Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

And you know what you can do with your morality.

For me, the valet's temperate thighs, and seeing the tarred wall of the pissoir while dreaming of my fiancée's loins, were no frivolous adventures.

Later, when I walked into the dining room and my eyes were hit by a sudden burst of morning sunshine, flashing and sparkling on the myriad surfaces of glass, mirrors, silverware, and china, not to mention people's eyes, I felt in my limbs this fresh morning brightness, a cozy well-being, the superiority of rebelliousness, and was glad I could immediately share it, look into those eyes with it, and glad that the sea was there, outside the window, still dark and rough from last night's storm, still foamy but gradually subsiding.

And if anything interested me, it was the filthy immorality of this rotten God.

And now I was glad that I had to observe some of those detestable rules of civilized conduct, which I looked down on with the awareness of my superiority, in the knowledge that I was once again in possession of my body.

I found it an infinitely beautiful piece of pious hypocrisy that I, who only two days earlier had made love to my fiancée on the floor of my apartment and a short while ago had felt up the thigh of a valet, was now standing between the open wings of the dining-room door and, blinded a little by the dazzling light, with impunity smiled my most polite smile while listening to the hotelier, a portly, jovial, bald little man, none other than the son of the onetime owner, yes, that's who it was — when we were both children, he would often knock down the sand castles young Count Stollberg and I had built on the beach, and not only that but, being a few years older than we, had also beaten us mercilessly for daring to protest — this same man, in a loud and solemn yet congenially paternal voice, was now introducing me to the other guests, and I kept bowing in every direction, making sure everyone partook of my glance, just as they kept nodding, making certain their glances were polite enough and did not betray curiosity.

At luncheon and supper everyone could choose from the abundant selection of food and sit at one long table to emphasize the more informal, familial character of these meals, as opposed to dinner, which was served more ceremoniously at five in the afternoon and at which we dined in small groups at separate tables; now there was no need to wait until everyone arrived; with the help of waiters posted around the table, guests could start eating as soon as they sat down, and in this regard nothing had changed in twenty years — I wouldn't have been surprised to find Mother at my table, or Privy Councillor Peter van Frick, or my father and Fräulein Wohlgast — the very same elegant silver flatware made the same clanging sound on the pale-blue, garland-patterned plates, although they must have gone through several sets since then; the heavy silver serving dishes were arranged with the same casual artistry, offering their varied courses in the form of a quaint relief map dedicated to good taste and designed to titillate the palate: firm heads of light-green artichokes dipped in tangy marinade, lobsters red and steaming in their shells, translucent pink salmon, rows and rows of sliced glazed ham and delicately braised veal, caviar-filled eggs, crispy endives, golden strips of smoked eel on dewy lettuce, various pâtés shaped in cones and balls — game terrine with truffles, fish mousse, pâté de foie gras — slender pickled gherkins, slabs of yellow Dutch cheese, bluefish in aspic, tart, sweet, and pungent sauces and creams in cups and dainty pitchers; mounds of fragrant warm toast, fresh fruit in multitiered crystal shells, crayfish of various kinds and sizes, quails baked crispy red, tiny sausages still sizzling in a pan, nut-filled quince jellies (of which I could never have enough as a child), and of course there were the warm fragrances filling the room, the evanescent whiffs of perfumes, colognes, pomades, and powders released with every gesture, and the harmonious music of crackling, swishing, jangling, splashing, and clinking rising above and submerged in the waxing and waning din of chatter, laughter, sighs, giggles, and whispers; had one decided to stand aside for a moment to find a secure spot in this well-ordered confusion, one would feel as though one were about to cast oneself into a turbulent icy river: gaze already cloudlessly vacant, obliging smile already on his lips, occasionally freezing into an unpleasant grin, and in his muscles the stirrings of pompous self-awareness, necessary if one is to abandon cozy solitude and make contact with others in a safely inconsequential maneuver, because one knows that here anything might happen, even though the public setting precludes the possibility of anything meaningful; nowhere do we feel the pleasant and unpleasant theatricality of our existence, the reality of peaks and valleys in our falseness and in the noble obligation of lying, as we do in company, when everyone is as politely vague as we are elusive, the strain of simultaneous attack and retreat making them vague and unreachable, and this, in turn, makes us feel drained, tired, and superfluous when on our own, and at the same time gratefully light-headed, too, for at the secret bidding of our desires things happen which in reality do not.

And as faultless as our entrance may seem, it's always accompanied by something unpleasant which at such moments looms as an insurmountable obstacle or an acute embarrassment: sometimes the form and surface of our body, because no matter how carefully we draped it in the folds of our clothing, when terrified at being unable to find the place we had hoped to find in the gathering, we suddenly begin to feel awkward and ugly, our limbs too short or too long, perhaps because we want to be light, graceful, and attractive, really perfect; and then it may seem not the body but our ill-chosen, old-fashioned, or perhaps too fashionable suit that's embarrassing, a collar tight to the point of choking, a garish cravat, a sleeve too small at the shoulders, the seat of our pants stuck in the crack of our buttocks, not to mention the inner sensations that come on so strongly at just such moments: fine perspiration on the forehead, above the lips, on the back and in the armpits, or a parched throat, moist palms, a stomach that begins to rumble, rebelling against the contrived little social games, and bowels which seem always to choose these occasions to release malodorous winds caused by nervous digestion; and of course there is always somebody in such company whose mere presence is irritating, and we are ready to dispense with every reasonable consideration to give vent to antagonistic or perhaps amorous but in any case raw emotions, which must be restrained, of course, just as the sound of those foul winds from our lower body must be held in, because that is what the game is all about: to conceal everything that might be real, while making everything appear as convincingly and charmingly real as possible.

Perhaps it's a boon in such situations that one has no time to dwell on their unpleasantness and must let the fixed smile immediately give way to polite words.

It's as if a large pear had been shoved up our rectum and with the help of clever sphincters we must keep it in balance, neither sucking it in nor expelling it, which I must confess is how I feel in company, as I'm sure many other people do, as though we sense each other's presence in our constricted rumps — an unseemly matter, however shameless we may be.

As the waiter (wearing the same kind of green tailcoat as the valet) led me to my place, I was shocked, nearly rooted to the floor, to see at the table the two ladies who had been on the train with me.

But there was no time to deal with this, because as I took my place between my two immediate table companions, who were already conversing, I also had to glance at the others, which meant that even before the meal began, and because it was communal, I had to offer my face and eyes for their close inspection, which is always a very critical moment.