
alone,
on a night
whose blackness
has seeped wholly out.
I see you
but I do not touch.
I do not feel you
with my probes of time.
CENTAUR:
Take you, for example, Town Chronicler, or whatever it is you call yourself. You’re a real sight for sore eyes, you are. Get a load of that bowler hat, boss! And the tie, and the satchel, and the pencil mustache—
mwah
! It’s just a shame you look so bedraggled and filthy, like some kind of tramp. And also—I’m sorry—but you reek like a fresh pile of droppings. Other than that, though—
All right, all right, no need to get in a huff! What are you talking about? Insulting a civil servant? Hah! Lighten up, pencil pusher, I’m just joking around. Besides, you should know that
it’s all from jealousy. Yes, write that down in the biggest letters you can make:
The centaur is jealous of the clerk!
No, you tell me: Isn’t it incredibly fortunate that you, as part of your job, and undoubtedly in return for a handsome salary, can spend as much time as you want peering into other people’s hells, without dipping so much as your pale little pinkie inside them? Think about it! What could be more titillating than someone else’s hell? And besides, I’m sure you’ll agree that secondhand pain is far better than firsthand. Healthier for the user and also more “artistic” in the sublime—I mean, the castrated—sense of the word. Take you, for example: it’s been at least a week now since you’ve been coming here, just by chance, walking past my window three or four times a day—yesterday it was five, but who’s counting—hurrying about your business, lost in thought, when suddenly:
Bam!
A screeching halt! A surprised blink! What do we have here? Why, it’s a centaur! And a bereaved one, at that! Two for the price of one! I’d better quickly put on an expression of tender sorrow and commiseration, and in a flash I’ll dip my silver-plated quill in its black ink, and one-two-three, I’ll ask about the son, ask about the son, ask about the son! And if the subject’s answers
are not satisfactory, I won’t give up, no, I won’t give up, I’ll come back in an hour or two, and tomorrow morning again, and I’ll ask about the son again, and I won’t relent even if the subject grits his teeth and bites his tongue until it hurts, and please tell me what he was like as a baby, what he liked to eat, what he built with Legos, which lullabies you sang to him … Well, listen up, you black-inked tick: even the inquisition’s tax assessors didn’t torture people like this! And then all of a sudden,
psshh
! The town clock strikes, ding-dong, see you later, thank you very much, it’s been a pleasure, the quill goes back in its case, the notebook in its folder, and the pencil pusher is on his way home, open parenthesis, what does he care that I’m sitting here bleeding, ripped apart, slaughtered to pieces, close parenthesis, clerko hums a happy tune and ponders the leg of lamb waiting for him in the oven, and probably the legs of some lady or other … What? Hey? Did I grab you by the what’s-it or didn’t I?
TOWN CHRONICLER:
Enough is enough, Your Highness! I have reached the end of my tether! From here on out, your town chronicler adamantly refuses to meet with this despicable creature. You may kill me, my lord, but
I shall not go back to him
!
WALKING MAN:
I heard the voice
of a woman
coming from the town:
That every man is
an island
,
that you c-c-cannot
know
another
from within—
I persist in trying: I resuscitate,
awaken, endlessly clone
cells of yours that still
live in me, the final imprints
of being that have not yet
faded from the tips of my sensations—
the touch of your child-skin,
your voice still thin
and secretive, yet lashing out already
with a sharp salvo of irony, an impression
of your torso moving,
passing quickly,
sliding (how happy I was
when they said
you walked like me).
The corner of your mouth
tugs with a fragile flash
of doubt—
I continue, I preserve,
I treasure
and revive the child
you were, the man
you will not be.
You may laugh: What is this, Dad,
one-human-subject research?
I shrug my shoulders: No, it is a
life’s
work.
Look, I suddenly exclaim,
I will create you,
or at least
one life-twitch
of you, and why not,
damn it, why
give up?
I’ve done it once before,
and now I want
you
so
much
more.