Everything Is Illuminated (18 page)

What's something, then? You want to talk about war a bit? Maybe we could talk about literature. Just tell me what something is, and we'll talk about it. God? We could talk about Him.

You're doing it again.

What am I doing?

You're not taking me seriously.

It's a privilege you have to earn.

I'm trying.

Try a bit harder,
she said, and unbuttoned his slacks. She licked him from the base of his neck to his chin, pulled his shirt from his pants, his pants from his waist, and nipped their seventh conversation in the bud. All she wanted from him was cuddling and high voices. Whispers. Assurances. Promises of fidelity and truth she made him swear to again and again: that he would never kiss another woman, that he would never even think of another woman, that he would never leave her alone.

Say it again.

I won't leave you alone.

Say it again.

I won't leave you alone.

Again.

I won't.

Won't what?

Leave you alone.

It was halfway into his second month at work when two men from the flour mill knocked on her door. She didn't have to ask why they came, but collapsed immediately to the floor.

Go away!
she screamed, running her hands up and down the carpet as if it were a new language to learn, another window.

He felt no pain,
they told her.
He felt nothing, really.
Which made her cry more, and harder. Death is the only thing in life that you absolutely have to be aware of as it's happening.

A disk-saw blade from the chaff splitter had spun off its bearings and raced through the mill, caroming off walls and scaffold beams while men jumped for cover. The Kolker was eating a cheese sandwich on a makeshift stool of stacked flour sacks, lost in thought about something Brod had said about something, oblivious to the chaos around him, when the blade hopped off an iron rod (left carelessly on the ground by a mill worker who was later struck by lightning) and embedded itself, perfectly vertical, in the middle of his skull. He looked up, dropped his sandwich to the floor—witnesses swore the slices of bread switched places in midair—and closed his eyes.

Leave me!
she hollered at the men, who were still standing mute in her doorway.
Leave!

But we were told—

Go!
she said, beating her chest.
Go!

Our boss said—

You bastards!
she shouted.
Leave the griever to grieve!

Oh, he's not dead,
the fatter of the men corrected.

What?

He's not dead.

He's not dead?
she asked, picking her head up off the floor.

No,
the other said.
He's in the doctor's care, but it seems that there's little permanent damage. You can see him if you like. He is in no way repulsive looking. Well, maybe a little, but there was hardly any blood, except for the blood from his nose and ears, and the blade seems to be holding everything in its good and right place, more or less.

Crying more now than when she heard the news of her new husband's supposed death, Brod hugged both men and then punched them both in the nose with all of the might her skinny fifteen-year-old arm could summon.

In fact, the Kolker was barely hurt at all. He had regained consciousness in only a few minutes and been able to walk himself, parade himself, through the maze of muddy capillaries to the office of Dr. (and caterer without clients) Abraham M.

What's your name?
measuring the circular blade with calipers.

The Kolker.

Very good,
lightly touching his finger to one of the blade's teeth.
Now, can you remember the name of your wife?

Brod, of course. Her name is Brod.

Very good. Now, what seems to have happened to you?

A disk-saw blade stuck in my head.

Very good,
examining the blade from all sides. It looked to the doctor like a five-o'clock summer sun, setting over the horizon of the Kolker's head, which reminded him that it was almost time for dinner, one of his favorite meals of the day.
Do you feel any pain?

I feel different. It's not pain, really. It's almost a homesickness.

Very good. Homesickness. Now, can you follow my finger with your eyes? No, no. This finger ... Very good. Can you walk across the room for me?... Very good.

And then, without provocation, the Kolker slammed his fist against the examining table and hollered,
You are a fat fuckhead!

Excuse me? What?

What just happened?

You called me a fuckhead.

Did I?

You did.

I'm sorry. You're not a fuckhead. I'm very sorry.

You're probably just—

But it's true!
the Kolker shouted.
You are an insolent fuckhead! And a fat one too, if I didn't mention that before.

I'm afraid I don't under—

Did I say something?
the Kolker asked, frantically looking around the room.

You said I was an insolent fuckhead.

You've got to believe me ... Your tuches is huge! ... I'm sorry, this is not me ... I'm so sorry, you fat-tuchesed fuckhead, I—

Did you call my tuches fat?

No!... Yes!

Is it these slacks? They're cut rather tight around the—

Fat ass!

Fat ass?

Fat ass!

Who do you think you are?

No!... Yes!

Get out of my office!

No!... Yes!

Well, disk saw or not!
the doctor said, and with a huff, he slammed shut his folder and stormed out of his own office, pounding the floor loudly with each of his heavy steps.

The doctor-caterer was the first victim of the Kolker's malicious eruptions—the only symptom of the blade that would remain embedded in his skull, perfectly perpendicular to the horizon, for the rest of his life.

The marriage was able to return to a kind of normality, after the removal of the headboard from their bed and the birth of the first of their three sons, but the Kolker was undeniably different. The man who had kneaded Brod's prematurely old legs at night when they were all pins and needles, who had rubbed milk into her burns when there was nothing else, who had counted her toes because she liked the way it felt, would now, on occasion, curse her. It began with comments made under his breath about the temperature of the brisket, or the soap residue under his collar. Brod was able to overlook it, could even find it endearing.

Brod, where are my fucking socks? You misplaced them again.

I know,
she would say, smiling inwardly at the joys of being unappreciated and bullied around.
You're right. It won't happen again.

Why the hell can't I remember the name of that coiled instrument!

