Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

In other words, János thought that Father was responsible for the first.

Unfortunately, János said, he couldn't forget the circumstances; five miserable years hadn't been long enough for that; only the dead could conveniently forget things; those responsible should have done the job more thoroughly, with greater foresight! making sure no one was left to remember.

Would he be good enough to tell him just what circumstances he was alluding to, my winter-coated father asked.

At this point Mother let go of her robe, as if something terrible had happened inside her, hunched over, placed both hands on her stomach, and pressed down, trying to stop whatever was going on inside her.

No, he didn't think circumstances were right to discuss trivial details.

No, don't! not now, Mother whispered to them, not now!

What did he mean trivial details, his honor was at stake, and Father demanded, most emphatically demanded, to know the circumstances János was hinting at: Come on, out with it!

János remained silent for a long time, but this was a charged silence, unlike the earlier one; turbulent emotions seemed to have had a purging effect on Father, helped him to regain his equilibrium, to put his feelings back on the smooth, well-worn track of conviction, and this gave him strength, though behind the brittle guise of regained strength he was still fearful and humbled as he kept on listening to the words of the other man, who, because of the quarrel that had erupted between them and against his will, was now strangely less self-assured; as he tried with elaborate and carefully chosen words to keep his contemptible opponent at a distance, all the tender sentiments vanished from his face, gone was the lovely pain caused by the shock of his sudden freedom, the news of his mother's death, his passionate reunion with us, not to mention the sight of Mother's mutilated body, which in itself would have been enough to turn a man into mush in the maw of fate; unlike Father, János reacted to the argument by casting off the burden of his sentiments and now seemed ready to resume the fight naked, with nothing to protect him; he struggled, he wanted to smile, but he was struggling not with his emotions but with the freedom the gods had inflicted on him; pain made the wrinkles around his eyes contract and deepen, with a bit of fanciful exaggeration one might even say that Mentor was standing next to him, urging him on; he became somber, the wrinkles relaxed, and he grew weary but not weak, with the weariness of a man so confident in his own truth and in the justice of his cause — way beyond the personal, this was nothing less than part of universal truth and justice — that he was already bored by, and found superfluous, the very process of having to present evidence; at the same time, from a moral standpoint, this struggle could hardly seem elegant, since only he, and he alone, could have truth on his side— after all, he was the victim; and although this was the role that in his freedom he was most loath to take on, the fight could not be avoided— indeed, they were already in the midst of it; for several minutes they'd been speaking in that secret language only they could fully understand, the language of alertness and suspicion, of constant readiness and accusation, whose sources and origin Maja and I had tried to trace while playing detective; this was their language, their only common weapon, the language of their past, which János, unless he was determined to annihilate himself, could consider neither irrelevant nor useless; he hated their shared past, and so he was looking for a chink in the armor, a phrase, a piece of information, with which he could still avoid his former self.

Look, he said, drawing out the word as if with this one word he could gain precious time for himself, you must know much better than I what you may or may not ask of me, but first of all, don't shout at me, don't try so desperately to be right! and second of all, please let me ask you, like this, very calmly, that aside from my so-called case — because in our relationship that case no longer makes any difference — tell me, how many death warrants have you signed? I'm curious, purely for statistical reasons.

Father remained quiet for a while, but they kept looking at each other, their eyes locked; and now it was Father's turn for fancy language, saying that he did not consider the question justified, since János must know that he could not have signed a single death warrant, that wasn't part of his job, therefore the question, at least in this formulation, was inappropriate.

Oh, of course, sorry! he'd completely forgotten about that — he begged Father's pardon.

That's right, Father said, he too drawing out his words, as a prosecutor he might ask for the death penalty in a given case, but as is well known, two members of the people's tribunal and a people's judge brought in the verdict as they saw fit.

Why, of course, János cried, that's how it is, this jurisdiction, these legal proceedings, it's all so complicated, Father should forgive him, but he always got lost in them, got everything all mixed up.

Yes, that's how it is, and one shouldn't mix it all up.

Well, in that case, everything's all right!

I would have liked very much to get out of there, but I didn't dare move the air in the room.

Because he was of the opinion, Father continued ominously, slowly and quietly, that based on their former acquaintance, and he didn't know which one of them had been more radical, János wouldn't have acted differently in a similar situation; he would have discharged his duties to the best of his beliefs, wouldn't he? and therefore he saw the roles they had been assigned during the past five years as the work of mere chance.

Their voices were lowered to the level of whispering, of hissing, while Mother also kept up her whispering: No, don't, not now, I beg of you, not now.

There, you see, János whispered, I would have forgotten about the role of chance, but even if it was a series of chances, they've become facts which now, for some reason, seem to bother you, why? why this ludicrous display of emotion? if that was my role, as you say, then it's all right, we're all set; I'm over here, and you're over there, and there's nothing I want to tell you, you understand?

He was ready to tell him everything he knew, everything, Father said; all he was asking now — asking, not demanding, because he really had no right to demand — all he was asking was that János tell him what circumstances he had been alluding to earlier.

Because your honor is at stake, János said.

Yes, my winter-coated father said, my honor.

It got very quiet again, and in this quiet I started for the door; the silence made Mother open her eyes, because she wanted to see what was happening in the silence; I walked past her, right in front of her eyes, but she didn't notice that I could walk again.

You're conducting my interrogation very skillfully, János said, but then you really know me, you know almost more about me than I do myself.

What was he talking about? Father asked.

He wasn't talking about anything, and he didn't want to talk to him about anything at all.

This I heard as I was on my way out, but I couldn't actually leave, because Father began to scream; it was as if the earth itself was shaking and everything that man had ever built on its thin crust was going to collapse, crash, crumble; the sound was that of crying and wild yelling, the kind of male sobbing that's only a breath of self-discipline away from murder; pressing his hands against his temples so he wouldn't murder the other man, or maybe to keep his head from splitting open, he was crying and screaming, But why? why like this? I can't stand it! I can't! and he went on screaming that János didn't understand anything, how could he ever tell János about the nights spent waiting, when he thought he was going to be next, when he felt completely alone; yes, he was ashamed, but didn't understand; no, he wasn't ashamed, just didn't understand why his best friend, who made him die a thousand deaths, didn't want to talk to him.