Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

And he spoke again, very quietly, but only after rising suspicion had overtaken the group and the shouting had died down, the angry gestures became hesitant; no, the reason he had asked them here, he said, his voice measured and self-assured, was not to debate whether his proposal was necessary or not but to discuss how to execute it.

The unheard-of audacity of this statement immediately dispelled their suspicion, for only someone speaking with the force of his own convictions could be so outrageously imperious; his words again required silence.

Thinking only in political and ideological terms, busy looking for tactics and strategies they believed to be consistent, these people failed to realize that Father had silenced their suspicion not with brilliant reasoning, convinced them not with bold strokes of logic but with the insanity of his argument; an insane man was seizing the reins.

He was about to say something else when the young woman next to me suddenly spoke up, throwing out her arms in a warning and imploring gesture, her fingers trembling in the air as she begged the men's pardon— I was surprised at the strong, resonant voice that came out of her fragile, emotion-filled body; listening to the arguments, she said, she had the impression that she had dropped in not from another country but from another planet; frankly, she didn't know or much care where the members of this esteemed company lived, but in the country where she lived the restoration of a free and democratic government, elected by secret ballot, would be a more appropriate response to the crisis than the deployment of a provocative armed force, and they should not forget that she was not the only person in the country who held this view.

While she was speaking, trembling with emotion, her father stopped rocking in his chair, planted his feet firmly on the floor, and stared ahead with impassive approval as if he knew exactly what his daughter was going to say, even when the period would come at the end of her last sentence.

Unheard-of, this was simply unheard-of, as if an outrageous impropriety had taken place, one that must not be answered or acknowledged, seen or heard, it was beyond anything debatable, it had to be dismissed immediately, except the proper action to do so was lacking; they all sat there stunned.

The woman's father let his chair rock back now, and it swung down with what sounded like a deliberate thud, a reply of sorts, as if to say enough is enough! then he rose ceremoniously, suggesting that he might be able to defuse the situation, walked over to Father, placed his hand on his arm, and addressed him, not too loudly or too quietly, making sure everyone heard him: he thought Father's idea was well worth considering, he said, certainly worth detailed discussion, but perhaps later, as part of a larger debate, or better yet, in a smaller, more intimate setting; so many arguments and counter-arguments had been heard just now, he believed it would be premature, indeed impossible, to form a definite opinion; when he got to this point, many of the others started talking again, too, involuntarily assuming his reasonable, delaying, wait-and-see tone, and speaking as if nothing untoward had happened, everyone anxious to move on to other subjects or, if they had to stay with the one at hand, ready to switch to different, less confrontational attitudes.

Some of them got up, cleared their throats, began to gather their things, lit up last cigarettes, went out onto the balcony, exchanged furtive little glances in allusion to what had been said, here and there giggled, acted precisely as people of varied opinions would act at a not very exciting official reception.

Although it may appear that all this did not amount to much, I told Melchior while we were still walking, very soon afterward I had a definite indication that the debate that Sunday was not a total fiasco and, what's more, that the young woman's words might have helped the debaters clarify their own views; a few days later Father and I made a date to meet at Marx Square, to buy a pair of shoes, I think; I waited in vain for an hour and a half; when he finally got home late that night, his clothes and hair reeking of cigarette smoke, he told me he had had to attend a meeting of historic importance and could not leave it; he sounded anxious but also hopeful as he begged my pardon; this unusual, talkative politeness led me to believe that while he might not have prevailed at the meeting, at least he had not suffered another defeat — we got an additional respite from his madness.

I stopped talking, abruptly, as if I had something more to say but had no idea what I could add or how I had got entangled in the story, which suddenly seemed false, alien, and far removed from me; we kept walking, listening to the even sound of our footsteps, Melchior asked no questions and I was glad I didn't have to say another word.

And in this silence punctuated by our footsteps which was not really silence but the absence of appropriate words, I felt that everything I'd said until then was nothing but idle talk, just words, an impenetrable and superfluous heap of empty words, foreign to me, not bending to my tongue; it was senseless to talk without the proper words, and there were none, not even in my native vocabulary, that would lead somewhere in this story, nowhere to go in the story, for there is no story when compulsive memory continually bogs down in insignificant details or details imagined to be meaningless; at that moment, for example, in my mind I was wandering about the old Marx Square in Budapest waiting for Father, and of course he didn't show up, and still I couldn't tear myself away from there — but why would I tell Melchior about that?

One can only tell the story of something, and I wanted to tell him everything, the whole of the story all at once, to transfer it, place it in his body, vomit it into this great love of mine, but where did that elusive whole begin and end? how could it be created in a language that had nothing to do with my body and weighed so heavily on my tongue?

I had never talked about these events before, not ever, not to anyone, because I had not wanted them to turn into an adventure story, what was not a story should not be turned into one, it would be better to bury it alive in the crypt of memory, the only fitting and undisturbed resting place for it.

In that dark Berlin street I felt I was desecrating the dead.

And isn't silence the only perfect whole?

We were walking side by side, shoulder to shoulder, head alongside head, and in my distracted state I failed to realize that talking to him had become difficult because I had been talking to his eyes, and now the eyes were no longer there.

And at the same time I also felt that our echoing footsteps, our well-matched leg movements, taking us closer and closer to the theater, were also curbing my storytelling urge; no problem, then, the story would end, remain unfinished anyway, and just as well: we'd go to the theater, enjoy the performance, and whatever was still left of the story I would simply swallow, and at least the shame of talking about these events would also remain incomplete.

Thick shafts of floodlights, misty around the huge reflectors, ripped the building out of the autumn evening, and the theater stood before us in the cold blinding blaze like an ungraceful cardboard box; when we stepped into the naked light where people, slightly blinded, hastened to partake of an evening fare that promised release and oblivion, I still wanted to tell Melchior something, something interesting, something funny, anything that would bring a closure to this frustrating walk.

You know, I said without thinking too much, for I was still wandering about that old square, this Marx Square, which Father always called Berlin Square, which was memorable for another reason, because while I was waiting for Father, a group of drunks staggered out of Ilkovits, a notorious dive known all over the city, and among them was a sorry-looking old whore who came reeling over to me, I thought she wanted to ask me something so I turned toward her; she took my arm, bit my ear, and panted seductively that I should go with her, she'd love to blow me, free of charge, and she was sure I had a sweet little cock.