Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

My grandmother's staunchly resolute dissembling in itself could not have cooled emotions which had reached the boiling point, or steered them to the calmer waters of reason and understanding; in their present state, it was not only difficult to see how these murderous emotions, which required clarification, could be cooled from one minute to the next, since they all desperately needed to arrive at the truth, but was also conceivable that Grandmother's obvious falsity might be the last straw, and all the anger, shame, despair, suspicion, and pain that had erupted during those few moments, seeking solace in a palpable truth, would now rain down on her head; Mother turned red with hatred for her mother, as if she wanted to yell at her to get out! or to fall on her, grab her by the throat, and smother that detestable false voice, but she was prevented from yielding to the impulse by their moral code, my parents' the exact opposite of Grandmother's, whose essence lay in making the finest, most subtle distinctions among the means of their tactics and strategies in pursuit of a certain end, between their legal and illegal conduct, and in making these distinctions they must remain appropriately discreet and unpredictable, which is what ensured them of moral superiority and practical power; therefore, any extreme manifestation of word or gesture, would be tantamount to treason, a betrayal of their mutual trust; they wouldn't allow themselves to express their emotions freely, the inner conflict of their secret lives had to remain a secret; this was the restricted area they guarded with the same conspiratorial means they had used to set it up, they had to settle everything between themselves and totally exclude a hostile and suspicious outside world; for me, the most remarkable thing about this whole scene was the way the two modes of behavior — nourished by two totally opposite motivations and with dissembling and illusion for their common ground — wound up blending peacefully into each other.

Of course, later they continued where they had left off, but for the moment Father, as if really in the midst of some frivolous chitchat, said yes, of course, he'd wash up promptly, he was on his way, and this was a kind of warning to Mother, whose face turned even more deeply red, but she readily reached for her robe, if only to turn away so she could hide her face, trembling with rage; she said she'd have to change, she wouldn't want to come to the table in her robe, she'd hurry, it would only take a minute; and the nervous twitch of embarrassment on János's face quickly dissolved into a smile, as if by this rapid change he was protecting what had to be kept secret; this was habit, too, the conspiratorial smile matching most precisely the genuine joy, expressed with phony exaggeration, which Grandmother had beamed at him; in their own way both smiles were perfect, since by hiding their feelings both Grandmother and János managed to produce real emotions.

He wouldn't describe himself as happy, exactly; János grinned, and reciprocated Grandmother's touch by touching her arm, but he was glad to be here, of course, though he couldn't quite comprehend just what was happening to him; Grandmother's face assumed a properly sympathetic expression: your poor, poor mother, she said with real emotion, her eyes welling up; there was a real kinship between them now, producing, most likely, the same emotional cliché, namely how sad it was that his mother couldn't have lived to see this day, but the cliché was effective enough, and because they were looking for a possible common ground, the sigh, the pitying intonation, the misty eyes harked back to the first time they had broached the subject, soon after János's arrival; this, then, was the closing of the subject, its quiet and heartfelt burial; Grandmother composed herself and gently, consolingly, as if embracing his dead mother as well, took János's arm.

I did not move; nobody was paying any attention to me anyway; Father disappeared and Mother went to change.

Ernő must be beside himself with excitement, Grandmother said with a laugh, he's so anxious to see you.

And they started for the dining room.

János, who adopted this convivial, conversational tone easily, was somewhat embarrassed about his oversight and asked a little too eagerly, How is Ernő? which made his voice ring false.

How clearly the mind can see now what back then was absorbed by the eyes as gestures, by the ears as sounds and stresses, and by memory, who knows for what reason — all stored away.

Hearing this stray tone in János's voice, Grandmother suddenly stopped before the dining-room door, as if she had to tell him something important before going in, withdrew her arm from his, turned to face him, and with eyes slightly dim with age looked up at him; all the brilliance she had forced on her eyes moments before was gone, replaced by sadness, fatigue, anxiety, and still she wouldn't say what she really wanted; she changed direction, pretended to be distracted, and grasped János's lapel, which she tugged with the apparent embarrassment of a young girl; this seemed like something serious again but was only a further hiding of something inexpressibly real.

Just when János felt that his features were safely under control, when he thought he'd found the only (properly false) voice to suit the situation, the discipline of his face broke down, nearly fell apart, and all the suppressed excitement, not of this moment but of the earlier moments, rose to the surface, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes began to twitch and vibrate, and he seemed to be dreading what Grandmother might have wanted to say but wouldn't, although he knew what it might be.

You know, Grandmother then said very slowly, almost whispering so no one else would hear, he's been a very active man all his life — she pronounced the word as actif —he could never stay put, and now this whole thing — I don't know much about politics, and I don't want to say anything — but this thing has also destroyed him, this helplessness! and your tragedy caused him much suffering, too, I know, although he never talks of it, or of anything else, he just keeps to himself, not saying anything, and that's how he lives his life from one attack to the next, he's driven everybody away, doesn't talk to anybody; Grandmother's whispering grew ever more passionate, and signs of her own deep hurt began to appear on her face, for she really wanted to talk about her own grievances; that man couldn't be helped anymore, he didn't want anyone's pity.

János stroked Grandmother's hair, not as if he was comforting a silly old woman, but as a bashful, faltering attempt to reach out.

Grandmother laughed again, wanting to elude the true meaning of János's gesture; So that's how things are, she said, come on, she added, and opened the door.

But she opened it only for him, she didn't go in; she and I watched this meeting through the open door.

And he most certainly needed all his presence of mind to accept as natural the sight that was waiting for him, which caught him unprepared.

One can bear life's vicissitudes only because our reflexes do for us what should be done with one's whole being, which in turn gives the impression that the body is not quite present when it is indeed present, and that's how our feelings protect us from our own feelings.

It was clearly visible on his back, his protruding shoulder blades, and his neck reduced to skin and sinews, that it wasn't he, János, who stepped into the room, because he was shocked and rooted to the spot; it was his humane duty that borrowed his legs and brought his body into the room.

In the dining room, the chandelier glowed brightly above the long, elaborately set, festive table, and my grandfather was standing behind his chair, feeling ill but fighting it, grasping hard the back of the chair, not even looking up, his gaze somewhere between the cream-colored china, the silver flatware, and the crystal glasses, but in fact he was listening to his own breathing, seemed almost to be looking at his breaths; his fragile face was dark, and above the two deep hollows of his temples, high on his arched forehead, whose sternness was relieved by the smoothed-down waves of his feather-light white hair, two thick blue veins protruded; he had to pay attention to every single breath, how to inhale and exhale, making sure it all went smoothly, not to let choppy breathing slip into an uncontrollable attack; he was an ancient but still beautiful man; at the other end of the table, my little sister sat on her chair on a stack of pillows, all dressed up in a smart blue outfit with a round collar, her hair neatly combed; deeply engrossed, and totally undisturbed by the opening door or the approaching stranger, she kicked the table with evenly paced kicks and banged her little tin plate with her spoon; naturally her mouth was open.