A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz [153]
I put the cup of sorrows to my lips, pretending to drink, and when Auntie Mala looks at me—with the rest of my audience, eager to hear what I shall say—I hastily promise (in Father's words and Father's tone of voice) that both her creations, the apple cake and the syrupy drink, are "truly very excellent."
Auntie Mala's face lights up:
"There's more! There's plenty more! Let me pour you another glass! I've made a whole jugful!"
As for my parents, they look at me with mute adoration. In my mind's ears I can hear their applause, and from my mind's waist I bow to my appreciative audience.
But what to do next? First of all, to gain some time, I must distract their attention. I must pronounce some utterance, something deep beyond my years, something they will like:
"Something as tasty as this in life needs to be drunk in tiny sips."
The use of the phrase "in life" particularly helps me: the Pythian has spoken again. The pure, clear voice of nature itself has sounded from my mouth. Taste your life in little sips. Slowly, thoughtfully.
Thus, with a single dithyrambic sentence, I manage to distract their attention. So they won't notice I still haven't drunk any of their wood glue. Meanwhile, while they are still in a trance, the cup of horrors stays on the floor beside me, because life must be drunk in little sips.
As for me, I am deep in thought, my elbows resting on my knees and my hands under my chin, in a pose that precisely represents a statue of the Thinker's little son. I was shown a picture of the original once in the encyclopedia. After a moment or two their attention leaves me, either because it is not fitting to stare at me when my soul is floating up to higher spheres, or because more visitors have arrived and a heated discussion gets going about the refugee ships, the policy of self-restraint, and the High Commissioner.
I seize the opportunity with both hands, slip out into the hallway with my poisoned chalice, and hold it up to the nose of one of the Persian cats, the composer or the philosopher, I'm not sure which. This plump little polar bear takes a sniff, recoils, lets out an offended mew, twitches its whiskers, No thank you very much, and retreats with a bored air to the kitchen. As for its partner, the portly creature does not even bother to open its eyes when I hold out the glass but merely wrinkles its nose, as if to say No, really, and flicks a pink ear toward me. As though to chase away a fly.
Could I empty the lethal potion into the water container in the birdcage, which blind, bald Alma-Mirabelle shares with her winged pinecone? I weigh the pros and cons: the pinecone might tell on me, whereas the philodendron will not give me away even if it is interrogated under torture. My choice therefore falls on the plant rather than the pair of birds (who, like Auntie Mala and Uncle Staszek, are childless, and whom one must therefore not ask when they are planning to lay an egg).
After a while Auntie Mala notices my empty glass. It immediately becomes apparent that I have made her really and truly happy by appreciating her drink. I smile at her and say, just like a grown-up, "Thank you, Auntie Mala, it was just lovely." Without asking or waiting for confirmation she refills my glass and reminds me to remember that that isn't all, she's made a whole jug. Her cherryade might not be as fizzy as it could be, but it is as sweet as chocolate, isn't it?
I concur and thank her once again and settle down to wait for another opportunity; then I slink out again unobserved, like an underground fighter on his way to the British fortified radar installations, and poison their other plant, a cactus.
But at that moment I sense a powerful urge, like a sneeze you can't hold back, like an irresistible laugh in class, to confess, to stand up and announce in public that their drink is so foul that even their cats and their birds find it disgusting, that I have poured