Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

What, what could I have figured out.

And what exactly could I have said, and where, to whom, and why. That’s the main thing, why would I have said anything.

How should I have known she did not know.

Nobody asked me. When would I have told anyone, yes, when. One cannot just tell it at any old time, and one doesn’t think about it all of the time.

They remained silent again, as if contemplating the ways one could get around relating such a story if this entire thing, the situation in which they found themselves, had no time, place, or genre.

But I’d be very happy to tell you, and I shall, said Mrs. Szemző, who with this frivolous turn tried to restrain her tic. She pulled herself back from the opposite shore, bounced back to her usual passionless vocal range.

And you can simply tell Erna Demén to give me a call, period. You don’t have to bother your heads about this. All evening I’ve been trying to tell you that before coming here, by chance, I don’t know, though I’m sure I didn’t do it on purpose, I opened the door on my subtenant, that woman.

You don’t say, responded Mária, her voice filled with muted resentment.

Really, very interesting.

At the same time Margit Huber rose, somewhat indignant.

What are you saying, she asked, elongating her vowels, what do you mean you opened the door on her, what is that supposed to mean.

The leather squeaked under her body, the sofa’s worn-out springs moaned, and as she sat up her huge crown of white hair became unfastened and fell unattractively to her shoulders.

I assume it’s clear she wasn’t alone. It was like watching copulating caterpillars or something like that.

They spoke of such things very rarely and, when they did, very cautiously.

As if she were saying to them, keep out of my experiences.

She excluded them from their common past, punished the dumb goyim who understood nothing of the creation of the world, whose great compassion was also a fiasco.

Mária Szapáry, as a person interrupted in exercising her hereditary superiority, stepped closer to the table and, to make order out of the chaos of the story, lifted her glass out of the puddle of the drink. But this was no improvement because she did not understand what had happened. Sugary liquid dripped from the bottom of the glass back onto the green felt. In the meantime, she ostentatiously avoided Elisa’s eyes.

She did not want to see her.

If I understand correctly, you mean she was with somebody, in flagrante , is that right, asked Margit Huber, and with two quick twists of her fists she rubbed tears from her eyes.

Like caterpillars, as I’ve said, earthworms, but there was enough light for me to have no serious doubt about what I was seeing.

But what did you do, for God’s sake.

What could I do, that’s what was so interesting, that’s why I want to tell you about it. I pretended I didn’t see it.

I see.

It couldn’t have gone better.

Izabella Dobrovan decided she had to step in before the battling fronts froze into immovable positions.

She had been a dancer in her younger years but her burgeoning career ended with a serious onstage accident. She probably owed her imperceptible, modest decisiveness to her dance training. With her barely graying black hair brushed straight back and gathered in a bun, with her thin limbs, dry white skin, and ramrod-straight carriage, she was the most impressive-looking among the four women to this day, even though her looks were not particularly striking.

Her dark silk dress rustled across the room.

They had been observing one another for decades; they could see even when they closed their eyes.

Certain things they would talk over, occasionally, briefly, and preferably in private, but they would refrain from making the kind of judgment that only a little while earlier Margit Huber had allowed herself to make. Although in a weak moment she had entrusted Mrs. Szemző with the great secret of her life, of which even Izabella Dobrovan had no knowledge. Although Izabella had followed the lines of the secret story as sensitively as she was now helping Mária return from her temporary embarrassment to the bastions of her superiority.

But the reason Mrs. Szemző’s news affected Margit Huber as it did was that Gyöngyvér Mózes was her pupil.

She had helped her obtain the maid’s room in Mrs. Szemző’s apartment, though Irma did not really need the rent of a subtenant.

Any way one cared to look at it, their lives were well intertwined.

In addition, Margit Huber loved to organize other people’s lives and to hold all the strings in her hands, as it were. Since Irma had a concert piano in her hallway, she might, who could tell, occasionally feel like accompanying Gyöngyvér, or so Margit had thought. Irma was not a brilliant pianist, but she would do. There was nothing affected about her playing. And she wouldn’t be so alone all the time.

Kick her out, she said.

I wouldn’t think of it.

Don’t misunderstand, I gave up on her a long time ago. As far as I’m concerned, you can kick her out.

Give me that glass, said Dobrovan, and she took the dripping glass from Mária Szapáry’s hand. I’ll get a rag to clean up this mess, if I may.

I’m rather annoyed with myself, replied Mrs. Szemző. A pretty young woman, why shouldn’t she live her life.

A hopeless slut, take my word for it. Hopeless, despite all our efforts.

Why is she hopeless, and what does hopeless mean, anyway.

You can’t be the judge of that.

I never claimed I could.

It’s not her voice, it’s that she has no psychological reserves. She herself is hopeless. And luckily she doesn’t know it.

The moment she starts singing, she is very convincing, especially with her concentration and her passion.

If someone’s foundation is shaky, then it’s all in vain.

She has presence, she can fill the space with herself.

Regrettably, passion is more of a danger, it carries her away, regrettably, and that’s when you can see she has no background, no depth. And when you consider that for someone who is almost too old to be a beginner, she is lazy and uneducated.

Lazy.

Elisa was whining in the armchair, but she was really begging for forgiveness.

Mária could not see how upset she was.

And Bella, in her imperceptible and passionless way, started off with the glass toward the door.

Wait, Mária called after her, I’ll do it myself.

No, no, my dear Médi, this is a suppressed, concealed, strictly controlled passion. Take no offense, but I’ve more experience in this. The situation is that she is blocked by something very strong, and whatever it is, it should be eliminated first.

Irma was talking as if secretly she feared for Gyöngyvér and wanted to save her for herself.

And this, in turn, could not escape Margit Huber’s attention because she feared for Gyöngyvér even more passionately, and she also dreaded her own failure, which Irma clearly recognized; she inveighed against her so she could then take her under her protection.

She is blocked, you say, all right, but what can I do with that. These are empty psychological commonplaces. I need to know what is blocking her. I wouldn’t say it’s her low origin, some people can overcome that, some can’t, and it’s not a question of talent. She has no more time for preparation, she’s the one who hasn’t got another five years, not I.

They all felt again that what was happening went on being something other than what they were actually talking about, which stretched every moment dangerously beyond acceptable limits.

What’s the point of behaving in a certain way, even normally, if what they’re trying to conceal with their behavior is visible, and each one of them can sense that they all see through these efforts.