Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

About.

Probably not enough time to sleep.

That sounds like a rebuke. I hope you’re not offended by my importunity.

At this, they both laughed.

I haven’t heard any streetcars. One thirty, two thirty, I really don’t know.

Did you open the window?

Who else. The first streetcar comes at three thirty.

Help me stand up, please.

What, you really want me to help you.

Out of love for a fellow human.

My God, how I must have exhausted you. How could I ever compensate you for your squandered energies.

Hearing this, the man began stretching pleasurably; he yawned a big yawn and pretended that down there on the floor he was struggling helplessly. Now he sat up, now he sank back on the piss-soaked cover, pressed and cracked his limbs and knuckles, and then drew his hands across his darkly shining, hairless chest.

Pay for it, he said from behind another yawn, that’s how you can, the simplest solution. Let’s see, I’ll be generous and not count the days, so just pay for the full four nights.

It would have been more honest if you’d told me this before. We could have clarified whether you wanted a separate payment for each round or a lump sum for everything, the woman replied equably. And we still have to talk about how much you want for special activities.

The idea appealed to her because, knowing herself, she might indeed have been willing to pay him.

With great pleasure, they submerged themselves in the sight of each other’s nakedness. The man thought a bit more about the price, but he had no doubt he’d accept it.

I’d be happy with, let’s say, three hundred per round.

They were peeling each other out of the darkness, less with their eyes than with their inner vision, and with a mutually seductive self-gratification that was also pleasurable to demonstrate: the abundant flesh and the light-minded irresponsible words.

Well, let’s try to add it all up.

Although they both felt that these words were becoming morally dangerous.

I don’t think we’d arrive at the same sum.

They might injure each other with words.

Of course, you’ll try to deny a few rounds.

Ágost’s hands, on his stomach, finally stopped moving.

This self-satisfied gesture flattered him with a renewed erection.

He countered it with another gesture; he had had enough of erections; he dug into his dense pubic hair with its trillion little curls, scratched it and kept scratching. Which in Gyöngyvér’s eyes was more comical than seductive, and rather beastly. His way of carrying on, his tossing and snuggling — dogs act like this when absorbing the odors of a newly arranged litter to sleep on or of strange feces. Then he slipped his hands between his thighs and reached for his testicles as if his hands were one large ladle.

And this brought to Gyöngyvér’s mind the image of reapers on their break, sitting on the ground, spooning hot thick goulash soup from a common bowl which a blond woman brought to them. She had to think about this woman, because she did not know where she knew her from and why the sight of her gripped her with fear.

Ágost raised his prick and his testicles, and Gyöngyvér had to turn away from this sight.

She could not understand why this strange woman kept walking around in her mind and what sort of reapers were lolling about in the shade.

His penis took a long time to shrink back to normal size after the protracted excitement.

Ágost was amazed how long the aftereffects of his lovemaking could last; sometimes he could hold on to it until the following night. The swollen, sensitive rim of his bulb now touched his arm, warning him: I am bare. Its injury would cause pain.

Still, he didn’t want to examine it in front of a woman whom he’d just happened to come up and visit. But he said this to himself only out of self-defense. He pulled the foreskin over the bulb so it would not seem so shameless and defenseless, and then with showy strokes he several times ran his fingers across the swelling spine of his cock.

Come here, he said softly to the woman, who, however, did not move.

Come here, please.

But this woman was thinking about something else.

Please come here, and stand above me. Please.

Now he really wanted to eat Gyöngyvér.

But the woman did not budge, did not respond to his offer with her body, perhaps misunderstood him.

You’re afraid of me, you don’t trust me, you’re not coming here even though I’m asking you. Maybe you think I’ll go away. How else should I beg you. You’re not even here. You’re terrified of me. Now I can see it clearly.

Where do you get such an idea, the woman wondered, because she was indeed terrified, but not of him, rather of the blond woman and the reapers. I don’t understand why you’re so conceited.

To find her clitoris in the tangle of furrows and hook his tongue gingerly into it.

And why should I be here for you all the time. What are you, a tyrant or a little boy.

He wanted to feel the woman’s tangle in his throat.

You can’t even imagine that I’m by myself. I don’t want anybody, and not you either.

As if pained by thirst, he wanted her with his entire oral cavity. The familiar taste of cunt, which nevertheless differs wildly as one goes from cunt to cunt. Impossible to devour it completely and for good. Only its disgusting strangeness remains, which one cannot dissolve in one’s saliva and make one’s own. Perhaps saliva does not even have its own taste, and that is why one wants to mix it or flavor it with something else.

The woman’s shape was nicely outlined against the white door, the strong lines of her hips and the thick, swollen peaks of her diverging breasts.

From the floor, he could not see her facial features clearly for they were partly shadowed.

She remained a woman.

Come on, you can admit it.

In response Gyöngyvér absentmindedly extended her hand to the man, but not as if she meant to admit anything. And not to help him up either.

It would never occur to me to be afraid of you, but if you want to, you may leave.

All right, I’ll leave, but first pay me.

Cut out this nonsense. Go on, leave. At least I’ll lose you now and won’t have to worry later.

As she spoke she squatted in front of him as if she had to examine him carefully from close up, to understand him better.

Then you can foresee your sad fate, after all.

She does not understand.

They held each other’s hands, almost indifferently, but they both tremendously enjoyed their new positions, which showed their perfect isolation and independence.

You can’t be serious when you say you’ve never been paid for it, the man said offhandedly, as an experiment, almost contemptuously.

And what if I told you that yes, I am always paid, I wouldn’t do it otherwise, I’m a registered whore. That’s obviously what you want to hear.

Suddenly in both their faces was a flash of some profound resistance or hatred.

And instantly they became emotional in this mutuality. As they went on scrutinizing each other’s features, words and gestures became too much. As if there were no gestures or words that would not provoke them emotionally.

Gyöngyvér saw him as more beautiful than she could endure; and Ágost saw her, as always, as a little more beautiful than his mental image of her.

I think you’re a pretty spoiled person, Ágost.

I think so too.

There’s very little chance of my continuing to spoil you.

That’s a decision you have to make. I won’t interfere.

But you want to force a bit more flattery and a bit more subservience out of me. You want me to be terrified of you and serve you while you’re allowed to brutalize me.

And what can I do about it. You tell me. I’m not a prophet, I can’t see into the future, but yes, things might turn out like that.