Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Madzar did not like this turn in the conversation. What is going on in the depths, he asked amiably.

We’ll only harm ourselves if we do something openly against it, but it would be very irresponsible to jump in blindly.

Water flows in the depths, my dear Laci, nothing else.

You’re putting it mildly, Bellardi said, laughing.

As one who knew more and was ready to divulge anything.

You want to put one over on me, my good man. Maybe we should talk of the blood that will also flow.

Which, of course, to spare the other man, he’d never say out loud.

Despite his resistance, Madzar had to admit to himself that Bellardi was steering their conversation in the right direction. Perhaps it was right to talk about politics and nothing else. It is better for the captain not to share his secrets. He nodded his heavy head with the hair like armor.

That’s the reason I want to go away, you see, and the sooner the better, far away from Europe, he answered heavily and then stopped abruptly.

Somewhere it’s still possible to work, he added by way of explanation.

The project you have agreed to do here, though, you will finish, won’t you.

Yes, I shall.

It’ll probably take you into the fall, said Bellardi in a tone implying that in the most sensitive depths of his soul he wanted to understand something of the other man, or that he was weighing something.

It will probably be winter by the time I finish it.

They clinked their stemmed glasses lightly; this too was part of their declared happiness.

Madzar was now belatedly overcome by panic. He couldn’t imagine a life in which every emotion was openly named.

As if the desire for transparency were dragging him toward bottomless depths. His psychological preparedness and architectural concepts made contact at this point but remained irreconcilable. He also didn’t understand how he could have gotten so far with Mrs. Szemző. Who should stop, and where, with this compulsion for transparency. Two mature men, ridiculous, he kept reassuring himself.

I’ll never take this ship again, not me.

I can put an end to this story, very simply.

Would it have any significance if he placed emptiness behind a glass wall.

They were looking into each other’s transparent eyes.

They sipped and inhaled the fine aroma of the wine, filled with the rich, mature, sweet autumnal fragrances of a distant land. Happiness was its aroma, a fulfillment, but its flavor was tart.

Again, he wanted to change the subject quickly.

You know, I’m making some of the furniture myself, he began to explain. That’s also part of the reason why I asked about old Gottlieb. If I found the right material at his place, I could stay home for a while. But in any case I’ll probably need a few weeks in summer just for the furniture.

A few weeks in summer, Bellardi repeated pensively, his voice trailing off into an intimate distance while he absentmindedly twirled the stemmed glass between his fingers.

I’d say about two months.

God, if I could have a few weeks of summer in Mohács.

You know, I’m very excited about being able to work in my father’s workshop, which was also my grandfather’s.

All the Hungarians of Mohács are lost, you’re the last one.

I’ll do something with their tools they couldn’t possibly have imagined. They’d have said it was impossible, forbidden, shouldn’t be done.

Won’t you be needing some help, Bellardi asked.

Madzar had no response.

Please, tell me, and this time the captain turned his head away, out of decency, this doctor in Budapest, his wife, the ones you’re working for, I assume they are Jews.

Bellardi evidently did not wish to break completely with the earlier subject of their conversation.

But Madzar didn’t want to return to it.

Yes, they are.

They took a few more sips of their wine.

As if they were quietly weighing the nature and character of the confidence they had in each other and as if this were the subject of their conversation.

To get into it or not.

But you still haven’t told me, said the captain from behind his glass, as though about to make a decision, was there anything with Marika or not. It hasn’t been more than two months since I last saw that female.

That means you were at home.

It was a sad occasion, to liquidate my aunt’s inheritance. What can I tell you, judging by the characteristics of her race Marika is very pretty.

You must be joking, what could possibly have been there between us, Madzar replied, irritated.

The old Viennese waiter was making his way up the stairs again, this time with the menu. Madzar was reluctant to be drawn into matters he had managed to avoid earlier. The waiter flapped open the menu’s hard covers and with a broad gesture spread it out before them.

I am curious about your confidential message, Madzar said.

First we order, my friend. Later we’ll deal with business and politics. The captain laughed hard, showing his strong white but uneven teeth, and he imperiously poked at the top line of the menu.

If I’m not mistaken, then, you wish to talk about business and political topics, remarked the architect.

First I wish to talk about entrées and mainly about our favorite soups, my dear Lojzi. Everything else will come later.

I can’t imagine what you want to ask of me, but frankly I sense some ulterior motives.

You may not believe it, but my motives are honorable. The sword is out of the scabbard. I shall lay it out for you. We’ll play with all the cards on the table. Or maybe we’ll first see the first-course dishes before deciding on the entrées. Bellardi looked at Madzar questioningly, boastfully.

Madzar did not reply; alternately they studied the menu to avoid seeing each other and then looked up into each other’s face; it would have been hard for them to break contact completely.

Or, even more important, they both wanted to keep the other’s countenance from gaining an advantage, from deciphering the unmasked face across from him.

Only the steady puffing of the liner was heard.

The old Viennese waiter had lighted the candles on the table, stopped muttering to himself in his several languages, and now stood expectantly in his enormous worn-out black shoes and baggy black trousers that shone at the knees.

Where is Mayer, why isn’t he here, asked the captain as if in passing but in a curious falsetto.

It seems, said the old waiter in German, he had to go down to the stokers again.

Bellardi let it go, but it was obvious he did not care for this answer. It made him restless.

The candles in the three-arm silver candelabrum were burning more brightly, slowly reaching their full intensity, thus deepening the approaching night outside.

I suggest, said Bellardi after a while, that we stay away from the more ordinary dishes. Let’s have a holiday meal.

If you tell me what you call ordinary, replied Madzar, drawing out his words — he was immersed both in the menu and in all those ambiguous feelings that Bellardi’s proximity and the liner’s puffing aroused in him — I’ll be happy to follow most of your suggestions.

As if the tremendous steam power were working itself into a night in which there was neither forward nor backward, as if all that enormous effort were exerted only to be standing still.

Could it be that this confusing sensation was what grown people think about when they claim that friendship is more important than love. His heart was filled with unfamiliar anxiety and dread.

Because only now did he comprehend completely what had happened twenty years earlier.

We’re not yet thirty, yet our lives might be over.

Bellardi’s probably right, a person does not change a bit, and without change, how can there be any progress in history. For there to be progress, one should be aware at least of one’s own direction. What has happened, what is happening to me. And if there is no progress, then why am I so severe. The two great paddle wheels on a single axle are spinning in place. He knows that, of course, because he sails now with the current, now against it; he has no other choice. With the same exertion, he might be a horse on a treadle or a streetcar conductor. If there is no progress, there is neither past nor future.