Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

In her slightly damp two-piece pearl-colored dress, Mrs. Szemző waited patiently at the oak door, on her face a wry smile that she had prepared for Mária. She had to breathe more deeply. She wanted to tell her about it right away, the whole thing. When she heard no footsteps within the apartment, she opened her handbag, took out the clean white batiste handkerchief, and blotted up the invisible pearls of her perspiration above her lips.

So what now, what should we do, asked Dobrovan in the apartment.

We haven’t decided.

Of course we have. I’ve decided, replied Mária Szapáry. Adroitly pressing one good finger on the injured one, she made a fist with which she wiped the tears from her eyes, and scrambled to her feet.

Oh, my, she moaned as she straightened up, words addressed to the other women as a new excuse and explanation, my ankles swelled up again. The most natural thing is for us to be quiet about it. We simply won’t tell her anything. As for the secondhand-art dealer, just leave her to me, she said as she left the kitchen.

I’ll call on her, I’ll take care of it, don’t worry, at least I’ll have a chance to avenge everything properly.

In the next few minutes, they forgot what they were supposed to be quiet about.

The feminine bedlam took on the air of a preparation for carnival in anticipation of Irma Arnót’s arrival.

She observed them suspiciously, with a bit of reserve, as she put down her hat and handbag and slowly pulled off her lace gloves and they rushed out into the hallway, interrupting one another with huge explosions of giggling and laughter, to explain about the great catastrophe and whose negligence had caused it. Pushing and shoving, they went back into the apartment. One could not miss the great exaggerations; they were all too talkative, too loud, too aggressive for some reason; their bones were much too large; they looked like awful human robots.

They headed for the foyer and then, led by Dobrovan, returned to the kitchen to clean up the debris.

Somewhere behind Eskü Square there’s a porcelain expert, he deals with just such cases.

And what should I do, take this mess to him in sacks. I couldn’t look at patched-up dishes.

Come, come, Margit Huber protested quickly, how can you say that, Dobrovan, that place is at the beginning of Veres Pálné Street, almost at the corner of Kúria Street.

Throw it all out and forget about it, that’s what I should do, wailed Mária Szapáry.

That’s why I’m telling you, behind Eskü Square.

It’d be more accurate to say behind the Tiszti Casino.

Why are you quibbling.

They slowly picked up everything, quieted down, swept up what they could, and all without quarreling; an ominous peace reigned in the kitchen.

I’m so sorry, I really am, Irma kept saying quietly as she helped Mária.

And while Mária amused herself finding still more pieces of china almost everywhere in the kitchen, Margit and Bella took up positions by the sink and began to wash glasses.

Maybe one day I’ll tell you, Irmuska, why those few pieces meant so much to me.

If we’re going to make some for Elisa too, called Margit Huber from the sink, would you get another glass, Mária.

But only irrepressible jealousy sounded real in this request, at least in retrospect — the wish to keep the two women from being together while picking up the shards.

Bella added a little giggle to the remark, though she was not a party to Médi’s jealousy game.

Watch it, I’m telling you, she said, as if to exacerbate Margit Huber’s hurt, there won’t be anywhere to put those broken dishes in all this mess.

And indeed, Mária had to make excuses about the overflowing trash can. What should she do if she forgot to put it out every night.

What do you mean what should you do.

Just don’t forget. It’s that simple.

Anyway, wait a bit with the fizz until I ask Elisa if she wants any.

But first she had to wash off her injured finger in the bathroom and Irma had to bandage it.

Silently they sat on the edge of the tub, not even looking at each other. Behind them the faucet dripped persistently; and since it had been dripping for months, it had left a yellowish streak on the tub’s enamel. This wasn’t rust but a sulfurous deposit from thermal water — the most ordinary brimstone, usually considered the symbol of hell. Twice a week, on Wednesday and Saturday evenings, Újlipótváros received its hot water from the thermal springs on Margit Island, and not only did this water leave visible traces but a smell reminiscent of rotten eggs pervaded apartments and stairwells.

Whenever they could, they stole brief, quiet moments like these for themselves, though they also feared them. As if something irreversible might happen, and it did happen, but nevertheless for decades they had been unable to give it up.

The relationship among the four friends had its own etiquette, and whether they liked it or not, it hadn’t changed since their school days. Not even during the long separations. Perhaps the deepest affection existed between Mária and Irma, though they observed each other from a great distance, not with aversion but, on the contrary, with enduring curiosity. They found in each other or in each other’s behavior something extremely engaging, so they did not deny their affection, yet, because it grew beyond normal social boundaries in their worlds, they could not reduce the distance between them.

During the summer after their graduation, they all went abroad, and when, after more than a decade’s absence, they all began to return to Budapest, with children, or divorced, or widowed, they could see in one another frightening changes in every pore; but this made no difference. Irma came back from Vienna with her husband and sturdy little twin boys; she was soon followed by Mária from Rome; and a year later, from Paris, also with a little boy, Bella showed up in a very poor state of mind; last to arrive, from Berlin, was Margit.

If she has changed so much, then I must show some change too. They had become insufferably self-willed, deceived, cheated on, abandoned, and very disillusioned women, but never, not with a single deliberate word would they admit their disillusionment to one another or to anyone else. Only to themselves. And this sufficed for them to notice everything about one another, to make fun of one another and be aware of their profoundly guarded, amusing similarities.

Nothing could undo the security of their independence.

They informed one another of the shifting elements of their lives only with casually dropped words or hints, and then stepped back — somewhat reluctantly, but acceding to liberal demands about keeping a distance — into an emotional dimension where nothing had changed.

Mária and Margit naturally quarreled constantly, argued, broke off, made up, just as they had done when they were girls; the relationship between Izabella and Irma, despite their mutual and nonbinding goodwill, remained formal, that always being its defining trait, since without the characteristically bourgeois formalities the relationship would have been impossible to make enjoyable or keep alive. Inanity, a value that served only itself, was something they both enjoyed. These bourgeois formalities were precisely what annoyed Mária most. Her upbringing allowed her to be eccentric, purposely encouraged her sarcasm, and gave her no need to conceal the supreme powers of her personality. She was crude. She thought Izabella was a dizzy hen, a silly goose, her politeness unfathomable, her sentimentality tedious, though she was also a vocal admirer of her exceptional talents.

Irma slightly opened the wound in the pad of Mária’s finger and peered at it closely, amazed.

You pressed it together quite cleverly, she said gently and quietly.