Everything Is Illuminated

by Jonathan Safran Foer

  "What do you mean he does not eat meat?" the waitress asked, and Grandfather put his head in his hands. "What is wrong with him?" she asked. "Which? The one who does not eat meat, the one with his head in his hands, or the bitch who is masticating her tail?" "The one who does not eat meat." "It is only the way that he is." The hero asked what we were talking about. "They do not have anything without meat," I informed him. "He does not eat any meat at all?" she inquired me again. "It is merely the way he is," I told her. "Sausage?" "No sausage," Grandfather answered to the waitress, rotating his head from here to there. "Maybe you could eat some meat," I suggested to the hero, "because they do not have anything that is not meat." "Don't they have potatoes or something?" he asked. "Do you have potatoes?" I asked the waitress. "Or something?" "You only receive a potato with the meat," she said. I told the hero. "Couldn't I just get a plate of potatoes?" "What?" "Couldn't I get two or three potatoes, without meat?" I asked the waitress, and she said she would go to the chef and inquire him. "Ask him if he eats liver," Grandfather said.

  The waitress returned and said, "Here is what I have to say. We can make concessions to give him two potatoes, but they are served with a piece of meat on the plate. The chef says that this cannot be negotiated. He will have to eat it." "Two potatoes is fine?" I asked the hero. "Oh, that would be great." Grandfather and I both ordered the pork steak, and ordered one for Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior as well, who was becoming sociable with the hero's leg.

  When the food arrived, the hero asked for me to remove the meat off of his plate. "I'd prefer not to touch it," he said. This was on my nerves to the maximum. If you want to know why, it is because I perceived that the hero perceived he was too good for our food. I took the meat off his plate, because I knew that is what Father would have desired me to do, and I did not utter a thing. "Tell him we will commence very early in the morning tomorrow," Grandfather said. "Early?" "So we can have as much of the day for searching as possible. It will be rigid at night." "We will commence very early in the morning tomorrow," I said to the hero. "That's good," he said, kicking his leg. I was very flabbergasted that Grandfather would desire to go forth early in the morning. He hated to not repose tardy. He hated to not repose ever. He also hated Lutsk, and the car, and the hero, and, of late, me. Leaving early in the morning would provide him with more of the day aroused with all of us. "Let me inspect at his maps," he said. I asked the hero for the maps. As he was reaching into his fanny pack, he again kicked his leg, which made Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior become sociable with the table, and also made the plates move. One of the hero's potatoes descended to the floor. When it hit the floor it made a sound. PLOMP. It rolled over, and then was inert. Grandfather and I examined each other. I did not know what to do. "A terrible thing has occurred," Grandfather said. The hero continued to view the potato on the floor. It was a dirty floor. It was one of his two potatoes. "This is awful," Grandfather said silently, and moved his plate to the side. "Awful." He was correct.

  The waitress returned to our table with the colas we ordered. "Here are—" she began, but then she witnessed the potato on the floor and walked away with warp speed. The hero was still witnessing the potato on the floor. I do not know for certain, but I imagine he was imagining that he could pick it up, put it back on his plate, and eat it, or he could leave it on the floor, delude the mishap never happened, eat his one potato, and counterfeit to be happy, or he could push it with his foot to Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior, who was aristocratic enough not to eat it as it laid on that dirty floor, or he could tell the waitress for another, which would mean he would have to get another piece of meat for me to remove from his plate because for him meat is disgusting, or he could just eat the piece of meat I removed from his plate before, as I would hope for him to. But what he did was not any of these things. If you want to know what he did, he did not do anything. We remained silent, witnessing the potato. Grandfather inserted his fork in the potato, picked it up from the floor, and put it on his plate. He cut it into four pieces and gave one to Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior under the table, one to me, and one to the hero. He cut off a piece from his piece and ate it. Then he looked at me. I did not want to, but I knew that I had to. To say that it was not delicious would be an overstatement. Then we looked at the hero. He looked at the floor, and then at his plate. He cut off a piece from his piece and looked at it. "Welcome to Ukraine," Grandfather said to him, and punched me on the back, which was a thing I relished very much. Then Grandfather started laughing. "Welcome to Ukraine," I translated. Then I started laughing. Then the hero started laughing. We laughed with much violence for a long time. We obtained the attention of every person in the restaurant. We laughed with violence, and then more violence. I witnessed that each of us was manufacturing tears at his eyes. It was not until very much in the posterior that I understanded that each of us was laughing for a different reason, for our own reason, and that not one of those reasons had a thing to do with the potato.

