Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

In her inconceivable excitement, she was casting about helplessly for words.

And then something peculiar happened. She suddenly felt unspeakably sorry for herself, for all the things Mária had done to her over their lifetimes, and they weren’t minor. Not only could she not stop saying me, me, me, me, but simultaneously she turned against herself the fire-red nails of three pressed-together fingers; and while, ever more loudly and in ever higher tones, as if gliding upward on an infinite scale, she shouted the one-syllable word reproachfully, unappeasably, and unstoppably, soaring so high that her lungs failed to support the sound with the proper volume of air, she mercilessly lunged those fingernails, to the rhythm of her screaming, into her firmly resisting breastbone.

She seemed to be transforming herself into a giant colorful bird that, in the moment of metamorphosis, was destroying itself with its own beak.

With the tall glasses in their hands, they all stood frozen in place.

Perhaps, in the first moment, with the vain hope or thought that they might somehow stop her.

But they had neither the strength nor the ability to do anything but stare at her with parted lips and eyes wide.

Yet in the next moment they couldn’t have said what they were staring at, or whether there was a next moment, or what might have been the subject of the conflict provoking such a mythically proportioned fury.

Anger died out in Mária too, even though it was she whom Margit Huber’s outburst touched most personally.

They saw her living flesh as she was tearing it off herself, or as if she were ripping her soul off the bones to which it had clung. There was no human experience on the basis of which they could have predicted with certainty that this, and no other, was the nature of their friend.

But when these many self-lacerating utterances of me, me, me reached the top of the scale and her injured self could no longer hope for more self-pity, her voice unexpectedly slumped back to its original register and stopped bleating, cooled off to its normal temperature, jounced back to its usual dimension, which, to the ears of the others, was no more credible than all her former sounds; vision and hallucination.

Didn’t we agree, you miserable creature, said Margit Huber in a sober everyday tone, speaking directly to Mária over the green felt tablecloth, that we wouldn’t say anything about this.

At virtually the same moment Mrs. Szemző dryly asked what wouldn’t you say anything about, for god’s sake, about what.

Something happened that overwhelmed and then completely swept away this reasonable question. Elisa broke into an ugly laugh — harsh, irritating, and vulgar, and not without justification.

For a moment they all looked at her. It shouldn’t be like this, shouldn’t be so gloating, so harsh, so unfeeling, they protested to themselves about this interference.

Elisa was laughing at how the women had given Mária what was coming to her; her laugh could not be misunderstood.

Mária must have been ashamed that the other woman’s commonness always managed to show its face through some hole, aperture. And Médi, in whom the struggle between anger and self-pity continued, made sounds as if something had gotten stuck in her throat and then she burst into tears, choking on the unspoken accusations. As if with the last remnant of her strength, she staggered to the bulky leather couch, torn at several places, and fell on it as if on a warm living being, a mother or a friend, hugging the stuffed armrest, which responded with a whiff of the strange, strong odor of cowhide.

You look down at everybody, with no exception, everybody, she bellowed and howled into the brown leather, which was quickly warming under her mouth. Tu me méprises, tu nous méprises , with no mercy, you wipe your feet on everybody.

What is it you were going to keep quiet about, if I may ask.

Mrs. Szemző couldn’t possibly outshout these two females behaving so outrageously, but she kept inquiring.

Again behind my back, right behind my back.

Which also turned into a shrill screech.

She regretted that such selfish sounds, recalling bad memories, were bursting from her throat. But it was no longer possible to withdraw from the air her delusion of persecution, for it needed to be in the light of day, and in that case, she too was nothing more, yes, nothing more than a common hysterical woman.

Like them.

Time to admit it.

In a weak voice Bella tried to intervene. Erna Demén claims, at least she had been so informed, that you were together with her daughter, her big girl whom the Gestapo took away from Kerepesi Cemetery, where the poor things were holding a silent demonstration at Pál Teleki’s grave.* We thought there was no need to tell you about such a silly thing.

Yet as you can see it became a matter of contention, whether to tell you or not.

While she was talking, she expected Mária to help her, at least with a few words.

In difficult situations, Mária always remained stubbornly silent.

And Bella did not dare mention the name of the place where they might have been together.

But in fact that’s exactly right, Mrs. Szemző remarked quietly.

For a few weeks, I was indeed together with her, with her big girl.

Which was something none of the women had expected to hear, though no surprise was visible on their faces. They simply looked at her as they might some idol.

Mária Szapáry was going up the steps of a dim rear stairwell. She did not know why she was reminded of this now. She came home not through the main entrance, from the direction of Via della Lungara, but through a side door, from Via dei Riari.

It must have been the third time they got soaked to their bones that afternoon, and again they were running to get inside, away from the soft warm rain, a man was holding Margit Huber’s hand, and then somewhere between rue Réaumur and rue de Vert bois they ran under the striped awning of a café.

She did not know where exactly they were in their lives then.

These human monsters, having shed their erstwhile stature and character, were standing in pale lamplight and looking back at her with the immeasurable indifference of outsiders. She could expect nothing else, least of all from those closest to her.

Their faces clearly showed they understood, after all, they were not stupid, yet were unable to move a hand or foot or single facial feature. Mrs. Szemző also realized they couldn’t do otherwise because it follows from the cult of crime that crimes will be committed.

Which nevertheless caused something profoundly childish to burst from her mouth.

And now what am I supposed to do with this bad behavior, she asked loudly, frightened and frightening. What am I to do with you, with your lack of compassion.

They did not know this side of her.

These were the lonely nights.

During the day she had to overcome and rise above things, but at night she could at least count on the body’s fatigue. Or she might have killed herself. That had remained her most ardent wish. She was vigorously nodding at each of her words; her discipline lapsing, her usually cleverly concealed tic was defeating her. Now they could see something of this too, have a taste of it.

What should they do with their own stories and with those of the others.

They were all carrying their own losses, their total, all-encompassing failures. No human on earth could answer their questions, and they found no god to whom they could entrust them. The nocturnal breeze, the heartwarming chirring of crickets, the puffing of tugboats receding in the distance, and the fragrance of sweet petunias barely grazed their silence.

If that’s really so, began Mária Szapáry a moment later, more curious than reproachful, why haven’t you looked her up before. Or, oh, I don’t know, you might have figured something out, after all, it was her child she had lost.