Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

A future tenant would be exposed to irritations for which there would be no remedy. A building might possess several characteristics that a person, though experiencing them, refused to acknowledge, and then it might seem as if the person was creating his frequent and serious bothers on his own, not realizing that the architecture was at fault.

If the ceiling had been higher by just twenty centimeters, the partitions by, say, thirty centimeters, the sound box would not have been so unpleasant. But neither the owners nor the builders had clarified the relationship of the interior to the exterior, which led to fatal disproportions. They had used the idea of functionality to hide their own wretchedness and their profit motive, and this infuriated Madzar.

As if they considered disproportion the incontestable reality of things.

He could think of no architectural statement more irresponsible.

Light was the only thing of any worth here. Strong saturated light whose sources were, of course, decipherable, and one would have to make a thorough examination of the surroundings. Direct light mingled with two indirect lights that had a completely improbable, unreal general effect. He could begin there. But no, he could not, because he would have felt he was merely doing something clever in an emergency situation of unknown proportions.

The problem remained: could he do the job with impunity. The light was indeed very good; he’d hate to give up on it.

I really can’t find it in my heart to do this job, he told the woman flatly.

And, to be honest, I am not very interested in this whole spiritual-poverty business, this whole emergency situation that has become permanent in this country and even put down roots.

Not my cup of tea , he said in English.

It presents conditions I don’t care to deal with, conditions I don’t know what to do with.

You’d rather not touch it at all, said Mrs. Szemző quietly but pointedly.

Unguarded contacts, of course, always have their peculiar hazards.

Maybe you’re right, said the architect, as a person with long experience in avoiding potential friction by being agreeable. I don’t like walking into an unknown. But even that doesn’t signify much, since I sense no danger.

Oh, go on, belittle it, continued the woman insistently. But don’t misunderstand me: you may walk away from the task as far as I’m concerned, I don’t want to force you to do anything. I probably wouldn’t have the talent to do so in any case.

Which made the man blush.

Still, he could not completely disregard the woman’s brazen manner.

Perhaps you’ll understand, he said more coolly, that this is not my egoism. I just can’t clarify other people’s extremely unclear situations.

But I do. Of course I understand.

I can’t poke around in it now, after the fact. The building is a finished thing, I can’t fix it. What I work with is only matter, nothing else, cold and indifferent matter, but it’s not like a hat or dress that one can alter according to one’s needs. What’s in a building — its organizational concept, Zeitgeist, and so on — isn’t as flexible as the soul.

He turned red in his anger.

What right has this pampered woman to make her pointed remarks.

His plebeian conscience was protesting. His exceptionally smooth white skin had a reddish tint that made him prone to blushing. Perhaps this was the only trait that showed his strong personality as vulnerable. Not only could he not stop himself from blushing, but he had no idea how to hide it. Which, unfortunately, he attributed to his low origins. The blushing would unexpectedly gnaw at his sense of security, ambush him, and then in successive waves thrust him deeper and deeper into embarrassment.

This is the first generation of architects since classicism, he said more loudly than was necessary, that does not define itself by representation or decoration. Architecture is not a style, but its practitioners here live in that delusion. The church and the aristocracy no longer stand in their way. This is tremendous, an irrevocable change for the better. The twentieth-century way of formulating and expressing itself is in systems and structures, a functioning system of interdependent parts like a living creature, an organism itself — which architecture must organize according to some concept, of course. The unfortunate bunglers who built this place, to use an historical example, should have solved the problem that the March Youth didn’t solve in 1848*: how to create personal proportions, how to complete the bourgeois revolution. For me, what was done here instead, please forgive me, is very heterogeneous and unclear.

Also impure. And I hope you understand that I’m not thinking primarily of moral conditions. I don’t accept your historical explanation either, because I’m interested not in history but in the substance and condition of things.

He pretended to be raising his voice against the wind, but in fact he was trying to suppress his anger. Once again, he had come up against a patrician woman, just as he had in Rotterdam. Who in her completed personality had indeed completed the revolution.

He was struggling against his blushing and broke out in a sweat, realizing that once again he had fished out for himself the same kind of woman.

If I understand you correctly, you draw a strict distinction between individuality and personality, or the person’s egoism. You hit the nail on the head. This is indeed a risky undertaking. You say that you must separate your own egoism even from your personal needs.

Absolutely.

You don’t consider any collectivism as valid.

I wouldn’t even ask whether I do.

Not the collectivism of egoism, then. For you, only personal agreements are valid.

Exclusively, replied the man, and this time he blushed in joy.

This woman understands him, after all; he’ll give it a try.

That is the only principle I can follow, this is the spirit of our time, I believe, the organizing principle. I must make it fit between the communal and the private, as much as possible with the help of the cleanest and clearest agreement between the concerned parties. In other words, I’d be satisfied with an offer. I propose a possible contract or agreement.

Luckily for him, another strong gust of wind blew in their direction, catching his heavy, full head of hair. Which gave him a reason not to twirl and crumple his hat, but to do something else with his suppressed joy and enthusiasm.

He grabbed at his hair.

Simultaneously Mrs. Szemző grabbed her hat, though the wind wouldn’t have swept it off. As if she were copying the other person’s diversionary gesture because she too had something to conceal. But this made her blush deeply.

Mainly because first came the gesture and only after that her realization of why she’d made it.

In each other’s eyes, they could not have been more exposed.

I think you go too far with psychology. I find it provocative but admit it’s on the right track, continued the man, smiling. His voice was warm and strong. But I may be thinking of these things that concern us both in a more simple, objective, and if I may say so primitive way.

This remark managed to arouse Mrs. Szemző’s anger.

No, no, she said, indignantly and almost harshly, when it comes to thinking, I tell you, everyone thinks the same way. At most, some people prefer their simpler thoughts, others their more refined ones when it comes to saying them aloud. But this has nothing to do with whether they think objectively or subjectively.

Now suddenly and mutually they were angry at each other for what they saw as the other’s lack of comprehension.

But they could not rid themselves of the pleasant feeling that they did not have to vent or experience their anger as enemies. It was as if they had to carry out the command of a strange power, but not with anything like the same conviction. Madzar obeyed as a courtesy to the strange power; Mrs. Szemző was guided by a sense of professional responsibility.