Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

Which in his language sounds even harsher.

And I thought: This is how he's getting back at me.

What did you say? I asked sheepishly.

Get lost, get lost, he spat the words at me from behind his clenched teeth, from his throat, his face turning red; then he quickly pulled a cigarette from his pocket, stuck it into his mouth, and started toward the boy.

The boy is waiting for him, on tiptoe, motionless, ready to fight, bending forward.

I didn't understand anything; this new turn of events was already past any kind of surprise, but I was sure there would be a fight, and soon; we were still the only people on the platform, a wind smelling of dank cellars whipped through the empty station.

He walked up very close, almost bending over the boy's burning cigarette, and said something to him that made the boy not only lower himself back on his heels but also take a few awkward steps backward.

But Melchior goes after him, is all over him, and now I feel it's the boy and not Melchior who needs to be protected; but I couldn't see anything except Melchior's back.

Like two madmen facing each other, one more insane than the other; when Melchior says something to him again, the boy leans aside hesitantly, quickly and obligingly snatches the cigarette from his mouth, and with a trembling hand offers its burning end to Melchior.

But during the shaky contact of the cigarettes the burning tobacco must have been dislodged, it fell out and scattered on the concrete platform.

Disregarding this little accident, the boy starts talking, rapidly, feverishly, going on and on; I couldn't make out what he said, something about being cold, he repeated the word "cold" again and again in the echoing darkness.

From the tunnel we heard the rumble of the approaching train.

And if until then there was something uncontrollable and maniacal about Melchior, it now suddenly snapped, got deflated.

It was over, all over.

He fumbles in his pocket, drops a few coins into the boy's open palm, then turns around, disappointed and weary, and starts back toward me.

Now he is tossing his cigarette away, crushing it angrily with his next step.

In the few seconds this unexpected confrontation had taken, he did turn pale, was humiliated, grew angry and desperate — and he came back to me in that state.

And I kept staring at the boy, staring as if the sight itself would provide the explanation; with one hand holding the coins he'd just wheedled out of Melchior, with the other crumbling the cigarette that had gone out, the boy again raised himself on his toes and looked at me accusingly and insistently, disconsolately and reproachfully, as if this whole incident were my fault, yes, mine, and he was ready to rush me, knock me down, and kill me.

And for a fraction of the next second it looked as if he'd really do it.

That's right, look at me, go ahead, keep on looking at me, he screamed at the top of his lungs, managing to overcome the noise of the train roaring into the station.

You think you can buy me off, don't you, he screamed.

In public, like that, he screamed, buy me off in public.

There was no time to think.

Between two screams, in a flash, Melchior tore open the door of the nearest car, shoved me in, jumped after me, and we continued to move away from the raving boy, though still staring at him, mesmerized.

You think there's forgiveness.

We were moving farther inside as the razor-sharp voice of madness penetrated the car with its quietly huddling passengers.

You can't buy forgiveness for a few lousy pennies.

A face marred by huge red pussy pimples; damp, sticky, blond, fuzzy hair of a child, and sensitive blue eyes untouched by his own rage.

A strange god was screaming out of him, a god he had to carry with him wherever he went.

While we kept backing away, seeking protection among passengers who were now raising their heads, the conductress, slovenly and looking bored, emerged from the next car, her hands resting on the leather bag that hung from her neck; she walked in a leisurely way down the platform, past the cars, remaining perfectly calm and unresponsive to this awful screaming; All aboard, she intoned apathetically, though besides the boy there was nobody on the platform, all aboard; how is one to explain the infinite sobriety and shameful orderliness of things?

She shoved the screaming boy out of her way.

He lost his footing and reeled back; but to chalk up a tiny victory, not much, just a modicum of satisfaction, something that even in his profound humiliation could comfort him, for a brief moment at least he rushed to the train, and just before the doors closed he threw into our face — no, not the money — the crumbled, cold cigarette butt; but he missed, and now the refuse ol this little scene was lying at our feet.

When people in the speeding car finally calmed down and were no longer watching us with a reproachful curiosity that did not hide their eagerness for a scandal, when they stopped trying to figure out what we must have done to the unfortunate child, I asked him what that was all about.

He didn't answer.

He stood there motionless, upset, pale; with his hand on the strap he was hiding his eyes from me; he refused to look at me.

Nobody is so sane as not to be touched by the words of a madman.

Holding the strap next to him, I felt as if the senseless mechanical clatter of the train was also jostling me to the verge of madness.

Wheels, tracks.

I'd get off at the next station, without a word, and end it all, leaving everything but everything behind me on those tracks.

Fat chance; I couldn't even bring myself to swallow the pills.

This was not madness, not even close.

In those years the sense of any kind of perspective was missing from me; it was only inside or on the surface of other human bodies that all my words, movements, secret desires, goals, ambitions, and intentions sought fulfillment, gratification, and even redemption.

Yes, I lacked these perspectives, like the awesome, magnificent perspective of madness manifest in a strange deity, because everything I perceived as madness or sinfulness in myself spoke not of the great chaos of nature but only of the ridiculous snags of my upbringing, of the sensual chaos of my youth.

Or maybe it wasn't like that; maybe it was the perspective of the merciful, punishing, and redeeming deity, the one and only, that was missing in me, because what I saw as a touch of grace in me was not part of a grand, divine order but the work of my own petty machinations, spitefulness, and trickery.

I believed that the sense of uncertainty could be eliminated from my life; I was a coward, the sucker of my age, an opportunist feeding on my own life; I believed that anxiety, fear, and the feeling of being an outcast could be assuaged or, by certain acts of the body, even be evaded.

But how can one be familiar with the nearby affairs of men without a perspective on the remote affairs of the gods?

Shit never reaches to the sky; it merely collects and dries up.

Leaning close to his ears I kept repeating the question: What was that all about? was this what he'd been waiting for? was it? I wanted an answer, though I should have held my tongue and been patient.

He'd had enough of the whispering and answered rather loudly: I could see for myself, he asked for a light, a light, it was that simple, except he didn't realize that he'd picked a raving lunatic.

What I felt then inside me was my little sister, the one I'd never see again; I felt her heavy body in mine.

I am like a house with all its doors and windows wide-open; anyone can look in, walk in; anyone can pass through, from anywhere to anywhere else.

I can't take your lies anymore.

He didn't answer.