Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

The girl regarded my defenselessness with indulgent contempt. Well, well, she said, and as she headed for the exit, she gave my arm a pitying touch. She meant it as a coup de grâce. She even pursed her lips. Only the muffled sound of music could be heard. Four of us were standing in the lounge, facing in four different directions. And then she took the pins out of her bun, letting her long hair fall down. She shook her head and walked out the door.

What followed strikes me now as something phantasmal, out of a fairy tale. With slow, measured steps, she was going down the red-carpeted stairs. Her shapely, stockinged legs were going down, down. Silently, a bit dejectedly, we followed her, leaving the last strains of music behind us. On the second floor, the glass doors of the onetime imperial reception hall were wide-open. Under glittering crystal chandeliers, breathtakingly opulent tables were waiting for the guests at the gala performance. The U-shaped table followed the curve of the room. Except for us, not a soul was in sight. Without betraying the slightest sign of surprise or embarrassment, she sauntered into this room. Timidly the others followed. She walked around the table laden with cold meat, fruit, drinks, and sweets, decorated with garlands and flower baskets and gleaming with silver cutlery, crystal, and china. Then she picked up a plate, took a fork and napkin to go with it, and served herself. The others chuckled and, somewhat flustered, followed suit. Within a few moments they were continuing where they had left off in the lounge. Except now it was all silent. They guzzled and stuffed themselves. I found a bottle of vodka, filled a glass, and gulped it down. Then I walked over to her and asked whether she'd like to come with me. Actually, she was the most vicious of them all, because she wasn't stuffing herself but, moving methodically from platter to platter, only sampling things, digging, poking into every dish, ruining everything. And all the while her face remained perfectly straight. When I spoke to her, she looked up. No, she said, staring at me steadily, she was having a good time right here.

The snow would not let up. The streets were full of lively, happy sounds, but the slackening traffic, muffled by the heavy snowfall, made it evident that the big holiday had already begun. There were staggering drunks on the streets, too. I walked back to my hotel, took the vodka out of the refrigerator, and put it next to the telephone. I drank and waited for her call. Later I called her, and kept calling her at ever shorter intervals. A few minutes after midnight she called me. By then she was alone.

And this is about as much as I am able, or prepared, to tell about myself.

After this accidental meeting in Moscow, I didn't see my friend for a long time. Now and then his name would crop up. Reading his pieces about alienated, anxious, and feckless young men was like eating sawdust. A little over five years had passed when a few days before Christmas I had to fly to Zurich. Since I'd be away for only two days, I left my car in the parking lot of Budapest's Ferihegy Airport. When I returned and walked out of the terminal, as usual I couldn't find my car keys. They weren't in my coat or in my pant pockets. I kept feeling for them all over. They must be in my bag, then. Or I had lost them; it wouldn't have been the first time. My possessions don't stick with me either. All I had was a small suitcase stuffed with shirts and papers, and a large shopping bag full of presents. Putting my things in a luggage cart, I began searching for the keys.

While rummaging in my suitcase, I noticed that somebody just an arm's length away from me was sitting on the concrete guardrail of the steps. I took a good look at him only after I'd found the keys in one of my socks. He sat so close I didn't even have to raise my voice.

Did you just arrive or are you leaving? I asked, as if this were the most natural thing to ask, even though I saw that something was wrong. Neither the season nor the place nor the hour was right for anybody to be sitting there. It was getting dark; in the fine, drizzling fog the streetlights had been turned on. It was unpleasantly cold and clammy. He looked up at me, but I wasn't sure he recognized me. Until he began to shake his head I had the feeling that I might have made a mistake.

Are you waiting for somebody? I asked.

He said no, he wasn't waiting for anybody.

Then what are you doing here? I asked, a little annoyed.

He again shook his head silently.

In the intervening five years he probably hadn't changed more than I. I was still surprised to see his face so narrow and dried out, his thinning and graying hair. He looked as though the last drop of moisture had been squeezed from him. He was dry and wrinkled.

I stepped closer, showed him my key, and told him I'd gladly take him into town.

He shook his head no.

What the hell did he want to do, then?

Nothing, he said.

He was sitting between two large, well-stuffed suitcases. On the handles I could make out the tags of Interflug, the East German airline. Which made it clear that he wasn't departing but had just arrived. I simply thrust my valise in his lap, grabbed his heavy suitcases, and without saying a word headed for the parking lot. By the time I found my car and put his luggage in the trunk, he was standing there with my bag. He was handing it to me while his face remained inert, frighteningly expressionless.

Yet, strangely enough, his face was more determined-looking than ever. For all its softness, almost forceful. Gone, too, was that odd ambivalence that had so surprised me at our previous meeting. A clean face, free of shadows. And yet it was as if he himself did not reside in his own face. As if he'd sent himself away on some vacation. He was dry. I can't find a better word to describe him.

My car is usually pretty messy. I had to make room, toss things on the back seat. I tried to be quick and decisive, because I had the impression that he might slip away any moment, leaving his luggage behind. Or I should say I had this impression because he remained totally impassive. He was standing there but wasn't really there.

We were already on the highway when I offered him a cigarette. He declined; I lit up.

I told him I'd take him home.

No, not there.

Where, then? I asked.

He didn't answer.

I couldn't say why, but I had to look at him. I wasn't waiting for an answer. I knew he couldn't answer because he had nothing to say. He had no place to go. And anyone without a place cannot talk about that. At regular intervals we passed under bright arc lights, and therefore after a while I had to turn again to make sure I saw what I thought I saw. He was crying. I'd never seen a crying man look like that. His face remained dry and impassive, as before. Still, drops of water were coming out of his eyes and trickling down along his nose.

I told him to come to our house. It's Christmas tomorrow. He'll spend it with us.

Oh no.

I wanted to say something simple and comforting. We might just have a white Christmas. Which sounded pretty inane, so after that I kept quiet for a long time.

I never before had the feeling, except with my children, that someone was so completely dependent on me. It was a feeling I probably wouldn't have experienced even if I had to save him from drowning or cut a noose off his neck. But he gave no indication that he intended to part with his life. The empty shell of his body was still alive. There was no need for heroic gestures. I couldn't have known what had happened to him and wasn't eager to find out. I didn't have to save him. Besides, one can sense when it's all right to ask questions and when it isn't. He was only entrusted to my care for now, and it didn't seem such an unpleasant burden. Many of his passions had burned out in him, and the void made it possible for my simple, pragmatic abilities to come to the fore.