Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

She wanted to give a son to this body oozing with corruption, the body that hoped to find its freedom in blissfully dreaded death.

What monstrous demons can crawl out of one's thoughts.

I began to laugh, a loud, harsh, boisterous laugh; I was laughing so hard I had to hold on to the back of the armchair to keep myself from falling over.

I don't know at what point I slipped the letter back into the envelope, but I can still see my trembling hand fumbling with the paper.

First there was a little tussle between my hand, the letter, and the envelope, and it was after that hard-won victory that I had to grab the back of the chair to stop myself from bolting out the door, and perhaps it was the uncontrollable trembling that made me explode in laughter.

I was laughing insanely, I could say, but the sound of my laughter betrayed the fact that by laughing I was trying to drive myself insane.

From then on I was carried along by the demon of my own sound.

Nearly a decade later, in a huge tome by Baron Jakob Johann Uexküll, I came across this illuminating and endearing statement: "When a dog runs, it is the animal that moves its legs, but when a hedgehog runs, it is the legs that move the animal."

This subtle distinction helped me understand that it was a primitive animal's instinct to escape that had appeared in my laughter; it wasn't I who sought refuge in that loud laugh but the laugh that saved me from my plight.

At the moment of its explosion the laughter revealed my utter desperation, but in the very next moment it tripped over itself and changed direction, route, and above all intended meaning, so that it could pretend that it wasn't even a hearty laugh but a titter, and not even that, only the inane display of overwhelming joy, though nothing like total abandon even then, for the incongruity of the situation inhibited this sort of tittering; my ears registered every shift, modulation, and distortion as if I were hearing it with the inspector's ears; and then it was the joy of life, cleansed of everything and bathed in bliss, that was laughing along with me, until I managed to be moved by my own performance to the point of tears, which in turn made the sound tremulous and faltering, and I felt moved even more, until I finally regained control and, haltingly, could say something.

"Do forgive me," I stammered while wiping my eyes, and my demon, so very sure of itself, still holding my voice captive, clinging to it, guiding it, graciously allowed me to sound sincere, as if to claim that lies and deceptions could very nicely turn into truths, there was nothing to be ashamed of! they became more convincingly real this way, more authentic than purportedly simple and immaculate truths; anyway, we can never gauge the moral worth of our actions so it's useless to fret and agonize over them, we might as well push ahead, especially since my demon used my fiancée's very intimate letter to refute, and refute triumphantly and unequivocally, any suspicion about my own involvement in this affair: "Do forgive me," I repeated, "this outburst was totally inappropriate, I am deeply embarrassed; yet if I say that I must nevertheless decline responsibility for it — for without being requested to do so, I would not have dreamed of perusing such a letter in front of a stranger — then I am in effect begging the forgiveness of my dead friend lying in the next room"; I said all this in my demon's cool, measured, dignified voice, though also affecting the nonchalance of a man of the world; "However," I continued, "I would be as loath to offend you as I would my poor unfortunate friend; I can assure you, therefore, that the content of the letter is strictly private, and with an eye to dispelling any lingering doubt that it might have something to do with today's tragic occurrence, I am willing to dispense with proprieties and reveal, ah, hell and damnation, what could possibly keep me from saying it — what I received was very happy news, the kind of news one should be only too glad to share with anyone."

I took a deep breath and even, I remember, lowered my head, and the voice inside me turned gloomy, or unpleasant somehow, perhaps too bashful, as soon as I uttered those words.

I remained silent for so long that after a while I knew I had to lift my head.

And it was as if a rainbow-colored, shiny soap bubble had burst in the air.

His eyes were shining at me from behind the distorting curve of a teardrop, but as we looked long into each other's eyes, I had the impression that for the first time his face was showing genuine astonishment, even shock.

"On the contrary," he replied very quietly, and I watched with enormous satisfaction as his apoplectic complexion turned several shades darker, though clearly anger and not shame made him blush; "On the contrary," he repeated almost too cordially, "it is I who must apologize, if only because your comment is well taken; my request was needlessly intrusive, I clearly overstepped my authority; and if I reiterate — your evident and quite understandable wariness compels me to reiterate — that we are assuming nothing and accusing no one, the case may not be closed, of course, but we do have the culprit in our hands, if I stress all this once again, I really mean to apologize, above all for creating a false impression, and at the same time I beg you to consider my intrusion as excessive caution, which in such circumstances is almost inevitable, or, if you like, as the blunt, unseemly curiosity of a seasoned professional, think of it what you will, but I beg of you, do not think ill of me, and since what is done is done, allow me to be the first to express my warmest good wishes, and please remember, the man offering his most sincere congratulations is one who is daily confronted with the seamy side of life and very rarely has a chance to share in the happy events of life, especially those connected to nature."

The deep flush vanished from his face, he smiled kindly, even ruefully; instead of bowing we merely inclined our heads, and all this time and even afterward he did not move from his place but remained standing by the terrace door, his arms folded over his chest and, in a shaft of slanting winter light, casting his shadow over me.

"May I ask you one more thing?" he said after a moment's hesitation.

"I am at your service."

"I am a rather heavy smoker, and unfortunately I left my cigars in the car. May I help myself to one of yours?"

This sort of behavior — apologizing for an inappropriate, unwarranted, and obtrusive act, and then committing just such an act, and to exploit a tense situation flaunting one's hold over another — reminded me of someone or something, though I couldn't at that moment tell who or what, but the familiar, almost physical disgust I felt led me to believe that this man was of very lowly origin.

"Please do, by all means," I answered graciously, and now I was the one who did not make a move; I did not wish to open the cigar box for him, and I did not offer him a seat either.

There was someone who could make me just as helpless, and whom I hated just as much.

However, the inspector did not let himself be bothered; he strolled in a leisurely way over to the table behind me and took a cigar out of the box Gyllenborg had given me a few days earlier; and now this hit me so hard I didn't have the strength to turn around; I knew what he was up to: in the deceased's room an identical lacquered box lay on the table; so this was the missing link he was looking for.

It got so quiet I could hear him slip off the cigar band; and then, just as slowly, he walked back and stood before me.

"Would you happen to have a knife?" he asked with a friendly smile, and I simply pointed at my desk.

Ceremoniously he lit the cigar, and I had the impression he'd never smoked one before; he praised its aroma and smacked his lips; then he blew out the smoke silently, and I had to stand there and look at him.