Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

But so far I've spoken only of the strength and rhythm, the dynamics, of emotions, that ebb and flow in which their colors and directions manifest themselves, their pulse and breathing, but by no means the emotions themselves, only one of their many characteristics; what really must have happened in him I can only approximate with a metaphor: he became a child and an old man, as if these two ages had yanked his features in two different directions; he turned into a very offended child whom up to now the world had pampered with false appearances, whose good mind had been nursed into idiotic complacency, and now that this same world had revealed its cruel face to him and he didn't like what was happening, wasn't used to it, the child withdrew from reality into sulking, into hurt-fulness, into hate-filled, sniveling regression, unwilling to see what he saw, hurting to the point where he should have been whining and whimpering with pain, which is why he tried so desperately to force himself back into the world of comforting appearances, wanting to be coddled and nursed again, to be dumb and complacent, to stick his thumb back into his mouth, to have his mother's nipples; consequently everything I had once seen as clear, bright, and pure, the sternness of moral behavior reflected in his face, now seemed to be exposing their sources: inane, childish trust, and the fact that he was holding on to somebody's hand; his mouth and nostrils quivered, his eyelids fluttered, his brows twitched like a child's, and all this superimposed on adult features made his face look malformed and freakish; I glimpsed within the ravaged face of this man the child who had never managed to grow up; at the same time, the child seemed older than his years, his pale face was full of shadows; he had turned into a very old man so utterly shattered, crushed, pulverized by real, cruel, bloody, criminal phenomena hiding behind the world of appearances that nothing in him was still innocent, his life force was barely flickering; now he knew, saw, and understood everything, nothing could catch him unprepared, and anything that did was but the recurrence of something that had happened before, and thus behind the fine veil of his intelligence and insight there was a weary boredom rather than affection or love; he seemed to be thrashing between the extremes of his childhood and old age, between his past and his possible future, and being unable to find the noble expression appropriate to coping with the situation, his face simply fell apart.

And János Hamar kept looking on, calmly, almost moved, seemed to be peering out at Father from a strength reduced and clinging to his bones, looked at Father as if at the erstwhile object of his love, as if smiling at his lost past, with the soft expression we use when we're trying to help someone, to identify with him, urging him sympathetically to go ahead and say what's on his mind, we'll understand his feelings, or at least we'll try to.

I was certain, or rather my feelings were certain, that Janos was my real father and not this ridiculous figure in the clumsy, oversized winter coat; that's when I suddenly remembered that János's hair used to be dark and thick, and the only reason I didn't immediately recognize this real and profound inner closeness which I had always carried with me was that the color of his skin had changed, too, having lost its lively brown hue, and was now clinging, white and wrinkled, to the powerful bones of his face.

Mother's face, the most mysterious of all, confirmed my feelings about the men; without having moved from her place or having picked up her robe, she came and stood with her face between the two men.

And then the trembling mouth belonging to my father with the winter coat finally thrust the first sentence out into the silence; he said something to the effect of, You've come to see us, then.

On the other man's face pain rolled over the smile, and when he said he'd come against his will and couldn't help it, the smile and pain united again, and he continued: his mother had died two years ago, as Father must surely know, of course he went home first and found out from the people who in the meantime had taken over his apartment.

We didn't know, said my winter-coated father.

But then, in a very sharp, shrill voice, almost like a saw stuck in a knot of wood, Mother shouted, That's enough!

Again there was silence between the two men, and while my mother added — her voice deep and choked, sounding as if taking revenge on someone — that they did know but hadn't gone to the funeral, I felt all my strength flowing out of me, which is why I couldn't move from my spot.

Everyone was quiet, as if they all had retreated into themselves and also needed to gather their strength.

All right, János said a little later, it didn't matter; and the smile vanished completely from his face, only the pain remained.

This made my winter-coated father feel stronger; he moved finally, started for János, and although he didn't do anything but walk with his hat in his hand, making no other gesture, it still looked as though he was going to embrace János, who, as if alluding to his pain, apologetically raised his hand, imploring him not to come closer, to stay where he was.

He stopped, in his winter coat, his hair shone as it caught the slender shaft of sunlight, and I don't know why, maybe because of the unfinished movement, his hat fell out of his hand.

We must get over this, Mother whispered, as if trying to take the edge off János's rebuff, and then repeated even more quietly that they must get over this.

They both looked at her, and the way they did showed that both were hoping that she, the woman, would help them.

And this one look brought them together, made them a threesome again.

Except that here no one could help anyone; after a little while János turned away, it must have pained him that they were again three; and as soon as they felt János could not see them, the other two exchanged a hateful glance, some kind of signal, behind his back; he seemed to be looking out the window, listening to the water dripping in the drainpipe, watching the bare branches swaying in the wind, and a sob broke from him, a whimper, tears spilling over the brim of his eyes, but just as quickly he pushed it all back, swallowed it down; Yes, all right, he said, I know, he said, and then he broke down completely, and Mother began yelling at me, What was the matter with me, couldn't I see I had no business being there? and like a madwoman she shrieked at me that I should get out!

I would gladly have obeyed her, but I couldn't, just as they couldn't take another step toward one another but all stood in their places, too far apart to cross over.

So you want to settle the account, after all, Father said, too loudly, for at last he could say the words he'd been afraid to say earlier.

No, no, I'm sorry, János said, wiping the tears from his eyes with his fist, but, as before, one eye remained filled; I'm sorry, it's not you I came to see, I did come to this house, but not to see you! and then he said that my father had no reason to be afraid, there wasn't going to be a showdown, why, he couldn't even talk to Father; and if he planned to wipe out Father's family, he would go about it differently, wouldn't he? but either way, from this moment on, no matter how unpleasant it might make their reunion, or however uncomfortable it might be, my father had better get used to the idea that János was here, was alive, hadn't rotted away in jail, and would say whatever was on his mind; Didn't he think, my winter-coated father asked very quietly, that he, too, had something to do with it?

With getting him into jail or with getting him released? János asked.

With getting him released, of course.

No, frankly, he didn't think so; as a matter of fact, because of certain circumstances, he had reason to believe just the opposite.