Read Online Suddenly, a Knock on the Door: Stories by Etgar Keret, Nathan Englander, Miriam Shlesinger, Sondra Silverston - Free Book Online
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duty-free, she tells me I don’t love her anymore. If I dare walk in the door without at least one bottle, I’m in trouble.
CREATIVE WRITING
The first story Maya wrote was about a world in which people split themselves in two instead of reproducing. In that world, every person could, at any given moment, turn into two beings, each half his/her age. Some chose to do this when they were young; for instance, an eighteen-year-old might split into two nine-year-olds. Others would wait until they’d established themselves professionally and financially and go for it only in middle age. The heroine of Maya’s story was splitless. She had reached the age of eighty and, despite all the social pressure, insisted on not splitting. At the end of the story, she died.
It was a good story, except for the ending. There was something depressing about that part, Aviad thought. Depressing and predictable. But in the writing workshop she had signed up for, Maya actually got a lot of compliments on the ending. The instructor, who was supposed to be this well-known writer, even though Aviad had never heard of him, told her that there was something soul-piercing about the banality of the ending, or some other piece of crap. Aviad saw how happy that compliment made Maya. She was very excited when she told him about it. She recited what the writer had said to her the way people recite a verse from the Bible. And Aviad, who had originally tried to suggest a different ending, backpedaled and said that it was all a matter of taste and that he really didn’t understand much about it.
It had been her mother’s idea that she should go to a creative writing workshop. She’d said that a friend’s daughter had attended one and enjoyed it very much. Aviad also thought it would be good for Maya to get out more, to do something with herself. He could always bury himself in work, but since the miscarriage, she never left the house. Whenever he came home he found her in the living room, sitting up straight on the couch. Not reading, not watching TV, not even crying. When Maya hesitated about the course, Aviad knew how to persuade her. “Go once, give it a try,” he said, “the way a kid goes to day camp.” Later he realized that it had been a little insensitive of him to use a child as an example after what they’d been through two months before. But Maya actually smiled and said that day camp might be just what she needed.
The second story she wrote was about a world in which you could see only the people you loved. The protagonist was a married man in love with his wife. One day, his wife walked right into him in the hallway and the glass he was holding fell and shattered on the floor. A few days later, she sat down on him as he was dozing in an armchair. Both times, she wriggled out of it with an excuse: she’d had something else on her mind; she hadn’t been looking when she sat down. But the husband started to suspect that she didn’t love him anymore. To test his theory, he decided to do something drastic: he shaved off the left side of his mustache. He came home with half a mustache, clutching a bouquet of anemones. His wife thanked him for the flowers and smiled. He could sense her groping the air as she tried to give him a kiss. Maya called the story “Half a Mustache,” and told Aviad that when she had read it aloud in the workshop, some people cried. Aviad said, “Wow,” and kissed her on the forehead. That night, they fought about some stupid little thing. She’d forgotten to pass on a message or something like that, and he yelled at her. He was to blame, and in the end he apologized. “I had a hellish day at work,” he said, and he stroked her leg, trying to make up for his outburst, “Do you forgive me?” She forgave him.
The workshop instructor had published a novel and a collection of short stories. Neither had been much of a success, but they’d had a few good reviews. At least, that’s what the saleswoman at a
CREATIVE WRITING
The first story Maya wrote was about a world in which people split themselves in two instead of reproducing. In that world, every person could, at any given moment, turn into two beings, each half his/her age. Some chose to do this when they were young; for instance, an eighteen-year-old might split into two nine-year-olds. Others would wait until they’d established themselves professionally and financially and go for it only in middle age. The heroine of Maya’s story was splitless. She had reached the age of eighty and, despite all the social pressure, insisted on not splitting. At the end of the story, she died.
It was a good story, except for the ending. There was something depressing about that part, Aviad thought. Depressing and predictable. But in the writing workshop she had signed up for, Maya actually got a lot of compliments on the ending. The instructor, who was supposed to be this well-known writer, even though Aviad had never heard of him, told her that there was something soul-piercing about the banality of the ending, or some other piece of crap. Aviad saw how happy that compliment made Maya. She was very excited when she told him about it. She recited what the writer had said to her the way people recite a verse from the Bible. And Aviad, who had originally tried to suggest a different ending, backpedaled and said that it was all a matter of taste and that he really didn’t understand much about it.
It had been her mother’s idea that she should go to a creative writing workshop. She’d said that a friend’s daughter had attended one and enjoyed it very much. Aviad also thought it would be good for Maya to get out more, to do something with herself. He could always bury himself in work, but since the miscarriage, she never left the house. Whenever he came home he found her in the living room, sitting up straight on the couch. Not reading, not watching TV, not even crying. When Maya hesitated about the course, Aviad knew how to persuade her. “Go once, give it a try,” he said, “the way a kid goes to day camp.” Later he realized that it had been a little insensitive of him to use a child as an example after what they’d been through two months before. But Maya actually smiled and said that day camp might be just what she needed.
The second story she wrote was about a world in which you could see only the people you loved. The protagonist was a married man in love with his wife. One day, his wife walked right into him in the hallway and the glass he was holding fell and shattered on the floor. A few days later, she sat down on him as he was dozing in an armchair. Both times, she wriggled out of it with an excuse: she’d had something else on her mind; she hadn’t been looking when she sat down. But the husband started to suspect that she didn’t love him anymore. To test his theory, he decided to do something drastic: he shaved off the left side of his mustache. He came home with half a mustache, clutching a bouquet of anemones. His wife thanked him for the flowers and smiled. He could sense her groping the air as she tried to give him a kiss. Maya called the story “Half a Mustache,” and told Aviad that when she had read it aloud in the workshop, some people cried. Aviad said, “Wow,” and kissed her on the forehead. That night, they fought about some stupid little thing. She’d forgotten to pass on a message or something like that, and he yelled at her. He was to blame, and in the end he apologized. “I had a hellish day at work,” he said, and he stroked her leg, trying to make up for his outburst, “Do you forgive me?” She forgave him.
The workshop instructor had published a novel and a collection of short stories. Neither had been much of a success, but they’d had a few good reviews. At least, that’s what the saleswoman at a
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