which stuck at once and has even undergone a number of improvements: Liora turned them into the Double-Ys, while Zohar decreed separate nicknames for each of her boys. Yoav, the firstborn, became Y1, while Yariv, born several minutes later, was Y2.
The family lust for eating made its appearance in the twins during their very first days of life. More than once Zohar said she planned to nurse them for years and years because their nursing was so hardy that it brought her to the verge of losing consciousness and she was addicted to these moments when her “boobs emptied and her boys filled up” and everything blurred and her body was light and bent on flying, while her boys grew full and heavy, becoming the sandbags that weighted her to the ground.
Indeed, at two years of age the Y-Team was taller and broader than any children their age, presenting round and solid potbellies at the front of their bodies. Like me and like their father, they learned the skill of reading before they entered the first grade, not from the tombstones of poets but from the cereal boxes their mother placed in front of their constantly emptying bowls.
At every family gathering they asked whether their kibbutz uncles had been invited, then hurried to find them, shouting joyfully “Save us a place!” and “We want to sit with you,” taking pleasure in the hearty backslaps their uncles planted on them from behind. The uncles always showed up in a band of pressed blue trousers, their sturdy potbellies ensconced in white, tentlike shirts, each one with a large spoon gleaming from a pocket. “We brought our own utensils — that way we manage to eat more.”
They paid no heed to the waitresses passing through the crowd and serving tiny hors d’oeuvres. “ ‘Those are just trivial distractions,’” Zohar quoted from one of her fat novels. They took plates from the tower of dishes at the head of the table and, while the nuptials were still under way, they stood, silent and patient, by the closed pots and serving dishes, only the tiny movements of the flaps of their nostrils and the particular angle of their cocked heads indicative of their efforts to ascertain what was under each lid.
“Have some salad,” Liora suggested to one of Zohar’s nephews, astonished by the mountain of goulash he had amassed on his plate.
The boy smiled. “Salad? You mean lettuce and stuff?”
“Why not? Vegetables are good for you.”
“What are you talking about, Aunt Liora? Don’t you know how the world works? Cows eat vegetables, and we eat cows.”
“It would help you move the food into your stomach.”
“Do I look like someone who needs help moving food into his stomach?”
“You see,” Liora whispered to Benjamin, “it was on account of these relatives of yours that I named the Chevy I gave Yair ‘Behemoth,’” to which Benjamin complained, “I don’t like for the children to sit with them. Why don’t they sit at our table?” But their mother had already smiled her slow, serene smile and said, “Because these are their type. With them they feel at home, they’re accepted as they are. They aren’t scolded or corrected, and nobody tries to make them into what they are not.”
“One day they’ll wind up looking like them, too. No girl will be interested in them.”
“They already do look like them,” Zohar said, reveling in the fact. “A little small yet, but coming along nicely Don’t worry And as for girls,” she added, “let’s wait and see, Benjamin. I know quite a few girls—in fact, I’m one of them—who like boys just like these. Large and kind-hearted, boys you can lean on and be carried off in their arms, boys you can slug when you need to and call on for help when you need to.”
“If that’s what you like, why didn’t you pick a big brute like that?” Liora inquired.
“I chose a brute like you.”
So you see, our family is small but full of affection. My wife is fond of Yordad and my brother, my brother is
The family lust for eating made its appearance in the twins during their very first days of life. More than once Zohar said she planned to nurse them for years and years because their nursing was so hardy that it brought her to the verge of losing consciousness and she was addicted to these moments when her “boobs emptied and her boys filled up” and everything blurred and her body was light and bent on flying, while her boys grew full and heavy, becoming the sandbags that weighted her to the ground.
Indeed, at two years of age the Y-Team was taller and broader than any children their age, presenting round and solid potbellies at the front of their bodies. Like me and like their father, they learned the skill of reading before they entered the first grade, not from the tombstones of poets but from the cereal boxes their mother placed in front of their constantly emptying bowls.
At every family gathering they asked whether their kibbutz uncles had been invited, then hurried to find them, shouting joyfully “Save us a place!” and “We want to sit with you,” taking pleasure in the hearty backslaps their uncles planted on them from behind. The uncles always showed up in a band of pressed blue trousers, their sturdy potbellies ensconced in white, tentlike shirts, each one with a large spoon gleaming from a pocket. “We brought our own utensils — that way we manage to eat more.”
They paid no heed to the waitresses passing through the crowd and serving tiny hors d’oeuvres. “ ‘Those are just trivial distractions,’” Zohar quoted from one of her fat novels. They took plates from the tower of dishes at the head of the table and, while the nuptials were still under way, they stood, silent and patient, by the closed pots and serving dishes, only the tiny movements of the flaps of their nostrils and the particular angle of their cocked heads indicative of their efforts to ascertain what was under each lid.
“Have some salad,” Liora suggested to one of Zohar’s nephews, astonished by the mountain of goulash he had amassed on his plate.
The boy smiled. “Salad? You mean lettuce and stuff?”
“Why not? Vegetables are good for you.”
“What are you talking about, Aunt Liora? Don’t you know how the world works? Cows eat vegetables, and we eat cows.”
“It would help you move the food into your stomach.”
“Do I look like someone who needs help moving food into his stomach?”
“You see,” Liora whispered to Benjamin, “it was on account of these relatives of yours that I named the Chevy I gave Yair ‘Behemoth,’” to which Benjamin complained, “I don’t like for the children to sit with them. Why don’t they sit at our table?” But their mother had already smiled her slow, serene smile and said, “Because these are their type. With them they feel at home, they’re accepted as they are. They aren’t scolded or corrected, and nobody tries to make them into what they are not.”
“One day they’ll wind up looking like them, too. No girl will be interested in them.”
“They already do look like them,” Zohar said, reveling in the fact. “A little small yet, but coming along nicely Don’t worry And as for girls,” she added, “let’s wait and see, Benjamin. I know quite a few girls—in fact, I’m one of them—who like boys just like these. Large and kind-hearted, boys you can lean on and be carried off in their arms, boys you can slug when you need to and call on for help when you need to.”
“If that’s what you like, why didn’t you pick a big brute like that?” Liora inquired.
“I chose a brute like you.”
So you see, our family is small but full of affection. My wife is fond of Yordad and my brother, my brother is
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