Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

I was sorry I couldn’t do it for him, sorry that he misunderstood me, but I couldn’t do it, because something like a team of horses was holding me back.

No matter how you protest, I want to be yours, he whimpered, and since he felt precisely what I was thinking, he smiled, and I will be yours, you’ll see.

And at that moment I believed it.

He reared up so our loins could make contact with both their heat and the sensitive sensation of hardness.

Can’t you see, he whispered, haven’t you noticed, I’ve been following you all evening, he asked. This surprised me greatly; if he had he must have done it very cautiously. More cleverly than I had followed others. His fingers were plowing up both my thighs, dangerously close to my groin.

I walked my feet off for you. I’m hustling after you and you just keep walking as if you were blind. He was cooing at me. You could have been inside me a long time ago, oh, he squealed, I can already feel your big cock, but all evening you kept running from me on your little feet.

He was talking nonsense and his words felt like punches.

My feet are not little, they’re positively large, and how could he have convinced me that I should take him for a woman when what I loathed and enjoyed so much at the same time was that such a sweet little man fell into my clutches, and that is why I felt so much tenderness and cruelty for him. This whole thing could not be understood by normal standards.

He overwhelmed me because he could allow himself to mouth these insanities, such as how I could have been inside him a long time ago, while I didn’t allow myself anything.

As if only half of my self understood what he was saying while the other half was buffeted by doubts that made it vulnerable.

There was a man in the night whom I learned to love, along with his stupidities, which made him even more precious. And I right away wanted to protect him, perhaps from his own dark obtuseness, even though I was the weaker one. I did not recognize myself in him but was instantly infatuated with his lightness, his daring, and his openness, traits I must have lacked and wished for. It would have been wonderful to live with these traits. I was envious of his terrible freedom, for which I did not have the courage or maybe not the talent. At least in the water tower I could have a secure little hiding place with him every night.

I foresaw that I would not forget for a long time to come the stormy presentiment of passion I was at once experiencing and restraining.

By tomorrow it would turn into pain and longing, regret and bitterness that would torture me terribly.

Yet something was carrying me onward. I had to turn him away, peel him off me.

Listen to me, I said, and he must have felt the tenderness in my voice because he did listen and his cheerful, happy-go-lucky, little-boyish, and ancient being opened up even more toward me; this is a fatal misunderstanding, I continued insistently and soberly. I shall now leave you, please don’t follow me again. Let’s leave this between us just as it is.

But what kind, he wondered, what kind of misunderstanding, he cried, alarmed; he grasped my arm, I could feel his animal-like strength. You must have lost your marbles. We didn’t even have time to ruin anything. He was looking at me but I did not respond. What have I done wrong, he whispered, enraged, because he had no patience for my silence. You think the world came out of your ass, he cried tearfully, is that what you believe. I didn’t imagine anyone could be so rotten.

Why are you ruining it, don’t, I begged him.

Me, ruining it; this shithead has the nerve to say I’m ruining it. He says I, I.

His wounded pride and his wrath set his words on fire; they lit up everything in the darkness and made him look like one of the furies.

He was right; I could not say he wasn’t.

I was afraid he’d hit me; he hypnotized me with his wrath. And this made me realize, unexpectedly again, that in fact we were not in my imagination but at a very dangerous place where I had done something to another human being.

Only a few paces from us an unbelievable figure was standing in the bushes, his pants half lowered.

In full preparedness, he was spying on us, waiting for us to continue, which would increase his excitement, a parasite, a voyeur. I could not ignore him. His arms were like huge hams, his short-sleeved shirt very tight on them and open to the waist, letting me see massive, hairy, rippling layers of fat hanging low and luminous in the darkness. With one hand he was holding up his pants on his enormous sausagelike thighs, with the other he was yanking something under his shiny belly protruding tautly from the layers of fat that luckily could not be seen for all the hair, skin, and darkness.

At the same time at the opening of the footpath a strange couple appeared among the bushes, partly penetrated by the light of the gas lamps.

They were exchanging excited words as they approached, yet something restrained them, so I could not make out what they were saying.

One was obviously a burden to his partner; he was one of the tribal warriors and I happened to know that his name was Robi Königer. He lived on Eötvös Street, in the house we reached after we had managed to break through the firewall, when the boulevard was on fire.

In our neighborhood most everybody treated him as a fool.

Robika is like this, Robika is like that; maybe he’s a little weak in the brain. Come on, sweet Robika, carry my basket for a spell, you won’t regret it.

He did not strip like the others; on the contrary, he was all buttoned up because he could not possibly put his shapelessness on public display.

He wore white surgeon’s trousers and a white shirt; he worked for the ambulance service of a clinic on Üllői Road. When he had no money, and everyone in our neighborhoood seemed to know what he spent his money on, he would go to the open market on Hunyadi Square and help housewives carry home their live chickens tied by the legs, their tomatoes to be preserved, or heavy sacks of potatoes.

His skin must have been bluish white to begin with, every little blood vessel close to the skin’s surface, yet he covered his face, I cannot imagine why, maybe because of some injury, with a thick, blinding white layer of powder. Dread sat on this strange, motionless face. That is how he roamed the streets, white and frightened; in the winter, he wore a black cape. Even in my childhood I had been frightened of him because of the way he carried the struggling chickens, tied together in pairs, Szófia Street reverberating with their squawking, and I could not help thinking that I’d wind up just like that for my secret sins. He was very tall, and because of the constant bending over, his back subserviently developed a hump; he gave the impression that he was forever being forced to go through doors too low for him. He was going through doors we could not see with our naked eyes. Whoever touches himself too much will develop a back like that because too much sinful pleasure eventually attacks the spinal marrow. He had to bend down to everyone he talked to. All his clothes were too small for him, his ankles showed under the cuffs of his pants, one could see he wore red or blue socks most of the time, white only rarely, and his shirtsleeves left not only his bony wrists but a good section of his lower arms uncovered.

The entire man was so thin it was as if he had no flesh on his bones, or as if his bones were made of glass.

The other man was coming faster toward me on the path.

Königer was following him, upset and mesmerized, and one could hear they couldn’t end the tune of their irritation. This other man wore short pants and very spare sandals on indecently naked and strong feet.

As they came along the darkening path, one could not tell which of them was telling the other the more important things, or rather, which of them disdained the other more, and which of them should have controlled his temper.