Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

He wouldn’t let them draw him into anything, of course, that’s out of the question, but this is what he’d say, this is how he’d solve the problem, with a manly yes. Nothing was farther from him than the cause of Hungarians and these childish things, these little conspiracies. But he understood that the undertaking did have a logic to it; it wouldn’t be hard to pretend to accept it. He’d do exactly what Bellardi would in a similar situation: wrap his reservations in inquisitive questions, show enthusiasm and admiration for the cause, then wait and listen, under no circumstance argue with anyone, and thereby hold all the strings in his own hand.

Hungarians never make decisions about anything; instinctively, he too wanted to avoid that.

He didn’t want to lose Bellardi’s goodwill, though he could not tell why he needed it. Or even if there was some mysterious need in their relationship, with ancient history behind it, like having been bound together by something from before their births or possibly by the dazzle of their shared childhood, he still couldn’t tell, though he couldn’t deny it either. But even so what benefit did he derive from it.

As though friendship’s temperature were measured in units of utility.

Why would he need such a wretched man, what have I to do with such a high-class fraud.

First, he had to cut everything down to size, but that made so much noise it was hard to think about certain persons. He made the necessary drawings in an oversize English sketchbook. He enjoyed drawing and while doing it he worked out every detail of all the possible answers he might give to Bellardi. Now and then he caught himself making his sketches unpleasantly violent because of his thoughts. Violence stared back at him. The simplest way to reject Bellardi’s suggestion would be to show enthusiastic interest in it. Sexual violence, said his sketches. Several times he also drew his mother as she stood in the workshop door, leaning on the doorpost, her white kerchief tied behind her head.

She liked standing around, in the noise of chiseling.

When I was in the store today, I heard the Gottliebs went to America.

To where, who, Madzar shouted back across the noise; the news so surprised him he could not comprehend it.

While drawing, he’d chisel smooth for himself the appearances he wished to maintain in Bellardi’s and Mrs. Szemző’s company, and, for this effort to succeed, he violently tore the violent sketches from his book and crumpled them.

He will take with him to America one sketch of his mother.

And he will transfer his money to another bank.

For that, he will have to go to the capital again.

But he won’t risk it now because if Bellardi hasn’t come for the answer by now, he must surely come any minute. He made a few drawings of him from memory, full-figure drawings, but he tore them up and, finding that inadequate, burned them, though he wanted to turn his image into sketches of attractive nude boys. Each time he burned a drawing, he had to make a new full-figure sketch as a basis for future drawings — until he had another fit and burned them all again.

Consulting the schedule of the Carolina , Madzar figured out when Bellardi would be in Mohács.

He had so much figuring to do anyway, and these various calculations persisted in crossing and accompanying one another.

All right, he said, he didn’t come today, but he might come the day after tomorrow. It became almost unbearable to think that every third or fifth day Bellardi sailed by on the Danube, touching Mohács, but didn’t get off. He made his calculations because he did not want Bellardi to surprise him. Today he didn’t come, so now there’s a respite for a few hours. Thank God he’s not coming. He could not endure his former friend’s capriciousness and inconsistency. When every third or fifth day the critical hour arrived and the moment was approaching, the blood jolted in his head and he felt himself blushing in shame.

His heart beat loud at the sound of the ship’s horn coming close.

Then he preferred to think about Mrs. Szemző; he made as if to think about her but in the end did not. His hand slipped; in alarm he had either hit or grasped something the wrong way. His old friend might show up in a few minutes, though he wished he wouldn’t come — now or ever again. He even sighed and moaned in his wild joy. Such an emotional turmoil was not without its danger because the old power saws made by the Langefelder machine factory had hardly anything by way of protective devices. He was embarrassed to think such thoughts and to be making little moans instead of watching what he was doing with his hands, but he had to admit he had good reason to tease and make fun of himself.

He was indeed waiting for his lover.

So what if at least twelve years had gone by without giving him a thought. Which, of course, was not even true. Bellardi might come this afternoon. Or if not this afternoon he might come five days from now in the middle of the night. The latter was the more exciting image, that he’d arrive at night. They’d sit on the veranda with a bottle of good wine until dawn, he’d ask his mother to bake some of her pork-scraps round cake. He wondered whether he should tell his mother in advance about Bellardi’s possible visit.

Mother, please be prepared, I might have a guest soon.

But he said nothing about it to her.

Yet his mother spoke, from behind his back, asking whether she should count on anyone coming, perhaps a guest.

Yes, he shouted over the noise of the power saw, but don’t make a fuss. If he comes, he comes, if he doesn’t, nobody else will be coming.

And to keep his mother from asking more questions, he quickly asked her whether she knew what had happened to Gottlieb’s dogs.

What dogs, his mother shouted back in German.

Madzar stopped sawing; only the drive belt was making repeated clattering noises.

He had two large dogs, didn’t he.

How in hell would I know what he did with them.

So his mother didn’t dare ask whom they might be waiting for, though she remained for a long time in the workshop doorway, standing silently, watching her son measure everything more than once and make new marks before putting the logs to the saw.

Her son did not like it when every so often she spoke to him in German.

Mother, you probably beat those dogs to death yourself, he said aloud later; he had long wanted to learn the truth from her.

What dogs, son, his mother shouted back, this time in Hungarian.

When the subject was unpleasant she preferred the foreign tongue.

Well, our two big white dogs, the komondors, I’ve been thinking about them, said Madzar, as if in passing, as if he weren’t truly interested and might not even hear her answer in the noise. He did not look up from his work; with such transparent maneuvers he thus occasionally managed to trick his mother.

Oh, son, that was so long ago.

Once again, only the noise of the drive belt was heard. They said nothing for a long time, but as she looked at her son’s strong back while he was checking the cutting surface, she knew that if she did not give a straight answer she’d have to leave, because her son would be angry with her.

First, I killed only one of them, the bitch, she answered.

But why did you do it, that’s what I want to know.

The female was the wilder one. I couldn’t cope with them, because they listened only to your father, son. They were partial to him, how could I live with them.

Now the silence felt better.

The sheer mention of Bellardi’s name always provoked excitement in his mother, so for his peace of mind Madzar did not risk invoking it. She was more in love with Bellardi than he was, if that was possible. She treated him, even when Bellardi was a small child, as if the Lord Jesus had come down to them or had sent the little boy with his schoolbag in his stead.