Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

If he won't answer, I said, I'll get off at the next stop and he'll never see me again.

He swung the arm that was raised to hold the strap and with his elbow struck my face.

From the open window one could look out on a spring afternoon.

And then, opening night, at last; snow began to fall in the afternoon, a soft, thick, slow snow, with only an occasional gust of wind buffeting and stirring up the big moist flakes.

It stuck to the rooftops, covered the grass in the parks, on the roadways and sidewalks.

Hurrying feet and rushing tires soon soiled it with black trails and tracks.

We were on our way to the premiere.

This white snow came much too early; true, our poplar had lost the last dry leaves of its crown, but the foliage of the plane trees on Wörther Platz was still green; a few hours later it was clear the snow had won: the city had turned all white; snow sat on the bare branches, slowly covered up all the dirty tracks and trails, and put a glistening white cap on the green domes of the plane trees now glowing in the light of streetlamps.

She was the only survivor, so I went to see Maria Stein; I wanted to know which one of the two men I should remember as my father, though it didn't really make that much difference.

Last year's weeds grew waist-high; sitting on the embankment, men stripped to the waist were enjoying the breeze in the hot afternoon sun.

The river flowed lazily, forming tiny funnels under their feet; over on the shipyard's island the willows now showed yellow as the branches seemed to be drifting in their own reflections.

It couldn't have been a Sunday, because across the river everything was clattering, hissing, creaking, a giant crane was turning slowly.

First I took the well-trodden trail along the railroad tracks all the way to the Filatori Dam stationhouse; I knew that my father's body was brought here, and he was laid out on the waiting-room bench until the ambulance arrived.

Now the waiting room was cool and empty, they must have used sawdust dampened with oil to clean the floor; a cat scurried by my feet on its way out the door; the long bench stood against the wall.

The curtain moved behind the bars of the ticket window and a woman looked out.

No, thank you, I said, I'm not buying a ticket.

Then what was I doing here?

She must have seen the corpse, I was sure, or at least heard about it.

This is not a lounge but a waiting room reserved for passengers, and if I didn't intend to take a train, I'd better clear out.

In the end I didn't have the courage to ask Maria Stein which one of the two I should consider my father, and later I tried in vain to compare features, to scrutinize my body parts before a mirror.

In Heiligendamm, too, in the hotel room mirror, I was trying to establish my physical origin and intellectual identity; my own nakedness was like an ill-fitting suit; but the policemen weren't knocking on my door because they were interested in the circumstances of Melchior's disappearance; it was the hotel clerk who had found me suspicious, after seeing me come in at an unusual hour and with my face all banged up, and he decided to call the police.

By daybreak the wind had died down.

The only thing I kept thinking about was that I had to deny ever having known Melchior.

They asked to see my papers; I demanded to know the reason for their investigation; they in turn ordered me to pack my things and then took me to the police station in Bad Doberan.

I heard the raging of the sea, although outside there was hardly a breeze.

While huddling in my cold prison cell I decided to face all the consequences of my action, and afterward I'd have the valet kill my friend.

After they returned my passport, apologized for the inconvenience, and requested that I leave their country as soon as possible, I toyed rather wickedly with the idea that in parting I'd tell them all about Melchior's escape; and to make them even happier, I'd tell them that in the valet they'd put an innocent man to death, because I was the murderer.

In the meantime, the sea had calmed down and was gently lapping the shoreline; I was all set and waited for my train.

There was nothing much to see from that bench, so I left the cool waiting room for the warm spring sun outside.

I knew I'd find Maria Stein at home; she was still too scared to leave her apartment, her neighbors did her shopping for her.

She opened the door; the blue sweat suit she was wearing was stretched at the elbows and knees; she was holding a cigarette in her hand.

She didn't recognize me.

The last time she had seen me was at my mother's funeral.

Five years had passed, yes, and I saw her again at Mother's funeral; she'd been let out of prison earlier, but she didn't come to see us.

Or maybe she pretended not to recognize me so she wouldn't have to talk to me.

She led me into the room where they had tormented each other all night long; the bed was still unmade, and from the window you could see the train station.

My father, or the man whose name I carry, said to her. All right, Maria, I understand, I understand everything, and you are right; Maria, all I ask of you is to look out the window.

I'm not asking this for myself, it's for you; I want you to be sure that I'm really leaving.

Will you do it? the man asked.

The woman nodded, though she didn't quite understand.

The man got dressed, the woman put on her robe in the bathroom; without a word the man walked out of the apartment and the woman walked to the window.

But not before taking a look in the mirror; she touched her hair and face with her finger; her hair was gray and looked strange to her, but the skin on her face seemed smooth and tight, and she realized she'd better put on her glasses.

She found them under the bed; now she could see the man better.

As if an empty overcoat were making its way through the waist-high rubble-strewn weeds, on the trail still frozen hard; someone was leaving, was gone, in that cold dawn in the light of a streetlamp.

The first snow that year fell in January.

The woman was happy to see it, was grateful for it, for she kept telling herself all night long in her messed-up bed that it was no use, no use; with every little scream and sigh, with every choked breath, she tried to silence this dreadful inner protest: no, no, no, she couldn't be the wife of a murderer, she just couldn't do it, she didn't want to.

I'll still be your mistress, like before, that I can't deny myself, but nothing more.

I have to raise two children, and I am a madman, he said.

No, nothing more; we'll just make love like animals.

That we don't need, the man said at the very moment he penetrated her, and not for the first time that night.

The word was on her lips all night, but she couldn't say it; instead she said, I couldn't care less about your children.

You're the only one I can say this to, child, she said to me; I didn't tell him that I couldn't be the wife of a murderer.

And she turned her body so the man had no choice but to penetrate her even deeper.

Besides, it wasn't you, it was never you I was in love with, him, always him, and I'm still in love with him, him and nobody else.

János Hamar, with whom Maria Stein was so much in love, left a few months later to take up his post as chargé d'affaires in the Montevideo embassy; he left his light summer suit in our house.

In love, in love, the woman groaned with his every move inside her; all my life I've been in love, and still am, even in prison, that's why I survived, because I never stopped being in love, with him, only with him, I never even thought about you, it was always him, you I only used.

Well, use me.

I always have.

It's also possible that all this didn't happen quite this way.