Because of me. It's my fault.

With time he became worse. Dirty dirt became grounds for a tirade. Wet water in the bathtub and he might yell at her until the neighbors had to close their shutters (the desire for a little peace and quiet being the only thing the citizens of the shtetl shared). It was less than a year after the accident before he started hitting her. But, she reasoned, it was such a small fraction of the time. Once or twice a week. Never more. And when he was not in a "mood," he was more kind to her than any husband to his wife. His moods were not him. They were the other Kolker, born of the metal teeth in his brain. And she was in love, which gave her a reason to live.

Whore poison bitch!
the other Kolker would howl at her with raised arms, and then the Kolker would take her into those arms, as he did the night they first met.

Filthy water monster!
with a backhanded slap across the cheek, and then he would tenderly lead her, or she him, to the bedroom.

In the middle of lovemaking he might damn her, or hit her, or push her off the bed onto the floor. She would climb back up, remount, and begin again where they left off. Neither of them knew what he might do next.

They saw every doctor in the six villages—the Kolker broke the nose of the confident young physician in Lutsk who suggested the couple sleep in separate beds—and all agreed that the only possible cure for his disposition would be to remove the blade from his head, which would certainly kill him.

The women of the shtetl were happy to see Brod suffer. Even after sixteen years, they still thought of her as a product of that terrible hole, because of which they could never see her all at once, because of which they could never know and mother her, because of which they hated her. Rumors spread that the Kolker beat her because she was cold in bed (only two children to show after three years of marriage!) and couldn't manage a household with any competency.

I would expect black eyes if I pranced around like her!
Have you seen the mess their yard has become? What a pigsty!
It proves, again, that there is some justice in this world!

The Kolker hated himself, or his other self, for it. He would pace the bedroom at night, arguing savagely with his other self at the top of the two lungs they shared, often beating the chest that housed those lungs, or boxing their face. After badly injuring Brod in several night incidents, he decided (against her will) that the doctor with the broken nose was right: they must sleep apart.

I won't.

There's nothing to be said.

Then leave me. I'd rather that than this. Or kill me. That would be even better than your leaving.

You're being ridiculous, Brod. I'm only going to sleep in a different room.

But love is a room,
she said.
That's what it is.

This is what we have to do.

This is not what we have to do.

It is.

It worked for a few months. They were able to assume a regular daily life with only the occasional outburst of brutality, and would part in the evening to undress and go to bed alone. They would explain their dreams to each other over bread and coffee the next morning and describe the positions of their restlessness. It was an opportunity that their hurried marriage had never allowed for: coyness, slowness, discovering one another from a distance. They had their seventh, eighth, and ninth conversations. The Kolker tried to articulate what he wanted to say, and it always came out wrong. Brod was in love and had a reason to live.

His condition worsened. In time, Brod could expect a sound beating every morning before the Kolker went to work—where he was able, to the bafflement of all doctors, to refrain entirely from outbursts—and every late afternoon before dinner. He beat her in the kitchen in front of the pots and pans, in the living room in front of their two children, and in the pantry in front of the mirror in which they both watched. She never ran from his fists, but took them, went to them, certain that her bruises were not marks of violence, but violent love. The Kolker was trapped in his body—like a love note in an unbreakable bottle, whose script never fades or smudges, and is never read by the eyes of the intended lover—forced to hurt the one with whom he wanted most to be gentle.

Even toward the end, the Kolker had periods of clarity, lasting as long as several days at a time.

I have something for you,
he said, leading Brod by the hand through the kitchen and out into the garden.

What is it?
she asked, making no effort to keep a safe distance. (There was no such thing as a safe distance, then. Everything was either too close or too far.)

For your birthday. I got you a gift.

It's my birthday?

It's your birthday.

I must be seventeen.

Eighteen.

What's the surprise?

That would ruin the surprise.

I hate surprises,
she said.

But I like them.

Whom is this gift for? You or me?

The gift is for you,
he said.
The surprise is for me.

What if I surprised you and told you to keep the gift? Then the surprise would be for me, and the gift for you.

But you hate surprises.

I know. So give me the gift already.

He handed her a small package. It was wrapped in blue vellum, with a light blue ribbon tied around it.

What is this?
she asked.

We've gone over this,
he said.
It's your surprise gift. Open it.

No,
she said, gesturing to the wrapping,
this.

What do you mean? That's just wrapping.

She put down the package and began to cry. He had never seen her cry.

What is it, Brod? What? It was supposed to make you happy.

She shook her head. Crying was new to her.

What, Brod. What happened?

She hadn't cried since that Trachimday five years before, when on the way home from the float she was stopped by the mad squire Sofiowka N, who made a woman of her.

I don't love you,
she said.

What?

I don't love you,
pushing him away.
I'm sorry.

Brod,
putting his hand on her shoulder.

Get off me!
she hollered, pulling herself away from him.
Don't touch me! I don't want you touching me ever again!
She turned her head to the side and vomited onto the grass.

She ran. He chased her. She ran around the house many times, past the front door, the winding walk, the gate at the back, the pigsty of a yard, the side garden, and back to the front door again. The Kolker kept close behind, and although he was much faster, he decided never to catch up, never to turn around and wait for her lap to bring her to him. So they went around and around: front door, winding walk, pigsty of a yard, side garden, front door, winding walk, pigsty of a yard, side garden. Finally, as the afternoon put on its early-evening dress, Brod collapsed from fatigue in the garden.