Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

Grandfather slowly peered out from behind his glasses, he hadn't lifted his head yet, his gaze did not want to reveal more than what he was feeling, but that was so much, and so true, that what he could say with words would be much less, and so he couldn't really lift his head, but the artificially prolonged whistling of his breathing began to subside, his face grew even darker, his forehead turned whiter; he had things under control.

And with his glance he immediately perceived unease in his guest's eyes; he didn't smile but remained serious, and yet something appeared on the surface of his eyes that we might call cheerfulness, and with this cheerfulness he was helping along János's eyes.

Somewhat playfully, tilting his head sideways, he threw a glance at my little sister as if to say to János, You see, that's how she is, and I'm standing here, making sure she's allowed to bang on that plate to her heart's content; yes, that's what he seemed to be saying, giving János a chance to take a good look at her so he wouldn't have to pretend not to notice what he couldn't help noticing.

Then their eyes met again, and while my little sister continued banging on her plate with her spoon, they slowly began to walk toward each other; they grasped each other's hands, two old hands holding two mature hands over the head of an idiot child; and then I could see János's face again, which had returned to its former look; the two men held each other.

I thought a lot about you, Ernő, said János after a long silence.

If that's true, Grandfather said, then there was nothing more János could possibly tell him.

He had no choice, János said; besides, he had plenty of time to think.

As for himself, Grandfather said, he'd been preparing for eternity; he didn't think, didn't hope, that it would be over one day, or at least that he would live to see it, though he should have known.

Known what? János asked.

Grandfather shook his head, didn't want to say, and then, as if the thing they had meant to cover up — not for fear or shame, just wanted to — erupted from them, they fell on each other and stood for a long time hugging.

When they separated, my sister stopped her banging and watched the two men, her mouth wide-open; a small sound issued from her, not clearly of fear or happiness; behind me, Grandmother sighed and hurried back to the kitchen.

And they just stood there helplessly, their arms dangling at their sides.

He'd begun to understand a lot of things, János said, so many things that he'd almost become a liberal, would you believe that, Ernő?

What d'you know! Grandfather said.

Can you imagine that?

Then maybe you should run for office in the next election.

And one pair of hands again grabbed the other pair, and the two men literally laughed in each other's face, coarsely, loudly, knocking against each other in their drunken laughter, and then the laughter suddenly drowned in silence, which must have never left them, not even during their laughter, which had been there all along, biding its time.

I was still standing in the door, unable to tear myself away or to follow the events with my body and make it enter the room; I suppose this is the state we describe as being beside oneself; I had to turn away; I saw my little sister, still clutching her spoon, with her big head tilted, who was staring at the men; now with little giggles and a grin, now with drooping lips and whimpering sounds on the verge of sobbing, she also seemed to be experimenting, trying to decide what would best suit this unusual occasion; she could experience any emotion now, most likely experienced a great many, could perceive the situation as friendly, just as easily feel it to be hostile, and because she was not choosing between fine shades of emotion and was perhaps terrified by the impossibility of choosing, she began a dreadful bawling.

Which anyone who had never lived in close proximity to a mentally defective child might have considered the capricious creation of chance.

Later, it was Father who had to push me to the table; I was so paralyzed by my sister's bawling I couldn't make it there on my own; I remember using the excuse that I wasn't hungry.

Grandmother came in with a steaming soup tureen.

As precisely as my memory has preserved the events leading up to this meal, it has buried just as deeply those that followed it; I know, of course, that memory mercilessly retains everything and I do admit my weakness: some things I don't want to remember.

Like how Mother's face slowly turned yellow, a very dark yellow, I could actually see it happening, but she kept pretending there was nothing wrong, and that's why I didn't dare say anything to her or to anyone else.

Or what happened earlier, when she came in wearing her navy-blue skirt, a white shirt, showing off her long, pretty legs in high-heeled lizard shoes which she saved for the most special occasions; as she hurried over to my little sister, I saw a colorful silk scarf tucked under the wide-open collar of her blouse; I hadn't seen her dressed for months, and that scarf showed just how much weight she had lost, she looked as if she had been put into the clothes by accident and the scarf was supposed to hide the weight loss; when my little sister behaved like that, it was best not to touch her, so Mother crouched down next to her and made a bunny rabbit from the napkin.

And the way János was watching all this.

And how Father yelled, Get her out of here!

And how, as she was dragged out, the silence of the three men remained behind, and how her screams faded away.

And the feeling during the hours that followed, that somebody had to be silenced, and the silence, and the voracious eating.

And how the end was so long in coming; the thing was not going to end, kept lasting, there was still more of it no matter how much everyone tried to eat it off their plates; and how everything that occurred to any of them as a solution or possible evasion, everything was part of the end that wouldn't come.

And then they shut themselves in another room, and only random words and stifled cries could be heard; but I didn't want to draw any conclusion from these scattered words; the message, to me, was the same.

And it must have been late at night when I took the screwdriver, I didn't turn on the light and didn't even close the door behind me — there was no point in being cautious anymore, and in fact I didn't much care what I was doing — inserted the screwdriver between the desktop and the drawer, raised the top, the lock snapped open, and just as I was taking the money out of the drawer Grandfather walked across the dark room.

He asked me what I was doing.

Nothing, I said.

What did I need the money for? he asked.

No reason, I said.

He stood there for a while longer, then very quietly told me not to be afraid, they were just straightening things out among themselves. And then he left the room.

His voice was calm and serious, and this voice, as if coming from a different source, this reasoning of his, coming from such a different way of thinking, exposed, showed up for what it was, what I'd intended to do; for a long time I stood in the dark room, thus exposed to myself; Grandfather wrecked my plan, yet also put me at ease a little; the money, two hundred forints, I put in my pocket anyway.

I left the drawer open, with the screwdriver on top of the desk.

I also remember that I fell asleep that night with my clothes on, which I noticed only the next morning; during the night somebody covered me with a blanket; at least I didn't have to get dressed in the morning.

And I mention this not to be amusing but to point out with what trivial little advantages one is ready to console oneself at a time like this.

And when I came home from school, the two coats, Father's heavy winter coat and that other coat, were still hanging on the rack; and I heard the men's voices from the room.