Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

But in that case it wasn't I who was walking along that trail but two legs, themselves strangers, carrying the hollow form of a servile intention, which is what it had turned into, without the joy of the moment of fulfillment: a leaden weight to be dragged along for the sake of a distant future that might restore one's life, or at least one's honor.

The dark green of the pine needles, like a single massive wave of the sea, tossed and tumbled above the reddish tree trunks.

The trail disappeared under a soft carpet of fallen pine needles once it reached the woods; under the trees it was almost completely dark.

Thea must have sensed that I wasn't too keen on following her there, because she stopped at the first trees and, without pulling her hands from the deep pockets of her red coat, leaned against a tree trunk, looked back as if to size up the distance already covered, and, sliding slowly down the trunk, lowered herself to a crouch, without sitting down.

We did not look at each other.

She was looking out at the soft undulations of a peaceful landscape growing dark under huge, swirling, rippling clouds now obscuring now revealing the light still playing in the sky, and I was looking into dimming woods filled with the pungent smell of decaying leaves, with ephemeral flashes of stray lights still cutting through the dimness, keeping it in constant motion.

After a while Thea rummaged in a pocket, pulled out a long cigarette, matches, and struggling with the wind lit up.

While still busy with the cigarette she said she was doing something she shouldn't.

Yes, I said solemnly, I've often wanted to do more of those things myself.

She blinked up at me, as if to understand the hidden meaning of my transparent witticism, but I did not return her look; I went on standing among the trees without any support.

I was always making these faces, she told me somewhat louder, as if I were smelling something rotten; then, more quietly and cautiously, she asked me if she had offended me in any way.

I looked past her shoulder, but still saw her face, the coy and provocative tilt of her head; what would happen, I suddenly thought, amused by the idea, if I took this soft red furball, knocked her over, and trampled her into the ground right here under this tree? in my jaw and teeth I felt my feet trampling the ground.

The sensation of violence made me nauseous; in the silence I imagined myself after the murder returning to the flat on Steffelbauerstrasse, throwing my things into a suitcase, getting on a plane, and from the air still seeing this place, shrunken to a dot, the telltale red of her coat still visible under the green carpet of treetops.

Just a woman struggling with her impending old age, I thought, but why was their youth so important to them? my annoyance and disgust was directed not at aging but at that special attraction I felt for declining forms, for I found her eroding features beautiful, like her struggle against her decline, which made her open up to me so shamelessly, giving away more of herself than she would have if she was still young and her features still smooth.

Actually, she said, she was sorry she wasn't in love with me.

But she is, I thought to myself.

For example, she imagined to herself, she continued after a pause— either misinterpreting the excited flutter of my eyes made her bold or the excitement triggered by her insincere candor had not yet abated — how I must look naked.

Judging by my face and hands and everything else that's visible, she'd guess I was a little soft and flabby, and if I wasn't careful I'd soon look as disgusting as Langerhans.

Everything about me was so ingratiating and obliging, so damn kind and decent and low-keyed, so self-consciously attentive, one might think I had no muscles in my body, and not many bones either, only aesthetic, smooth, hairless surfaces, yes, that must be me, and she wouldn't be surprised if I had absolutely no smell either.

I stepped closer and crouched down facing her; in that case, I said, taking the cigarette from her hand, would she mind telling me just what position she imagined seeing me in, I'd be most curious to know.

She followed the cigarette with her eyes, as if afraid I'd take too long a drag, but also thrilled that in this indirect way at least her lips would touch mine, then quickly took it back; though we were both careful, our hands touched, our fingers exchanging our anxious reserve as if fearing a catastrophe might befall us any moment.

Yes, she said in a deep and husky voice, appearances are deceptive sometimes; it was just possible, she said, that I was all skin and bones, as dry and cruel as I seemed.

Why don't you answer my question? I asked.

She didn't want to hurt me, she said before taking another puff.

You can't hurt me.

Though life is full of contradictions, she said, because when I opened my mouth she had the impression she was sticking her finger into dough, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing either.

Let's not kid each other, I said, it wasn't me she imagined, for her I was more like some necessary supplement, a little extra workout to keep her bones from getting rusty.

Brazenly she laughed in my face; in our crouching position our faces were only inches apart; then she pushed herself away from the trunk and, still crouching, began to sway, letting her face get even closer, then pulling farther apart, she kept playing with the space between us.

No, no, I was wrong, she said, offering the cigarette again; she did imagine me also for herself.

Also, I said.

We are greedy, aren't we, she said.

We were splashing about in the joy of boldness, crude openness, in the way we traded imagined nakedness for shamelessness; the wrinkles around her eyes disappeared; and yet there was something very uncomfortable in all this, as if we were exchanging our cheapest, most superficial aspects.

She even imagined, she said, or at least tried to imagine, what on earth we two could possibly do with each other.

Her face was beaming.

By now the cigarette, having gone back and forth, had only one good puff left; I carefully handed it back to her, and she took it from me just as carefully; as she took the last drag, a long one, as if in the time it took before the cigarette burned her finger, everything had to be decided, she blinked and buried her embarrassment in that blink.

And whatever it was we did together, why wasn't it happening to her, my mean and cynical self thought to itself.

However, the question struck me as a possible answer to a far larger question: why did we consider direct bodily contact, the pleasure deriving from one body penetrating another, more complete and more intense than any kind of mental pleasure, why was that the ultimate in human contact? and even farther afield, almost at the very edge of thought, loomed the question of whether war itself wasn't just such a necessary and deceptive pleasure in the contact between different peoples, for we know all too well that in most cases physical union is nothing more than the manipulation of biological drives, more like a quick, always conjurable, easy, and false consolation for unfulfillable spiritual needs than a true fulfillment.

In principle she had no objection, Thea said, and did not lean back against the tree.

The earlier brightness had gone from her face; pensively she stubbed out the cigarette and pressed it carefully into the ground, under the thick layer of pine needles.

Well, maybe a tiny one, she continued after a brief pause, and that's something every woman must feel when something is taken away from her, something that should be hers to give, but because in this case she was that woman, she involuntarily, almost instinctively, approved.

Oddly enough, she wasn't jealous of us, she said; yes, that first time, at the opera, when she finally figured out what was going on, she might have been, but only because it caught her by surprise, and did it ever occur to me that she was the one who had brought us together?