Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

He has to be back by six in the morning, that’s when his leave is over.

But what kind of leave, I asked in an unreasonably irritated tone, for God’s sake, from what place are you on leave.

He was quiet for a moment, looked at me, seriously wondering what I hadn’t understood or to what I was objecting so strongly.

Well, this is where they dock, he answered eagerly, his head motioning to the very spot.

He serves in the river forces branch of the army, stationed in Mohács, he’s reenlisted. Once a week they come up with their ships, sometimes twice, but instead of tying up at the flotilla docks in Újpest they tie up at that something-or-other square.

In other words they dock at some square.

He can find it from anywhere, but damn it, he always forgets the name of the fucking square.

I didn’t have a place to take him to either, no matter how much I pitied him, and that’s the truth. I should have realized I had no place here, in the city of my birth.

I asked him if it was Bem Square.

No, but the fucking square was on the Pest side.

The irritating noises our steps were making were not only too loud but also senseless, completely senseless.

Maybe the Belgrád pier.

Not really, that’s where passenger boats dock, you know.

Then Dimitrov Square, I replied, irritated, maybe Vigadó Square.

I hated the black sand under my dirtied-up shoes and all the drivel we were hurling at each other.

He has this thing with Dimitrov; it’s like doing a crossword puzzle. What pops into his mind every time he comes across the name is that the man was a Communist martyr. He grinned. Eight letters. He memorized it so he wouldn’t forget the name of the square, but then he forgets this fucking martyr. Every week he buys a copy of Füles , the crossword magazine.

Then his face became serious.

Do you do crossword puzzles, he asked.

I did not reply, but I felt insane willingness and devotion emanating from his body.

He was putting me through various tests, licking me all over with his words and gestures.

Actually he was behaving like a normal, lovable human being.

I was the one who wasn’t normal; never in my life had I solved a crossword puzzle; and he hadn’t yet realized that he would find nothing lovable about me.

He was easy, light, his words smooth and caressing; he altered his gestures and turned them all inside out yet remained helpless with me. I was rather intrigued as to why he’d put away his cock so quickly and what it must be like. Just as, in his eyes, I had won my exceptional position in the unfathomable hierarchy of the night with my cock. But it was senseless, completely senseless — the way I was making obnoxious sounds at the side of such a profoundly witless stranger. This depressing knowledge was stronger than my curiosity. I didn’t want to hear that our irritating jabber had anything in common. To my left I saw a path among the trees leading back to the thicket where I might find the giant with his mustached assistant. I can’t imagine what I wanted from the giant; he too probably had a disgusting life.

A little farther off I saw the paved promenade that would lead me, in a more civilized way, back to the interior of the island, where at last I could drink and urinate, but I didn’t think I could endure a long stroll with this loquacious little idiot by my side. I figured that at the next well-trodden but not too clear split in the trail, I’d lose him with a single fast turn.

As if fleeing I left him without a word because I couldn’t think of anything to say. After such a brief, odd acquaintance I didn’t know how to take my leave; I knew no formula for such an occasion. I turned at a virtual run into the dully thudding path, where the gas-lamp light still managed to penetrate the dark.

He followed me.

His lack of suspicion was unequivocal.

After a few steps I turned around to face him and tell him in no uncertain terms what I was thinking. He literally recoiled from my raging fury. He was somewhat shorter than I; our bodies nearly collided. He gazed at me with his bright childlike countenance — a person ready for anything, ready to do anything for me. Surprising myself too, I hugged him, he clung to me like a suction cup and I glued my reluctant body to his. A huge sigh escaped him, followed by numerous shorter, lighter, relieved sighs and moans. Our loins could not meet, but I thought I felt something of his warmth on my thighs. I planted my lips on his neck and on his nape covered with childlike fuzz, and I too held him as if, or almost as if, I had found what I’d been looking for. I’d have liked to find someone. Somewhere above his loins, he must have felt on his belly my cock restrained by the buttons of my fly.

I would have liked to feel the warmth of his loins or his hand taking hold of my cock.

Yet the feel of his body remained so strange and distant, its scent and tension so alien, that I thought it would instantly sober me up.

To make this happen, I pushed him away by his shoulders and looked into his face, close up. In the dappled lamplight his milk-white skin glowed, showing its dark and ancient grooves. There, before me, stood a railway man of Tiszahát whose fate had brought him to the city a hundred years ago and who begot several children with a servant girl from northern Hungary.

Forgive me, I said quietly, there is some misunderstanding between us.

Swallowing my shame, I got stuck.

Don’t be offended, but this is not what I had in mind, and please, I stuttered, let’s leave it at that.

How could he understand what I was talking about; if that was not what I had in mind, then what did I have in mind, what was I thinking of. I did not think of anything.

His face, radiant from the pleasure of our touching, looked up at me, terrified. I could also hear that I was speaking a foreign language, issuing from my body and in my own voice.

At his marvelous incomprehension, my heart filled with profound gratitude.

Unthinking, I bent over him, I wanted to thank him and take my leave; I kissed his sweet, milk-tasting lips.

He would have instantly opened them to me; in an incredibly short time he would have been unbelievably cruel with his lips, his teeth, tongue, and saliva.

For the first time in my life, I was filled completely with the fragrance of a male face, the fragrance of stubble, the fragrance of a man’s saliva, and the fragrance emanating from the coarsely woven shirt on the ill-groomed male body.

But I did not let him plunge his tongue into my mouth.

His legs tried to entwine me, his arms tired to clasp me, he was aggressive, with his experienced fingers he quickly explored, assessed, and then scooped up my ass; I was defending myself.

With an incredible feather lightness he pervaded my tense, stone-hard body, which resisted the fragrances and grew rigid in dread. His fingers raced in all directions. He was all lightness, and I raw fear itself. I would not let him; my muscles resisted him.

Which made him literally sob on my chest.

I should have realized earlier that I was not meant to be a human being, even though that realization would not have helped either of us.

You’re so sweet, oh, your body is so strong, he kept squealing, why don’t you let me. What should I promise you of myself, he asked, he begged, he flashed and sparkled.

Don’t promise anything, promise nothing of yourself because I’m not curious about anything, and sweet I’m definitely not, those were the words I wanted to throw in his unprotected face. But I could not deflect my feelings about him; he was the one who had declared feelings. Simply a sweet man, he was the sweet one, that’s what I thought. But without his words I wouldn’t have dared think such a thing of a male person.