Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

So we must have fallen asleep like this, but this is wonderful, she whispered rapturously, her voice expressing contentment. Something like this had never happened before. And she was frightened too, that with her enthusiasm she’d do something wrong, lose him.

It would be interesting, wait, don’t be in such a hurry, the man responded, though he’d have liked to withdraw himself, stand up, and at last go to the toilet. But that would have required his cock to set out on a long, complicated journey. I’ll just explain this one thing before I go.

He fell silent and did the opposite of what he wanted to do: he pushed and penetrated a little bit more deeply.

Which was part of his explanation. At least that was the impression he gave for the other person and for himself.

Yet he had no explanation. The strong sensation of his cock was disturbing him in many ways. Not so much the enduring pleasure, of which he had become aware a moment before, but the fact of his erection, for which he saw no reason or motivation. And this, in turn, reminded him of their profound gratification, left behind somewhere in the depth of time, which someone might even have heard when it occurred. He attributed his enduring erection to the need to urinate — the most convenient explanation — but it made him a little ashamed. Why was he lying to himself. Why was he defending himself, or going on the offense; why couldn’t he give himself over to the feeling that this is how things are right now and no other way, and his cock couldn’t be calmed down. And he was misleading the other person too, but certainly not intentionally. Put another way, he had an organ that had decided to be independent or at least was behaving unexpectedly. And contemplating this, he concluded that in all their playacting, the leading role had been assigned to a deceptive maneuver. Nothing surprising would ever happen again, everything would simply repeat itself. He made contact with the woman only at a tiny point, though he wished it were otherwise. He did not feel her on his cock, not even close to it, but rather at the spot where he should be feeling his cock; through a single point, he felt the entirety of the other person. Through the little point, no larger than the head of a pin, everything streamed into the other person. He was taking in everything from the other person that until now he could not have seen or felt or had sensed only dimly. But starting now, he would be aware of everything that had happened or was happening in the other person, including things of which the woman was unaware or about which she was not yet ready to talk.

He perceived her among her double-dealings, trickery, exaggerations, lies, sins, intrigues, infantilisms, indecencies, and painful inhibitions.

Wrapped in her dark velvety skin, untouched by these unfavorable disturbing characteristics, she stood before him.

The image glowed so brightly in his mind that it threatened to burn out the tiny point of contact. It hurt. He wanted to say that in his view they were now mutually dreaming each other’s dream into each other. One person’s dream is somehow penetrating or flowing or seeping into the other’s, because just a moment earlier, when Gyöngyvér mentioned her stupid whirlpool, he dreamed that water bubbling up was reaching the boiling point.

Except that he could not have said what sort of water was bubbling up. Because it was not water but Gyöngyvér’s passionate voice bubbling in his ear. And there was that crumbling: the moment the precipice opened and there was no place to reach out to anymore, nothing to hold on to. Or he might be dreaming what the woman was dreaming because he had to urinate and could barely hold it in anymore, and the woman’s thirsty cunt, this slippery, pale-blood-colored, loosened, and boundless interior space that nevertheless might be too narrow for him, would not let him. After all, he couldn’t piss in her. He knew what he had to do with her. Such a perfect being cannot fall by the wayside. He had to open her up, awaken her with a few movements. Save her from destruction. He felt himself to be a magician capable of freeing the other person from all sorts of burdens. At the same time, his fear did not leave him. He could not shake the thought that his erection had become permanent, would never subside, the blood in his penis had clotted, he had to get medical help. Indeed, he did not desire her anymore. His imagination was increasingly taken over by the image of this clotted, thickened blood. What more could he have wished for after such a gigantic gratification but to piss, to eat and piss. He would continue to open up, shape, and mold this woman until nothing strange, nothing false remained in her.

When you told me about the whirlpool just a moment ago, you know, he said too loudly, as if raising his voice over the volume of his inner monologue, I was just dreaming that water was bubbling up and coming to a boil. But I know, get this, I knew I wasn’t really dreaming this, that it was something that had happened to me before, that it was a memory. Maybe I told you about it yesterday, the crumbling, or maybe some other time. This was just a repetition.

It was a memory for me too.

But what kind of memory could this be for you if I am the one who’s telling about it, what kind of memory of yours is that, I don’t understand, said the man incredulously, as if Gyöngyvér was thwarting his plans. He was thinking, no, maybe I shouldn’t do this, I shouldn’t open anything. Maybe he should stop his stupid plans to reform people, because if he let the woman so close to him he’d be lost. This could work only if he were ready to reveal his secrets. Then I am lost. He could not have revealed his secrets retroactively to anyone. That was strictly forbidden. He could not do that even if he married her.

That was just what I wanted to tell you, that I really don’t remember anything about this water business, said the woman, a little offended and unsuspecting, but I should remember something. Something’s there, in my mind, but its essence is gone.

How do you know if it’s gone, asked the man, irritated, and knowing they were becoming entangled in a useless argument. After all, he couldn’t dispute what the other person did or did not remember.

I don’t understand, why are you so irritated.

I’m not in the least irritated.

You must not be hearing yourself.

That’s exactly why I’m telling you about this, Ágost continued, against his strongest conviction, because you don’t remember and I do. Maybe I’m irritated, but why aren’t you a little more patient.

I’m completely patient.

Well, I did tell you about the crumbling. I told you about it yesterday.

I do remember precisely that I was supposed to remember something, Gyöngyvér said, continuing her own argument, undaunted. Something terrible happened. Something that was good for me. But I can’t get to it, I can’t reach it. Whenever I feel I’ve reached it, that’s a sure sign I haven’t. Don’t you understand, she shouted, growing uncertain, desperate, as if realizing that despite all her efforts, despite all her hopes, the other person would never understand her.

Yet in the same instant that she pressed both her hands on the man’s chest, thrusting him away to show she didn’t need him if he was so incapable of understanding anything and instead kept bringing up his stupid memories, let him get the hell out of here, the man’s large hands grasped her shoulders and, evidently driven by a similar emotion, shook her angrily.

But that’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you too, he cried in wild anger, that I am remembering. But you don’t listen to me. Isn’t it enough for you that I remember? Can’t your little brain take in that what I remember is your dream, or I don’t even know what I wanted to say, because I’m so angry I feel like exploding.