Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

Mother, who thanks to her upbringing was particularly adept, one might say accomplished, in matters of decorum, accepted Father's politely proffered arm with a gesture worthy of the gentlest wife, and smiling the loveliest smile of the afternoon walked with him arm in arm, her chest and back erect, gracefully picking up the train of her elegant mauve dress with three fingers of her free hand, pressing against him comfortably, somewhat committing her body to his care; I lagged behind, because I couldn't stand their bickering, but also catching up and joining them at Mother's side when I was curious; it seemed to me that these slightly raised flowing gowns (one never raised them too high, of course) polished the white marble pavement to a sleek, smooth shine; those fabulous fabrics! those fine silk, lace, and taffeta dresses swishing and rustling, and dainty shoes gliding smoothly on the bright surface, with the boots tapping just a little harder! with such activity all around, and Father's permanent smile, a forced smile to be sure, it was not in the least surprising that strangers and even acquaintances were unaware of, and from my parents' posture could not guess, the intense hatred they had for one another: "In that case we ought to leave immediately! The purpose of our stay here, my dear Theo, if I'm not mistaken, is not for you to be entertained but for me to get well!" — in these quiet, frequently repeated scenes Mother was in control of their emotions; she hated more, and more strongly, because Father's mere presence was the source of her sufferings; he was present, yet she could not reach him, she was like one aroused but not satisfied, while Father seemed completely indifferent (though he may not have been) to the emotional exertions of this slender female body; it was Mother's stronger passions and her exceptional skills in handling social situations that enabled her to take revenge during the most sensitive moments on these afternoon walks — and hers was no ordinary revenge: the more elegantly she carried it out, the more ruthless she became, she had the upper hand; but revenge is treacherous; during the momentary lulls in the complex, well-worn ritual of strolling and chatting, in full view of the promenaders, she murmured and hissed into Father's ears her sharpest and nastiest remarks, which Father, because of his less agile physical and mental makeup, could not possibly return in kind; she did this accompanied by her most enchanting smile.

On that memorable day it wasn't the comment he had made that triggered Mother's indignation, at first restrained and only threatening but quickly accelerating into a sweeping, all-consuming force: "Or am I mistaken, dear Theo? Tell me! Why don't you say something? You know, when you're like this, I'd really like to spit in your face!" and it wasn't because Father, breaking their previous agreement, would not wait for us to finish the prescribed exercises before sounding his warning that if we were too slow we might miss the train; in fact, it seemed to me that she tried to provoke the warning by deliberately slowing down her breathing, which I tried in vain to adjust by setting an example of the proper, prescribed rhythm; no, Father's careless and graceless warning was a sign, I'd say an open demonstration, of the ever-present explosive discord between them, a pretext for venting their emotions; I can still hear him uttering that sentence, alluding to a rather simple fact, how his words came out awkward and forced in spite of his efforts to sound casual, how his deep voice slipped into a higher register; but for all his clever dissembling he could not deceive Mother, who heard clearly what he had tried but was unable to conceal: his growing impatience.

It was Privy Councillor Frick who was to arrive on the train, and Father had been waiting for him anxiously for several days; significantly enough, in talking about him they would call him "the privy councillor" or "Frick," carefully avoiding his Christian name even though he was Father's closest and best friend and had been for decades, a childhood friend; as far as I can judge in retrospect, their bond was an unclouded, remarkably strong one, for in spite of considerable differences in character and intellect, their strong common roots evidently determined similar developments, and this was only natural, since they were both the product of and, in the conduct of their adult lives, also fugitives from the same religious institution famous, indeed notorious, for its medieval rigor; their kindred spirits, therefore, may have been a belated testimony to their Spartan upbringing or, just as likely, to their rebellion against it; so if Mother took care that the councillor's Christian name did not pass her lips, this was her way of letting them both know that she had no desire whatsoever to have a personal relationship with a man whose "immoral lifestyle," as she put it, whose cruel and aggressive nature had corrupted and continued to corrupt Father, whose "moral fiber, unfortunately, was much too weak": "Theodor, you behave like a charmed insect near a bright light, that's how you behave! You are childish and ridiculous when the two of you are together, and I am deeply ashamed!" Father, by the way, not only pronounced his friend's first name with almost sensuous delight but also used coy terms of endearment, calling him ducky, sweety, my little pussycat, even my little rotter, though he also preserved the rigid formality of their alma mater: the two of them never used the familiar form of address, and when talking to Mother about him, Father invariably avoided using the councillor's Christian name, to keep her out of the territory of that friendship, out of that warmest of relationships, the very place Mother would have liked to invade even at the cost of destroying it; this was the mysterious region, the forbidden zone, about which neither of them would brook any nonsense.

Once, awakening from my afternoon nap, I myself witnessed the kind of scene Mother would surely have disapproved of: the two men were standing on the terrace in the sunlight; lying on the narrow sofa in the living room, I didn't even have to move to see them through the muslin curtain fluttering back and forth in the afternoon breeze, but they could not see me — it was too good a moment, too rare an opportunity for me willingly to give myself away, and anyway, I was still a bit dazed from sleep — they were leaning against the railing, their arms resting on the stone balustrade, alone in that sun-drenched space, not too close to each other, though their fingers probably did touch on the rough, weather-beaten stone, adding a certain intimacy as well as an element of tension to their tête-à-tête; they stood there facing each other in identical poses, in their lightweight summer suits, as if mirror images; they were even the same height, it was hard to decide who was reflecting whom, maybe they were mutually reflecting each other; "Our instincts, my dear friend, our instincts and our stimuli," Frick was saying even before I opened my eyes, and his voice echoed into my awakening so pleasantly, softly and naturally, as if it were my own, as in the state when we think to ourselves and in our own voice, not addressing someone else; "Even as I stand here and have the honor of looking into your eyes, even this, every moment of our existence! because we are pages that have been filled out, fully written, all of us; that's why we find ourselves so boring! Moral refinement, good and evil, these are all silly, ludicrous notions. You know I don't like to talk about God, I simply don't like this God, but if there is still a place where He can be found, or where He can find us, it must be in our deepest instincts, there He may still reign supreme. If that is your belief, I join you in it, but even here He must be doing the job without the slightest effort, without even lifting His little finger, because He has already set the course, He's nothing left to do except to watch impassively as we act out what He's set into motion, what in fact He has already carried out and inscribed in all of us. All I can say — and I hope I'm not boring you with this improvised discourse — is that moral refinement and consequently notions of good and evil are never found in things themselves but, rather, we are the ones who belatedly place them into things, and the reason philosophers, psychologists, and other useless folk feed us their pitiful fare about these notions being inherent in things is that they consider it too brazen, too simple, and too pedestrian to seek the motives for our acts in our primitive instincts; they are looking for something loftier than instincts, higher than common things, chasing after some noble idea or concept that will make sense out of this disconcerting chaos. But this is nothing but the consolation of the weak! And of course they have failed to notice the inner nature of this chaos; they have told us nothing, or nearly nothing, about the gratifying details of this inner nature, they haven't even considered them. So for them, the things everybody must experience all the time have become improper and indecent. Now when I hear people talk about what is good or what is evil, I think of how I haven't managed to take a good shit today or of needing to let out a good fart, which in terms of spiritual cleanliness is most essential, though I know that in decent company one doesn't do such things. Believe me, moral refinement is nothing more than holding back a fart for a few more moments."