Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Gradually he had to admit to himself that during the twelve years of his forgetfulness, he had not only guarded the safety and strength of his emotional attachment but also nourished it, kept it alive. He allowed his most secret images to return to him, repeatedly, mutely; he reveled and delighted in them. Even though, along with Bellardi, he wanted to forget Mohács. The place where unsuspecting people go to hoe their vineyards, tie up their vines or pound vine props in deeper, and then suddenly the ground opens up beneath them.

Collapsing medieval cellars swallowed up and buried many of them.

The Gottlieb boy sat on a branch of the willow tree, and they were throwing stones at him.

He could not remember which of them started it. First they lobbed small pebbles from the shore, and the boy kept jerking his sharp little head away from them, and the two on the ground laughed silently, writhing like snakes; they could not completely suppress their laughter but at least held back the sound of it. At first, the little humpback could not understand where the pounding pellets were coming from; both Madzar and Bellardi were good shots. Somehow, it was also part of the game that the two of them were so strong and well developed while the other boy was a pigeon-breasted hunchback. They left the little grub alone for a while, let him reimmerse himself in his reading. Then they bombarded him again with handfuls of pebbles, burst after burst, let him beware and feel the pain.

It became more and more serious.

Let him hold on to the branches so he’ll drop the book.

After a while they saw that the cripple understood but in his great Jewish pride pretended to care about nothing but his book.

They were no longer laughing.

With bigger stones they were more certain to hit him. The stones thudded on his body, then splashed into the water. No other noise disturbed the grand summer landscape.

He was still pretending not to notice the impending danger, as if he were absorbed in his reading, and he did not hold on to anything. But he waited for the next missile with his thin little neck pulled in, risking much. With the hard cover of his book, he tried to protect at least his face, but of course he was always late; they hit their mark well. He not only made himself ridiculous but ran the danger of losing his balance and falling out of the tree.

They’ll get tired of their lousy prank and go away; that is what he must have thought.

But they did not go away, out of spite, because they figured that eventually he would climb down.

He uttered not a word from where he sat.

Then let him stay up there, up where he’d climbed by himself.

We’ll see who can hold out longer.

If he made a move to sit more comfortably with his book, they right away fired at him. And they did it when he stayed too long in one position.

When another gang of noisy boys arrived to fish for driftwood, their enterprise could no longer be kept secret and these newcomers were certainly not going to let the hunchbacked little Jew climb down from the tree.

He might have begged the two of them for mercy, but not the newcomers.

He and Bellardi might as well go home.

And when he returned one evening from the vineyard hills, a bit tipsy, not only was his supper waiting for him in the immaculate kitchen fragrant with freshly baked morello pie but his excited mother held out an unopened telegram, which reminded him of Bellardi’s long letter from the Trieste Naval Academy, every sentence of which had also surprised him.

Sometimes, Madzar left home so as not to be there if Bellardi showed up unexpectedly; it was a way to ensure his own surprise — to return to find Bellardi there.

Although the possibility of such a visit had never been mentioned, in the telegram Mrs. Szemző announced her arrival the next day.

Telegram in hand, the text much too long with too many detailed explanations, Madzar stood, overcome by the news as if hit on the head. He managed to read the first sentence all right, but he gave only a cursory glance to the rest. How could he prevent her. He turned red right under his mother’s watchful eyes. Bellardi must love him greatly, after all. There was no possibility of replying; the post office was closed at this late hour. He did not understand what this meant or what he had read in the telegram, because he hadn’t expected Mrs. Szemző to be interested in his work; this was too much for him. What did each word mean in the sentence about needing to clarify unresolved questions, and his mother wanted to know, and quite loudly too, who, when, and how many guests might be arriving. Or perhaps he had to go to Pest. Just to be on the safe side, as soon as the mailman left she had quickly slaughtered a chicken. Should she add another one. She had cleaned the vegetables for the soup and she would put it on the stove at dawn, but would her little boy tell her whether she should pick more carrots and turnips. It was as though each of his mother’s words reached him from a great distance, along with one of the telegram’s words hovering before his eyes, or as if the words had not reached him at all.

She already has nice new string beans in the garden. It’s a good thing they don’t grow just on the island.

They should pick some before it got completely dark; she’d make some bread-crumbed beans.

As if in her convoluted explanation Mrs. Szemző could conceal why she was coming and why so suddenly.

His first thought was that he should get some water from the soda man who had an artesian well; finicky Mrs. Szemző should not have to drink the stinking water from the Madzars’ well. With all those expensive words in the telegram, Mrs. Szemző revealed that her pride and standoffishness had collapsed; she couldn’t bear being without him, and putting aside propriety and decorum, defying the social differences, she was on her way.

He became inordinately cheerful and excited.

What came promptly to mind was Mrs. Szemző’s laugh, showing her big ugly horse teeth and bare gums.

Well, then, it’s happening after all.

At the mere thought, his prick stiffened and his sphincters contracted. But how would he tell his mother that she should expect the visit of a married woman. He quickly folded the virtually unread telegram and shoved it into his pants pocket. Because it occurred to him, and the possibility truly alarmed him, that tomorrow, on the very same day, Bellardi might also make his appearance.

Both of them might show up on Wednesday.

And in that case, responsibility for the death of the Gottlieb boy rests with them. Which neither of them would ever admit and Mrs. Szemző would never forgive if she knew about it. Luckily, it was only an accident. There was no summer without somebody drowning in the Danube. And why would the two of them have talked to each other about such matters. The water around Mohács is unpredictable enough.

They turned away from each other when other people spoke of the accident.

What time is it, Mother, he asked, a little sobered from his good mood.

He even asked if today was Tuesday.

Outside it was becoming quite light; birds began to chirp in the trees on Pozsonyi Road, though the first streetcar had not yet come.

I’ll go out for a walk, Madzar said, while thinking, no, I can’t do this to my mother, she’d die of shame. She’d start shouting about why should they host a rich Jewess and how could I even think of bringing a married woman into her house. And to do this in full view of the town too; she’d never live it down.

Maybe I’ll reserve a room for her in the Korona, then.

He imagined such a room, the kind he would reserve for Mrs. Szemző in the Korona and where the next day everything would happen between them.

But who is coming, son, his mother called after him hesitantly yet desperately.