Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

Nothing to be done.

So I kept walking, not surprised at my trembling; I was afraid, but it seemed there was no degree of fear or anxiety I could not make myself adjust to; I protested, of course, tried to protect myself, but it was as if that certain force were compelling my body, now writhing in protest, to admit and accept all the secret desires it had tried to conceal, to acknowledge the terrible burdens it had to carry all these years, and this struggle made the way long, and my footsteps grew fainter; though the clatter was still there I no longer felt the ground securely under me, and like an epileptic falling into a fit I lost control over my limbs and felt gurgling saliva gushing from my open mouth; I kicked and thrashed and panted, but nothing changed; the grim little structure with its opening and closing, creaking and squeaking black mouth was waiting for me; with clearly human sounds it creaked and groaned and panted in the middle of a clump of bare bushes.

It just sat there, squat and motionless, etching sharply its ornamental entablature into the night sky, while I wouldn't even dare cry out; I kept walking.

No wonder, then, that the next morning I was quite exhausted, worn to a frazzle, as they say, as if I hadn't slept all night, though I must have slept very deeply to feel so dazed; still, in my frustration, I would have liked to go back into the dream, bccause maybe it was precisely there and then that what should have happened did happen, but my room in the meantime became much too bright, its features too sharp, as if outside, behind the drawn curtains, snow had fallen; it felt cool, almost cold; occasionally I heard soft footsteps in the hallways, and from the breakfast room downstairs came the even clatter and clang of dishes, snatches of conversation; a door creaked, then the same door that had wakened me during the night slammed again, there was the brief laughter of a woman; all these friendly, soothing sounds reached me softly, from a distance, but I didn't feel like getting out of bed, for all those pleasant morning sounds, familiar to me from childhood, bade me resume a life whose apparent ease and leisure was now not at all to my liking; no, I shouldn't have come here, after all, I said to myself, irritated, and turning over to the other side and closing my eyes, I tried to sink back into the warmth and the dark the dream had offered; but back where?

Snatches of the dream were still hovering about, it didn't seem too hard to return to it, and the man, too, was still standing there in front of the pissoir's gleaming, tarred wall, still in the pose of handing me a rose, which I didn't want to take from him because the grin on his puffy white face was so repulsive, and interestingly the rose looked blue, purplish blue, a firm, fleshy bud about to burst open; and now it was offering itself to me most insistently, as if morning had not yet come, as if I were still there, lingering with it in the night.

And then, in the open door between the bedroom and the sitting room, I saw standing before me a young valet with flaming red hair, standing there quietly, steadily, attentively, his friendly brown eyes following every little movement of my awakening, as though he'd been there forever and even had a good idea of what my dream had been about, although it was probably his soundless footsteps or his mere presence that had startled me out of my slumber just now; he was a strapping young lad, his healthy robust build more like a porter's or a coachman's, his thighs and shoulders about to burst the seams of his trousers and green frock coat, a quiet unobtrusive presence that reminded me of my own duties, as if he had clambered out of my dream or from a place even deeper within me, and also made me think of our servant back home and, once again, of the memory-filled night I had just gone through; I sensed the same stolid calm and rough-hewn dignity emanating from his body that I used to feel in Hilde's presence, so while feasting my eyes on the boy's freckled face and also suppressing a powerful yawn, I grumpily repeated the sentence, by now completely superfluous: No, I should never have come here; but if not here, where? I wondered, and this hulking body pressed into the wrong clothes seemed so comical, as did his flat nose, his freckles, his childishly open curious eyes, and the solemn air with which he stood there waiting for my order, and my own grumpiness, now that I was fully awake, also seemed so inappropriate and foolish that I burst out laughing.

"Will you be getting up now, Herr Thoenissen?" the valet asked dryly, as if he hadn't heard my laughter, which might have been rather over-familiar.

"Yes, I think so. Anyway, I should."

"Will you have tea or coffee?"

"Perhaps tea."

"Shall I fill the washbowl now or after the tea?"

"Do you think one should wash every morning?"

He was silent for a moment, his expression unchanged, but he did seem to understand something.

"And will you be taking your breakfast downstairs or shall I bring it up?"

"No, no, I'll go downstairs, of course. But isn't it rather chilly here?"

"I'll see to the fire right away, Herr Thoenissen."

"Yes, and how about giving me a shave?"

"Of course, Herr Thoenissen."

He disappeared for a few minutes, an opportunity I should have used to get out of bed and relieve myself — I suspect he took his time to give me a chance to do just that, for among themselves men are considerate that way, I wouldn't call it politeness but, rather, a brotherly appreciation of the embarrassing fact that in the morning an overfull bladder often causes an erection, and to jump out of bed in such a state would mean presenting whoever was there with the sight of a deceptive function of biological processes; we'd have to let him in on something whose true nature we ourselves don't fully understand and for that reason deem rather shameful — in any case, I delayed getting up and when he wheeled in a cart and quickly closed the door behind him I was still lying in bed or, rather, having tucked the pillow behind my back, was half sitting, making myself very comfortable, as if I knew that by getting up I would interrupt, or send in a different direction, an event which promised to be perfect in itself and at the moment was far more important to me than easing some physical discomfort; the pressure in the bladder cannot artificially be relieved, but the erection will subside if we divert our attention from it, and with it the last trace of the dream's sensuous excitement will perhaps also fade.

These were some of the things I was thinking about while he quietly busied himself around me, rolling the serving cart up to my bed, treading softly on the carpet, and making certain the dishes on the glass-topped cart did not rattle; I felt I was watching a feline, a silent predator, disguised as a valet; the event of the moment, which held me in its grip and which I found pleasing, was the series of his movements and gestures refined to the point of imperceptibility: without dripping a single drop on the gleaming damask napkin, he poured out the steaming tea and asked if I took it with milk — I don't know, should I? I said, but the deliberate audacity of my reply did not bother him; he acknowledged it and at the same time intimated that he was in no position to answer this question, the decision rested entirely with me, but whatever I decided would certainly meet with his approval, the manner of which would be neither submissive nor indifferent but would reveal, in a purely neutral form, the embarrassing perfection of readiness to meet any wish and at the same time take into account my possible eccentricities, which he might find hard to follow; with stubby fingers he folded back the napkin covering a basket of crisp rolls, and after handing me the teacup and the sugar bowl with its silver tongs, he was gone — I don't know how he did it, I didn't even hear his retreating footsteps, he simply left, sensing I had no further need of him.