Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

It was nearly full and the operator waited for me to get in. But I hesitated. Deliberately slowing my last two steps. I didn't feel like squeezing in. I also noticed that all the passengers were Hungarians. Which turned me off rather than attracting me. But standing among them in a long fur-collared coat was a dark-complexioned girl with curly hair who caught my eye. In response to a question they must have just asked, the disagreeable elevator operator was saying no, no, not allowed, room reserved for banquets. Hearing this, they began to laugh as if they had just heard a priceless joke. Banquet, banquet, they kept shouting. I had walked into an infantile cacophony, and I can't say I liked it. My compatriots tend to feel lost when they are abroad alone, but in groups they can act quite silly and rowdy. I had the feeling that they also sensed the compatriot in me and their reaction was the same as mine, so they finally quieted down. I positioned myself so that I could be close to the girl and watch her from the front. Her slightly old-fashioned coat, tapered at the waist, outlined a slender figure, and the face framed by the upturned silver-gray fur collar was ruddy from the cold. On her hair, eyebrows, and even her lashes half-melted snowflakes were glistening. The first snow of the year had fallen that day, and it hadn't let up since morning.

In my callous simplicity, I thought she was what I needed. And I could see in her eyes that she not only caught my glance but understood my meaning. She didn't think I was pushy, but she wasn't going to respond. She was noncommittal without turning me down, she was holding on to my offer without making one herself, she was impassive but not without a certain amount of curiosity. There was even a hint of impudence in her look, as if to say, Well, big boy, what else can you show me, real quick? We must have ridden about three floors like this, staring in each other's eyes.

We were caught up in each other, but she was playing to the others a little, too, not wanting them to notice just how caught up she was. What I also felt then was that someone standing next to me was staring into my face, with a persistent, unmoving look that suggested he knew full well what I was up to. I had to find out what that was all about, yet I hesitated, for if I turned my face it might appear that I couldn't take her stare, though in truth I couldn't take his.

It would be very hard to describe the feeling I experienced when, turning my head, I looked into the face of this obtrusive stranger. As adults, we always maintain a certain distance, which we determine, from the face of another adult, and the extent and nature of the closeness or distance is invariably regulated by our own interests and aims. But this adult face, suddenly cropping up from our long-gone childhood — no matter how much it may have changed — wound up intolerably close to mine. A melting tenderness came over me. As if I were seeing not a person but the passing of my own lifetime. Everything had changed, and yet nothing had changed. I sensed transience in myself and permanence in another man's features. At the same time I was so shocked to see the features of a child I'd known so intimately in the face of a man that a feeling of repugnance also began to stir in me. I didn't want this. Our glances scanned each other's features. He hadn't made up his mind either. And with that we irrevocably exposed ourselves in front of each other. There was no going back. Even though we both would have liked to avoid this meeting as much as we wished it to happen. There's nothing more humiliating than a chance encounter. But not giving in to it is even more humiliating.

I couldn't possibly benefit from this chance meeting. On the contrary, it could only work against me. I wanted to be already in my room, open the refrigerator, take a good long swig from the iced vodka bottle, and then leave this place as quickly as possible. Anyone seeking solace in alcohol knows what these moments are like. He reminded me of things I didn't want to deal with at all. And I was in such a state that my body would not tolerate delay. Still, I couldn't prevent what had to happen. I think our hands moved simultaneously, and in the gesture two very different weaknesses met. It couldn't turn into a real handshake, we were standing too close for that, it became more of a crude grasp. Hesitantly, eagerly, two hands seized and then immediately let go, almost thrust away, two hands. Just touching fingers was too little, but anything more would have been too much. And through it all, clumsy, stammering questions about what the other was doing here. Here of all places. As if "here" had some special meaning. I mumbled my own little story, and I blushed, which rarely happens to me, while he muttered something about a delegation of artists, and with a silly grin pointed to the others. We must have been on their checklist this year, he said. His tone was unfamiliar, alien.

But all this was surface; our tone, our blushes merely the appearance to provide some protection. Because what the moment was really all about was that our lives had turned out to be so very different, yet neither he nor I, neither before nor since, had ever loved another human being as we loved each other. Back then. Yes. This was our confession. And even now, when we are still so different, even now, although in a different way. And since then, too. This is an enduring part of our lives. It can't be helped. This love has no purpose, no meaning, or motive. Nothing can be done with it. I blushed because I wanted to forget it, and did. He was acting silly because he didn't forget, and probably couldn't.

His features seemed so indistinct and blurred that each line or curve or angle could mean three different things at once. And there was a danger that he might just ignore the glances of these strangers and mawkishly revert back to our lost time. In the end, however, it was his grim self-discipline that averted my always obliging though noncommittal bear hug. I saw brittle coldness in his face, dread in his eyes, though he was making lighthearted, cynical noises. Still, he, not I, was the one who stayed outside the situation. For if I cannot be guided by sober reason, if I cannot comprehend the meaning, direction, and purpose of a signal or a gesture, I freeze. I can yield to no person or situation. He, on the other hand, had it in him to act, to put his feelings on display. He burst into laughter. I wanted to shut my eyes. I showed up just in time, he said, as if we had last seen each other only yesterday. They had just come from a holiday reception. And now it was off to the Bolshoi for a gala performance. It promised to be quite an event. He sounded as if he were inviting me to his grandmother's for noodle pudding. Galina Vishnevskaya was singing. They had an extra ticket. Just for me. Box seats, too. Wouldn't I join them?

The maddening artificiality of his tone made it easier to decline the invitation. By then we were on the thirteenth floor, standing in the narrow hallway, in front of the dezhurnaya's table laden with keys. The others passed us in silence on their way to their rooms. I told him I had no time, unfortunately. And looking over my shoulder, I involuntarily followed the brown-haired girl with my eyes. I'd already made plans for the evening. The girl opened her door slowly and disappeared without looking back. In the meantime, we kept laughing at the discovery that evidently the Russians always reserve the thirteenth floor for Hungarians. We should meet for breakfast, though. But no later than eight. They'd have to attend the parade on Red Square. We'd open a bottle of champagne.

I'd have to say that as soon as I closed the door of my palatial suite, I forgot this accidental meeting, as one might forget a fleeting unpleasantness. I didn't want a champagne breakfast. I didn't turn on the light. The strange rooms were glimmering faintly in the reflected light of the snow. I heard the soft murmur of the city below. Compared to the events of the past few days, what could these fleeting moments mean to me? Nothing. An embarrassment, at most an annoyance. Anyway, while I struggled here in vain, they were having fun. Still in my overcoat, I sank into an armchair. I had never before felt such a heavy, all-pervasive fatigue. It wasn't my bones or my muscles but my heart that seemed to give way. As if my blood had stopped flowing. I felt drained, empty. I didn't even want that drink of vodka anymore. Or I should say I did, but didn't have the strength to get up. That's not precise enough either. What I felt was that I must gather strength. But you need some strength to gather your strength, and I didn't have any.