Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

Softly she put her hand on my knee, her fingers spread and wrapped around my kneecap, but she did not squeeze; in the darkness of the car I looked at her eyes.

Maybe she wasn't holding my knee at all; with that gesture she was holding together our bodies, our silences, and I could tell from her eyes that she wanted to say something, or rather, that she couldn't say anything because she was feeling precisely what she had to understand.

And to give voice to this feeling would be an exaggeration; certain things should not even be hinted at, life must not be interfered with, but still, if it hadn't been so dark in the car with only the light of streetlamps filtering in through the foliage, if we had been able to see each other's face clearly, if what we felt had not remained on the border of anticipation and consciousness, if it had turned into words, then, chances are, everything would have turned out differently among the three of us.

Later she did start talking, but by then that charged moment had passed.

Yes, she said, everyone had their life story to tell, and had I ever noticed they were all sad stories? and why was that? she wondered; yet it seemed to her that what I was telling her was the story of my own life, which she really knew nothing about, or perhaps the story of my personal hurts.

My hurts? I asked, because the word surprised me.

Without responding to the surprise in my voice, the smile on her face broke into a laugh, and out of that she shot a question at me: Did I know she was Jewish?

And then she began to laugh in earnest, probably because of the surprise and puzzled incredulity that must have been written all over my face.

All right, she said, still laughing, I should go now, she squeezed my knee and immediately withdrew her hand; that story she'd tell me some other time.

I said I didn't understand.

No matter, I was a smart boy, I should think about it; besides, one didn't have to understand everything, it was enough to feel it.

But what was there to feel here?

Never mind, I should just feel it.

She wouldn't get away with this, I said, this was a dirty trick.

I won't, eh? she said, laughing, and leaning across me, she pushed open the door on my side: time to get out.

But I didn't have the foggiest; what was she talking about?

She was no longer interested in what I was saying, what I did or did not understand; pressing her hands against my shoulders and chest, she was bent on squeezing or pushing me out of the car; hesitating slightly, I grabbed hold of her wrist; I hesitated because I felt I shouldn't respond violently to her violence since she was Jewish, she had just said it, hadn't she, she was a Jew; still, twisting it slightly I pried her hand off; we were both laughing at our awkwardness, and at the same time we both wanted to end it.

Don't, don't, she whined in a dull, artfully painful voice, at once the mature woman's crumbling defense and the erstwhile young girl's endearingly inept playacting: Let go, let go now, that's enough.

But perhaps it wasn't enough, not yet, because she jabbed me in the chest with her head; she wanted more, so I squeezed her hand harder, she winced, and for a moment her head rested on my chest, nice and cozy, as if she'd been looking for just that spot, and this tense meeting of our bodies meant that I was the broad-chested he-man and she the weak woman; she wasn't giving in, not yet, she'd push a little more and then she would yield.

I won't let go, I said out loud, expressing a feeling that was flattering because it conformed to the generally accepted sexual role-playing; and I gave voice to this feeling of male superiority eagerly, as if declaring that I had no intention of passing up the chance this feeling gave me.

I may have gone too far, however; insulted, she yanked her head back, accidentally knocking it against my chin, hurting us both a little.

Her offended withdrawal meant she was unwilling to concede the obvious difference between us, or at least was not about to make use of it, even if the pain thus caused was undeniably mutual.

What's wrong? I asked.

Wrong? she said brazenly, nothing, nothing.

But at the same time she was looking into my eyes so tenderly, imploringly, retreating into the role of the weak woman with girlishly sly and coy humility, illuminating the role with the mastery of a real professional; and this mockery, making our involuntarily assumed roles look ridiculous, was so much to my liking that slowly, gradually, I eased my hold on her wrist, though I didn't let go of it completely.

What was she trying to tell me? I asked, and the sound of my voice told me how reluctantly I was making my way from promising silent touches toward false and loud words.

But in fact I started to speak because I didn't want my mind to let go of my instincts; at the very least the mind should follow closely and understand what these instincts are after and why, and instincts and feelings should operate neither against nor instead of the mind; if there was something between us, if such a thing was possible, it shouldn't be some sort of supplement, a working off of other emotions, or a round of common sexual gymnastics; and she must have felt the same way.

Everything that had happened between us so far could still be seen as friendly banter, though it was hard to tell where good-natured rough-housing ended and the pleasure of amorous touching began; the borderline was carefully guarded by sober intelligence, even if the situation itself, precisely because of its delicious inherent possibilities, seemed irreversible; we'd either crossed the line already or simply didn't know where we were.

She'll tell me another time, she said dryly, now I should let her go.

No, I won't, I said, not until she explained what she meant, I don't like this kind of nonsense.

But reason could no longer help our feelings, because the words themselves were trying to decide about something startling and final, yet we no longer had any idea of what we were talking about — again an unmistakable characteristic of a lovers' quarrel.

Angry and impatient, she jerked her head sideways, hoping perhaps that a change of position would also change the situation.

Come on, let go, she said, almost spitefully, Arno had no idea where she might be, he was waiting for her, he'd get all crabby from so much waiting, it was very late.

As she jerked her head away, a ray of light fell on her face, the harsh light of a streetlamp; it was perhaps this light that defeated me.

Pretty funny that she should think of Arno right now, I said with a laugh.

Because in the harsh light from the street — and there is no other way I can put it — his face appeared on hers.

For a moment her face did seem to resemble Arno's long, dry, mournful face, yet it wasn't so much his features that showed through as a feeling, or the shadow of a feeling, just a trace of sadness belonging to that strange man to whom she felt she belonged, and whom, simply by pronouncing his name, and therefore not unwittingly, she now placed between us; he wasn't just the old husband she had to think about even at the moment she was unfaithful and whom she treated like a father or a son; no, it was this man's sadness to which she had to remain faithful, so she could remain faithful to the abiding, all-encompassing sadness that was the basis of their life together — could this be the reason she mentioned being Jewish? — a sadness that was not only his but hers as well, it would appear; was there something between them that was truly unbreakable? could their common bond be the fact that she was a Jew and he a German?

I should have overcome, wiped away, or at least banished temporarily this hitherto unfamiliar, never-before-seen sadness, except that Arno's sadness confounded me; it was the sadness of a man I didn't feel close to, a man I couldn't touch, and I couldn't pretend I didn't see that they shared this sadness — hence her victory, or theirs, over me.