Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

He suffered a terrible loss; gift giving pained him.

No one but his mother understood the terrible pain he had about objects he might lose. And to reduce the pain, he treated the items given to me as gifts, as if they were still his.

Whenever he felt like wearing them again, he’d simply take them out of my closet, without a word. When I lived with them, I never knew exactly what belonged to me, what had been taken back; had they eaten my food before I had a chance to taste it, did they really use things they had already given me.

I barely remembered the years when I had lived with my mother and father. Thereafter, I had to learn quickly what my new caretakers wanted of me, with their strange intentions.

Sometimes I couldn’t find an item of mine that Ágost had no personal connection to. They just laughed. They also had a lot of fun when in their greed Ágost or Nínó gobbled up the lunch or supper that had been put aside for me.

Don’t tell me you’re going to whine about a lousy lunch. Ilona will scrape something together for you.

I watched and I observed this strange and beautiful man, this Gézuka, and I could not understand how he could be my cousin. He treated me as a lord of the manor would treat his servant; take this translation to such and such a place; bring me such and such a book from this other place. Sometimes he hurt me to the quick, sometimes he amused me, and I couldn’t figure out what sort of effect, and when, his tyranny might have on me. That’s why I was terrified of him.

Unknown emotions toward him arose in me. Sometimes I thought to myself, I will kill this man.

Ours was an unambiguous relationship.

I could stay with them so long as I behaved perfectly. With this premise, of course, they let themselves not only make all sorts of judgments about my good or bad behavior but also laid down for me, very strictly, exactly how and within what framework I might protest or rebel against them, what I might request or demand of them. In most cases, nothing. There was no humiliation I didn’t have to endure. And if I hadn’t been raised by my grandparents, this would have been much harder to bear.

Ágost could not relinquish anything of his, not with his eyes and not with his fingers. Let’s say he walked by me and, as if accidentally, pinched my shirt with his fingers. With an embarrassed little laugh, he’d remark that he’d probably never again have another shirt made of such excellent oxford cloth.

I felt I was burning up; my face was red; I was ashamed for him. And if I couldn’t stop myself from suggesting, for example, that perhaps I should return the shirt, he’d say innocently what a great idea, he could then wear it for a while longer. Actually, he liked these passed-on items. One does not like to wear brand-new things.

I wanted to tear off my skin — here, take it.

And now I didn’t care about him or his expensive pen, I didn’t care whether he stayed or went. I cared only about the boy I knew, I was sure, but still hadn’t figured out from where.

I felt that if I took my eyes off him, I’d miss something. I could still see his checkered shirt and yellow suitcase, but the crowd was swallowing him up. I wanted to stay with him; I wanted to run after him. But the thought embarrassed me. Ágost was proffering his stupid pen and shouting at the same time. That he was indeed going now, leaving me on my own, he really didn’t have any more time, and there was no point in waiting. Nobody had thought this departure would turn into such a disorderly mess. And I should use his pen in good health. Pleasant journey. When I arrive, I mustn’t forget to let him know my address. I should write him with his pen. He handed it to me ceremoniously, with both hands. I couldn’t tell what was more refined, his pen or his fingers, his gift or his gesture. He kept shouting that I should write, write, otherwise Nínó would be very anxious and I should know how dangerous that could be.

I shouted back that he might worry about plenty of things but not about my not writing. I most definitely would write, he could be sure of that.

Ágost looked like a Persian prince, as our great-grandfather did in photos from his youth, dark and with a martial bearing; his face thin, solemnly proportioned, almost somber, his hair thick and black. His darkly brilliant small eyes looked out from under heavy, tired-looking, half-lowered lids. His wrists were narrow, his hands delicate, his fingers improbably long, and his arched, nacreous nails seemed like a unique ornamentation, like jewels. It felt good to look at him even if you found him profoundly repugnant.

People in general don’t pay much attention to these phenomena or don’t sense them, but everything happens to us in the air.

Ágost was one of those people around whom nothing happens in the air because he did not emit anything, no feelings, no heat or light, perhaps a scent. I could not reach him with anything, and he did not reach me. The heavy gilded pen was a glossy black Montblanc, with the characteristic little white star shining at the tip. But there was something very advantageous in Ágost’s being unreachable and his not reaching anyone. He could not be deceived, perhaps, but there was no superficial emotional expression that, in the interests of his own comfort, he wouldn’t accept at face value. He was truly most content when he could remain indifferent, his face motionless and unsmiling.

Of the conspiracy I suspected in those moments there was no trace on his face. Or, if there had been a conspiracy and the family was now truly free of me for good, they must have kept it a secret from him too, and he had no idea of it. Perhaps he was giving me the pen so he could leave me there without any pangs of conscience. In the end, I don’t know why he did it; I didn’t understand it.

For a long time I thought I didn’t understand beautiful people because they could not be understood. I understood my grandmother and my grandfather, but they were small and could not have been especially attractive even in their youth. When I took family photographs out of my grandmother’s velvet box and looked at pictures of my father, I was reassured that he had not been beautiful either. Even as a small child I thought that people perceived beauty like some sort of medal or decoration, the grace of faith, when instead it should be considered as an elemental calamity whose painful consequences no one can prevent. My mother would not have abandoned me had she not been so very attracted to the beauty of someone else, or if her beauty had not meant a continued temptation.

I shouted all right, I’m going to register, he should leave and not worry.

I picked up my yellow suitcase by the handle. I had no place to put the pen because there was no pocket in my summer shirt. I kept holding it like a treasure; let him see that I value his gift. But I worried that with his fine, dry fingers he might touch my face.

Lightly, he raised his fist and yelled that I should forgive him but he couldn’t stand this terrible noise anymore; he shouted salut, bon courage .

Salut , I shouted back, and with that, we both turned on our heels.

The checkered shirt had already blended into the crowd gathered in clusters at the front of the platforms.

I took off on a run after him as fast as the throng and the suitcase bumping against my leg let me. As I ran I shoved the pen into my pants pocket. Perhaps this heedless gesture broke the last thin thread that tied me to my family. I sank into the universe, surrendered myself to a dangerous attraction, and no longer cared whether I was alone or not.

I enjoyed my enormous freedom without knowing what terrible dangers it had in store for me.

Our train pulled out late in the afternoon. An unexpected clink, a jolt, and very slowly we were moving, rolling.