  There is something that I did not mention before, which it would now be befitting to mention. (Please, Jonathan, I implore you never to exhibit this to one soul. I do not know why I am writing this here.) I returned home from a famous nightclub one night and desired to view television. I was surprised when I heard that the television was already on, because it was so tardy. I cogitated that it was Grandfather. As I illuminated before, he would very often come to our house when he could not repose. This was before he came to live with us. What would occur is that he would commence to repose while viewing television, but then rise a few hours later and return to his house. Unless I could not repose, and because I could not repose would hear Grandfather viewing television, I would not know the next day if he had been in the house the night previous. He might have been there every night. Because I never knew, I thought of him as a ghost.

  I would never say hello to Grandfather when he was viewing television, because I did not want to meddle with him. So I walked slowly that night, and without noise. I was already on the four stair when I heard something queer. It was not crying, exactly. It was something a little less than crying. I submerged the four stairs with slowness. I walked on toes through the kitchen and observed from around the corner, amid the kitchen and the television room. First I witnessed the television. It was exhibiting a football game. (I do not remember who was competing, but I am confident that we were winning.) I witnessed a hand on the chair that Grandfather likes to view television in. But it was not Grandfather's hand. I tried to see more, and I almost fell over. I know that I should have recognized the sound that was a little less than crying. It was Little Igor. (I am such a stupid fool.)

  This made me a suffering person. I will tell you why. I knew why he was a little less than crying. I knew very well, and I wanted to go to him and tell him that I had a little less than cried too, just like him, and that no matter how much it seemed like he would never grow up to be a premium person like me, with many girls and so many famous places to go, he would. He would be exactly like me. And look at me, Little Igor, the bruises go away, and so does how you hate, and so does the feeling that everything you receive in life is something you have earned.

  But I could not tell him any of these things. I roosted on the floor of the kitchen, only several meters distance from him, and I commenced to laugh. I did not know why I was laughing, but I could not stop. I pressed my hand against my mouth so that I would not manufacture any noise. My laughing got more and more, until my stomach pained. I attempted to rise, so that I could walk to my room, but I was afraid that it would be too difficult to control my laughing. I remained there for many, many minutes. My brother persevered to a little less than cry, which made my silent laughing even more. I am able to understand now that it was the same laugh that I had in the restaurant in Lutsk, the laugh that had the same darkness as Grandfather's laugh and the hero's laugh. (I ask leniency for writing this. Perhaps I will remove it before I post this part to you. I am sorry.) As for Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior, she did not eat her piece
of the potato.

