A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz [149]
Nevertheless, one of the most popular performances in the family repertoire, a favorite comedy with a set plot, revolved around a transgression followed by a session of soul-searching and then a fitting punishment. After the punishment came remorse, repentance, pardon, remission of part or most of the punishment, and, finally, a tearful scene of forgiveness and reconciliation, accompanied by hugs and mutual affection.
One day, for example, driven by love of science, I sprinkle black pepper into my mother's coffee.
Mother takes one sip, chokes, and spits the coffee out into her napkin. Her eyes are full of tears. Already full of regret, I say nothing, I know very well that the next scene belongs to Mother.
Father, in his role of unbiased investigator, cautiously tastes Mother's coffee. He may just wet his lips with it. At once he gives his diagnosis:
"Somebody has decided to season your coffee. It is my suspicion that this is the work of some high-ranking personage."
Silence. Like a supremely well-behaved child I shovel spoonful after spoonful of porridge from my plate into my mouth, wipe my lips with my napkin, pause for a moment, and then eat another two or three spoonfuls. composed. Sitting up straight. As though acting out an etiquette book. Today I shall finish all my porridge. Like a model child. Until the plate is sparkling clean.
Father continues, as though deep in thought, as though sharing with us the general outlines of the mysteries of chemistry, without looking at me, talking only to Mother, or to himself:
"There might have been a disaster, though. As is well known, there are a number of compounds made up of substances that in themselves are completely harmless and fit for human consumption, but that when combined are liable to pose a threat to the life of anyone who tastes them. Whoever it was who put whatever it is in your coffee might well have mixed in some other ingredient. And then? Poisoning. Hospital. Life-threatening, even."
A deathly silence fills the kitchen. As though the worst has already happened.
Mother, unconsciously, pushes the poisoned chalice away from her with the back of her hand.
"And then what?" Father continues, thoughtfully, nodding his head a few times as though he knows very well what almost happened but is too tactful to name the horror.
Silence.
"I therefore suggest that whoever performed this prank—no doubt inadvertently, as a misplaced joke—should have the courage to stand up at once. So that we should all know that if there is such a frivolous miscreant in our midst, at least we're not harboring a coward. A person bereft of all honesty and self-respect."
Silence.
It is my turn.
I get to my feet and say in a grown-up tone just like my father's:
"It was me. I'm sorry. It was a really stupid thing to do. It won't ever happen again."
"Are you sure?"
"Definitely."
"On your word of honor as a self-respecting man?"
"On my word of honor as a self-respecting man."
"Confession, regret, and promise all point to a reduction of the penalty. We shall content ourselves on this occasion with your kindly drinking it. Yes, now. Please."
"What, this coffee? With the black pepper in it?"
"Yes, indeed."
"What, me, drink it?"
"Yes, please."
But after a first hesitant sip Mother intervenes. She suggests that will be enough. There is no need to exaggerate. The child has such a sensitive stomach. And he has surely learned his lesson by now.
Father does not hear the plea for compromise. Or pretends not to. He asks:
"And how does Your Highness find his beverage? Does it taste like manna from heaven?"
I screw up my face in utter revulsion. Expressing suffering, remorse, and heart-wrenching sadness. So Father declares:
"Very well, then. that's enough. We shall make do with that on this occasion. Your Highness has expressed his contrition. So let us draw a line under what has been done. And let us underline it with the help of a piece of