Peter Nadas - A Book of Memories

They are looking at you the way you'd like to be looking at them.

But you are still not you, you still let your thoughts stand in for you; until you learn not to do that, you are not quite here yet.

Your snooping startles them, they spring up and melt into the thicket.

Just as their gaze makes you take cover.

And then for a long time you see no one.

So long as you want to find them only for yourself, the forest remains silent.

But this is already a different kind of silence; this silence has eaten itself into your skin, and the laughter must reach your bones.

When even your smell becomes different.

The tiniest move could have broken this peacefulness, so I didn't even feel like opening my eyes; I was hanging on to something that had become final between us then, in the shared warmth of our bodies, and I didn't want her to see my eyes, to see how frightened I was of what was to come — it was good like this, let fear be mine! — of my body I felt only the parts her body could make me feel: under the rucked-up silk dress the moist surface of her skin touching mine — that was my thigh; at the level of her neck my own breath mingling with the whiffs of stifling odor rising from her armpits; I felt the hard edge of a hip that may have been mine, its hardness the hardness of my bone; I felt my shoulder and back because of the weight of her arm as she very slowly lifted it away, but even then my shoulder and back still felt the arm, for somehow even the receding weight left an impression in the flesh and bones; and when she also raised her head a bit to take a better look at the bite mark on my neck, I was glad to be able to watch through barely raised eyelashes, not exposing my eyes; all she could see was the quiver of the lids, the flutter of the lashes; she couldn't imagine how scared I was, and we hadn't even begun, but I could see her in almost perfect clarity, looking at my neck, yes, I could fool her so easily; she looked at it long, even touched the spot with her stiff finger; her lips parted, edged closer, and kissed it where it still hurt a little.

As if she were kissing Szidónia's mouth on my neck.

We lay like this for a long time, her face on my shoulder and my face on her shoulder, silent and motionless — at least that is how I remember it today.

Perhaps our eyes were closed, too.

But even if I did open my eyes I could see only the patterns of the rumpled bedspread and her hair, the tickly ringlets on my mouth.

And if her eyes were open, all she could see were the green afternoon shadows stirring silently on the vacant expanse of the ceiling.

I may have dozed off for a short time; maybe she did, too.

And then, so softly that my ear felt more the thrusts of her breath than the sound of her voice, she seemed to say that we should get started.

Yes, we should, I said, or meant to say, though neither of us moved.

There was nothing to stop us now, and who would have thought that the greatest obstacle we had to overcome would turn out to be ourselves?

Around this time of the afternoon Szidónia usually disappeared, visiting neighbors, going on a date, or just taking time off for herself, and so long as she didn't tell Maja's parents about the afternoon adventures of their daughter, she could be sure her own little illicit absences would not be discovered; and they not only covered up for each other but also shared their intimate experiences and adventures, like girl friends, disregarding the seven-year difference in their ages; once, inadvertently, I overheard them, barely able to catch my breath at my unexpected good fortune: with her hair undone, Szidónia was swinging back and forth in the garden hammock, confiding something to Maja, who, fully engrossed in the story, sat on the grass, giving the hammock an absentminded push now and then.

What we should have got started on, what we both wanted to begin, was the search that, once we did begin — our own compulsion making us shake and tremble — was so grave and dark a secret she didn't mention it to anyone, and I'm convinced she's been quiet about it ever since, just as I've never spoken about it to anyone, ever — let this white sheet of paper be my first confidant! — not even to each other did we mention it, we merely alluded to it, dropped hints about it; it remained a silent event in our lives, and in a certain sense we blackmailed each other with the fact that we had a secret so terrible it could not be shared with anyone, binding us together more fatefully than any form of love ever could.

And what is that mark on your neck, she asked, her whisper no more than a breath.

This red one, here.

For a moment I didn't know what she was talking about, thought she was just playing for time, not wanting to get started, but I also needed more time just then.

Oh, that mark? it's nothing; she bit my neck, that's all, I said, and I didn't have to say who, she knew; and I was very pleased that the teeth marks were still visible and that she'd noticed them.

From the shade of the apple trees, the hammock swung lazily into the light.

I've never forgotten that afternoon, either.

And with her mouth sunk into me, as if her lips had fallen asleep, we stayed that way.

As the hammock swung into the light and the two tightening ropes tugged the trees, Szidónia's voice grew stronger; the leafy crowns of the apple trees rustled, the branches strained and moaned, and then, as the hammock swung back, she lowered her voice, which not only lent a curious, almost panting rhythm to the story but for no logical reason amplified certain of her sentence fragments, while others became barely audible whispers; her voice swung back and forth, the unripe apples kept shaking on their stems; I was standing behind a round shrub, a boxwood, enveloped by the warm fragrance of the little oily green leaves, listening to Szidónia talking about some streetcar conductor, and the rhythm of her voice, growing alternately loud and soft, seemed to be in direct contact with Maja, because she pushed the hammock as if in immediate response to the story — more vigorously or more gently, speeding up or slowing down the pace, now shoving it furiously, let's get on with it! now barely giving it a tap, anyway rather unpredictably; the conductor was short, with big, bulging, bloodshot eyes, his forehead full of pimples, "big as my fingers," Szidónia was saying, "red and bumpy," which made Maja squeal and give the hammock a good shove, though interestingly enough, the emotional tones of Szidónia's delivery oddly suggested complete detachment — she talked about everything with the cheerful smile of someone for whom details are very important but never very meaningful, let alone decisive, each detail being important simply in and of itself; she took the Number 23 tram, getting on the last car, where she liked to ride because "it jerks and bounces"; the tram was almost empty; of course she sat on the shady side; she was wearing her white blouse with the picot-edged light-blue collar which Maja liked because it hugged her hips so nicely, and the white pleated skirt which at home she was allowed to wear only on holidays like Easter, because it soiled so easily, and whenever she sat down in it she spread a handkerchief under herself; besides, it was hard to iron all those pleats; it was warm in the streetcar, and this conductor— he may have been a Gypsy, Szidónia thought, Gypsies have such bulging eyes — rolled down all the windows, every last one of them, using one of those hand cranks; it took him a long time, because the crank kept slipping out of its slot; then he sat down opposite her, quite a distance away, actually, on the sunny side, put the crank back into his conductor's bag, and began staring at her; but she pretended not to notice him, as if she had to close her eyes because of the wind blowing in her face; what she liked best was when the tram was going really fast, because that scared her, especially around sharp bends; once she got on a roller coaster with her godmother's younger sister and she thought she was going to die right there and then; and there was this other man in her car, watching the conductor watching her, but she kept forgetting about them, because she was really looking out the window, or she closed her eyes and thought of other things; but she did not get off, kept on riding, and the conductor kept changing his seat, moving closer to her; of course she took a look at his hands, he didn't have a wedding band; though she didn't find him attractive she liked his jet-black hair and the hair on his arms, he was a bit dirty-looking; and she was curious to see what would happen, whether he would have the nerve to speak to her, especially while the other man kept looking at them.