  The hero and I spoke very much at dinner, mostly about America. "Tell me about things that you have in America," I said. "What do you want to know about?" "My friend Gregory informs me that there are many good schools for accounting in America. Is this true?" "I guess. I don't really know. I could find out for you when I get back." "Thank you," I said, because now I had a connection in America, and was not alone, and then, "What do you want to make?" "What do I want to make?" "Yes. What will you become?" "I don't know." "Surely you know." "This and that." "What does it mean this and that?" "I'm just not sure yet." "Father informs me that you are writing a book about this trip." "I like to write." I punched his back. "You are a writer!" "Shhhh." "But it is a good career, yes?" "What?" "Writing. It is very noble." "Noble? I don't know." "Do you have any books published?" "No, but I'm still very young." "You have stories published?" "No. Well, one or two." "What are they dubbed?" "Forget it." "This is a first-rate title." "No. I mean, forget it." "I would love very much to read your stories." "You probably won't like them." "Why do you say that?" "I don't even like them." "Oh." "They're apprentice pieces." "What does it mean apprentice pieces?" "They're not real stories. I was just learning how to write." "But one day you will have learned how to write." "That's the hope." "Like becoming an accountant." "Maybe." "Why do you want to write?" "I don't know. I used to think it was what I was born to do. No, I never really thought that. It's just something people say." "No, it is not. I truly feel that I was born to be an accountant." "You're lucky." "Perhaps you were born to write?" "I don't know. Maybe. It sounds terrible to say. Cheap." "It sounds nor terrible nor cheap." "It's so hard to express yourself." "I understand this." "I want to express myself." "The same is true for me." "I'm looking for my voice." "It is in your mouth." "I want to do something I'm not ashamed of." "Something you are proud of, yes?" "Not even. I just don't want to be ashamed." "There are many premium Russian writers, yes?" "Oh, of course. Tons." "Tolstoy, yes? He wrote War, and also Peace, which are premium books, and he also earned the Noble Peace Prize for writing, if I am not so wrong." "Tolstoy. Bely. Turgenev." "A question." "Yes?" "Do you write because you have a thing to say?" "No." "And if I may partake in a different theme: how much currency would an accountant receive in America?" "I'm not sure. A lot, I imagine, if he or she is good." "She!" "Or he." "Are there Negro accountants?" "There are African-American accountants. You don't want to use that word, though, Alex." "And homosexual accountants?" "There are homosexual everythings. There are homosexual garbage men." "How much currency would a Negro homosexual accountant receive?" "You shouldn't use that word." "Which word?" "The one before homosexual." "What?" "The n-word. Well, it's not the n-word, but—" "Negro?" "Shhh." "I dig Negroes." "You really shouldn't say that." "But I dig them all the way. They are premium people." "It's that word, though. It's not a nice thing to say." "Negro?" "Please." "What's wrong with Negroes?" "Shhh." "How much does a cup of coffee cost in America?" "Oh, it depends. Maybe one dollar." "One dollar! This is for free! In Ukraine one cup of coffee is five dollars!" "Oh, well, I didn't mention cappuccinos. They can be as much as five or six dollars." "Cappuccinos," I said, elevating my hands above my head, "there is no maximum!" "Do you have lattes in the Ukraine?" "What is latte?" "Oh, because they're very cool in America. Really, they're basically everywhere." "Do you have mochas in America?" "Of course, but only children drink them. They're not very cool in America." "Yes, it is very much the same here. We have also mochaccinos." "Yeah, of course. We have those in America. They might be seven dollars." "Are they much-loved things?" "Mochaccinos?" "Yes." "I think they're for people who want to drink a coffee drink but also really like hot chocolate." "I understand this. What about the girls in America?" "What about them?" "They are very informal with their boxes, yes?" "You hear about them, but nobody I know has ever met one of them." "Are you carnal very often?" "Are you?" "I inquired you. Are you?" "Are you?" "I inquired headmost. Are you?" "Not really." "What do you intend by not really?" "I'm not a priest, but I'm not John Holmes either." "I know of this John Holmes." I lifted my hands to my sides. "With the premium penis." "That's the one," he said, and laughed. I made him laugh with my funny. "In Ukraine everyone has a penis like that." He laughed again. "Even the women?" he asked. "You made a funny?" I asked. "Yes," he said. So I laughed. "Have you ever had a girlfriend?" I asked the hero. "Have you?" "I am inquiring you." "I sort of have," he said. "What do you signify with sort of?" "Nothing formal, really. Not a girlfriend girlfriend, really. I've dated, I guess, once or twice. I don't want to be formal." "It is the same state of affairs with me," I said. "I also do not want to be formal. I do not want to be handcuffed to only one girl." "Exactly," he said. "I mean, I've fooled around with girls." "Of course." "Blowjobs." "Yes, of course." "But once you get a girlfriend, well, you know." "I know very well."

