Read Online The Blue Notebook by James A. Levine - Free Book Online
Authors: James A. Levine
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Uncle Nir got up from the chair and perched on theedge of the bed. “Now, let me hear you sing again,” he said. His tone was no longer gentle. I could not remember the words to any song and I felt tears starting to fill my eyes, but I still did not cry. The old woman coughed and I knew she was about to reprimand me when “Goat Song” somehow popped into my head.
I started to sing in a small voice and with little enthusiasm but I saw that Uncle Smiley-Nir was enraptured with me. He maintained his unceasing close-lipped grin that showed plea sure and nodded at me encouragingly. As I have written, he was physically ugly; it was not that he had three eyes and two noses, but rather that the two eyes and one nose that he did have did not quite fit on his face. Also, his face was too big for his neck. There was just something not-fitting about him; all of him was the wrong size. He continued to smile and nod but then he took off his shiny shoes. I sang,
Goat—goat—try and run
Over the hills and far away
There are birds in the air
Where you go—they will say
Goat—goat—try and run
Over the hills and far away
There are fish in the stream
Where you drink, I will know
Goat—goat—try and run
Over the hills and far away
There are blades of grass
Where you eat, they will tell
Goat—goat—try and run
Over the hills and far away
After I finished the song, he clapped his little manicured hands and broadened his smile. “Batuk, that was lovely. Now would you stand up and sing that again for me … would you … please?” I did not move and the nighttime noises of the street seemed to become louder in the silence. The smile fell from his face and he repeated, “Stand up and sing, Batuk.” His voice was quiet but in my mind, I trembled. Disobedience was not an option.
I stood up on the bed and sang the song again. On the last chorus my voice faltered. When I finished the song he looked up at me, smiling. “Now, there’s nothing to be scared of. Come over here and sit on Uncle’s lap.” I hoped that what he had just said would disappear if I ignored it (I used to handle demands from Mother in the same way). But the command hung in the air and I took three steps uneasily across the bed and lowered myself onto Uncle Nir’s lap. My legs lay against his, dangling over the side of the bed. He folded his arms around my body and pulled my back close against his chest. He was breathing through my hair. Tears started to roll down my face and fall onto my lovely sari. His hands loosened their grip and he started to massage the sides of my chest with his hands, up and down like polishing furniture. He whispered in my ear, “You see, there’s nothing to cry about, I’m as gentle as a pussycat.” I could feel the warmth of his breath. “You sing so beautifully.” He slid both his handsto the front of my chest and continued rubbing up and down. He started to rub the top and sides of my thighs. I was paralyzed. As he rubbed, horror washed through me.
Under his touch I blackened, like a pot of ink being poured over paper. The blackness soaked across, through, and inside me. Go on, touch me! Now take your hands from my skin and look. Look! You can see the ink stain. Go ahead, try to wash me off. No, you will need far more water than that; I am forever in the creases of your fingertips.
I scream and claw and kick against him. The old woman comes over to restrain me. She grasps my wrists and pins me down; she is one strong goat. He grabs my kicking ankles (I landed a few blows on his crowlike chest), spreads my legs apart, and sinks his body between them. I cannot kick him off. From her pocket, the old woman draws strands of white cotton with which she ties my wrists together and straps them to the back of the bed. Another wad of cotton is pushed in my mouth to stop the screaming and the biting. I try to bite her fingers as she pushes the cotton in. It almost chokes me and I gag. The old woman slaps me hard across the
I started to sing in a small voice and with little enthusiasm but I saw that Uncle Smiley-Nir was enraptured with me. He maintained his unceasing close-lipped grin that showed plea sure and nodded at me encouragingly. As I have written, he was physically ugly; it was not that he had three eyes and two noses, but rather that the two eyes and one nose that he did have did not quite fit on his face. Also, his face was too big for his neck. There was just something not-fitting about him; all of him was the wrong size. He continued to smile and nod but then he took off his shiny shoes. I sang,
Goat—goat—try and run
Over the hills and far away
There are birds in the air
Where you go—they will say
Goat—goat—try and run
Over the hills and far away
There are fish in the stream
Where you drink, I will know
Goat—goat—try and run
Over the hills and far away
There are blades of grass
Where you eat, they will tell
Goat—goat—try and run
Over the hills and far away
After I finished the song, he clapped his little manicured hands and broadened his smile. “Batuk, that was lovely. Now would you stand up and sing that again for me … would you … please?” I did not move and the nighttime noises of the street seemed to become louder in the silence. The smile fell from his face and he repeated, “Stand up and sing, Batuk.” His voice was quiet but in my mind, I trembled. Disobedience was not an option.
I stood up on the bed and sang the song again. On the last chorus my voice faltered. When I finished the song he looked up at me, smiling. “Now, there’s nothing to be scared of. Come over here and sit on Uncle’s lap.” I hoped that what he had just said would disappear if I ignored it (I used to handle demands from Mother in the same way). But the command hung in the air and I took three steps uneasily across the bed and lowered myself onto Uncle Nir’s lap. My legs lay against his, dangling over the side of the bed. He folded his arms around my body and pulled my back close against his chest. He was breathing through my hair. Tears started to roll down my face and fall onto my lovely sari. His hands loosened their grip and he started to massage the sides of my chest with his hands, up and down like polishing furniture. He whispered in my ear, “You see, there’s nothing to cry about, I’m as gentle as a pussycat.” I could feel the warmth of his breath. “You sing so beautifully.” He slid both his handsto the front of my chest and continued rubbing up and down. He started to rub the top and sides of my thighs. I was paralyzed. As he rubbed, horror washed through me.
Under his touch I blackened, like a pot of ink being poured over paper. The blackness soaked across, through, and inside me. Go on, touch me! Now take your hands from my skin and look. Look! You can see the ink stain. Go ahead, try to wash me off. No, you will need far more water than that; I am forever in the creases of your fingertips.
I scream and claw and kick against him. The old woman comes over to restrain me. She grasps my wrists and pins me down; she is one strong goat. He grabs my kicking ankles (I landed a few blows on his crowlike chest), spreads my legs apart, and sinks his body between them. I cannot kick him off. From her pocket, the old woman draws strands of white cotton with which she ties my wrists together and straps them to the back of the bed. Another wad of cotton is pushed in my mouth to stop the screaming and the biting. I try to bite her fingers as she pushes the cotton in. It almost chokes me and I gag. The old woman slaps me hard across the
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