  "A question," I said. "Do you think the women in Ukraine are first rate?" "I haven't seen many since I've been here." "Do you have women like this in America?" "There's at least one of everything in America." "I have heard this. Do you have many motorcycles in America?" "Of course." "And fax machines?" "Everywhere." "You have a fax machine?" "No. They're very passé." "What does it mean passé?" "They're out-of-date. Paper is so tedious." "Tedious?" "Tiresome." "I understand what you are telling me, and I harmonize. I would not ever use paper. It makes me a sleeping person." "It's so messy." "Yes, it is true, it makes a mess, and you are asleep." "Another question. Do most young people have impressive cars in America? Lotus Esprit V8 Twin Turbos?" "Not really. I don't. I have a real piece-of-shit Toyota." "It is brown?" "No, it's an expression." "How can your car be an expression?" "I have a car that is like a piece of shit. You know, it stinks like shit and looks shitty like shit." "And if you are a good accountant, you could buy an impressive car?" "Absolutely. You could probably buy most anything you want." "What kind of wife would a good accountant have?" "Who knows." "Would she have rigid tits?" "I couldn't say for sure." "Probably, although?" "I guess." "I dig this. I dig rigid tits." "But there are also accountants, even very good ones, who have ugly wives. That's just the way it works." "If John Holmes was a first-rate accountant, he could have any woman he would like for his wife, yes?" "Probably." "My penis is very big." "OK."

  After dinner at the restaurant, we drove back to the hotel. As I knew, it was an unimpressive hotel. There was no area for swimming and no famous discotheque. When we unclosed the door to the hero's room, I could perceive that he was distressed. "It's nice," he said, because he could perceive that I could perceive that he was distressed. "Really, it's just for sleeping." "You do not have hotels like this in America!" I made a funny. "No," he said, and he was laughing. We were like friends. For the first time that I could remember, I felt entirely good. "Make sure you secure the door after we go to our room," I told him. "I do not want to make you a petrified person, but there are many dangerous people who want to take things without asking from Americans, and also kidnap them. Good night." The hero laughed again, but he laughed because he did not know that I was not making a funny. "Come on, Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior," Grandfather called to the bitch, but she would not leave the door. "Come on." Nothing. "Come on!" he bellowed, but she would not dislodge. I tried to sing to her, which she relishes, especially when I sing "Billie Jean," by Michael Jackson. "She's just a girl who claims that I am the one." But nothing. She only pushed her head against the door to the hero's room. Grandfather attempted to remove her with force, but she commenced to cry. I knocked on the door, and the hero had a teeth-brush in his mouth. "Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior will manufacture Z's with you this evening," I told him, although I knew that would not be successful. "No," he said, and that was all. "She will not depart from your door," I told him. "Then let her sleep in the hall." "It would be benevolent of you." "Not interested." "Only for one night." "One too many. She'll kill me." "It is so unlikely." "She's crazy." "Yes, I cannot dispute that she is crazy. But she is also compassionate." I knew that I would not prevail. "Listen," the hero said, "if she wants t
o sleep in the room, I'd be happy to sleep in the hall. But if I'm in the room, I'm alone in the room." "Perhaps you could both sleep in the hall," I suggested.

  After we left the hero and the bitch to repose—hero in room, bitch in hall—Grandfather and I went downstairs to the hotel bar for drinks of vodka. It was Grandfather's notion. In truth, I was a petite amount terrified of being alone with him. "He is a good boy," Grandfather said. I could not perceive if he was inquiring me or tutoring me. "He seems good," I said. Grandfather moved his hand over his face, which had become covered with hairs during the day. It was only then that I noticed that his hands were still shaking, that they had been shaking all day. "We should try very inflexibly to help him." "We should," I said. "I would like very much to find Augustine," he said. "So would I."