Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

And as he had never done before, driven by the desire to remain faultless and to assuage his inauspicious announcement well in advance, he now placed his hand on Baroness Thum zu Wolkenstein’s arm, richly encased in fluttering white silk. A gesture in which there was a touch of unpardonable condescension; a well-bred person would not behave like this with his peers.

The baroness was not, in her origins, socially inferior to Schuer, nor was she a woman without means, but in conformity with her scientific activity and puritan inclinations she usually dressed very simply, sometimes not even elegantly but in a plain skirt and blouse. Now, however, she wore an intricately collared shirtwaist with puffed sleeves reminiscent of national costumes and wide cuffs at the wrists; it was quite fashionable, as was her slender, slightly bell-shaped skirt of raw silk, slit high on the sides, which gave her a girlish silhouette. She had made an effort today because she did not wish to be underdressed when with the countess. It was part of her dressing peculiarities that she never wore jewelry now, but she purchased the finest and most expensive shoes and handbags, which she selected fastidiously and in great quantities. She knew no moderation in this, for she adored odd and whimsical items on her hands and feet.

It seemed that the strange men in the Lützow Street bar also knew about this passion of hers, the men who grabbed her legs and felt them up in the dim reddish light of the private room. Not only the plush seats but also the walls and the ceiling of the Boîte Rouge were covered with red velvet, and there was hardly any lighting. They held her arms, their strong fingers made their way up from her ankles and down to her elbows, but she did not let them touch her breasts.

Which did not occur by chance but because of the shame she felt about her excitement.

But at this moment the baron’s unpardonably intimate gesture was not meant for her; it was his way of introducing himself to the Hungarian countess. As if he wished to initiate the woman stranger in the depths of his tenderness, even if with his gesture he was suggesting depths to which he had never descended since to his great sorrow he had never been able to love anyone, though he had seen with his own eyes people who were capable of it, even of mutual love.

The hand that Baroness Thum’s arm could not forget even hours later was a comfortably heavy, strong hand.

As opposed to her older friend, the Hungarian countess was dressed with heart-warming elegance. Lately the darling of diplomatic circles for being the betrothed of the regent’s son, she had arrived in Berlin two days earlier at the invitation of Emmy Göhring,* that truly charming grand patron of the arts. As part of her semi-official visit, and accompanied by Emmy and other highly placed ladies, the countess was supposed to drop in on Arno Breker at his imposingly large studio in Käuzchensteig to view the sculptor’s latest monumental nudes.* One might say the countess was unrelenting in her pursuit of cosmopolitan elegance, and in her own country this was considered a kind of muted political stance. She felt that a certain social extravagance was obligatory, and to society’s great surprise her future mother-in-law, Her Excellency the wife of the regent, enthusiastically supported her in this view. In Berlin, where her peers painfully preserved a semblance of modesty in their severe two-piece suits, sincerely hoping that they wouldn’t be charged with bowing to cosmopolitanism, she had a powerful sense of her provocative youthfulness and her obstinacy in matters of taste.

As if even with her extravagant wardrobe she intended to emphasize the semi-official character of her visit.

Count Svoy, the protocol chief of the Hungarian Foreign Ministry, in a private conversation had given her to understand what was expected of her.

The count had most unpleasant-smelling breath and, in addition, the bad habit of leaning too close to his interlocutor to emphasize the confidential nature of his words. His country will not restrict its own freedom or relinquish its spiritual independence because of the two nations’ allied relationship or because of charming Madame Göhring. A statement that the countess, leaning back almost more than was possible in her armchair, understood well and endorsed wholeheartedly. Or at least, we preserve appearances in tune with our own foreign-policy interests. Now, peering out from under her mauve straw hat decorated with gently fluttering plumes, impudently pulled down on her brow, she followed Schuer’s daring gesture with lively interest and some repugnance.

The familiarity revealed to her more of the two persons’ tense and complicated relationship than they would have wanted to know or let the outside world notice. After such a moving sermon, continued Schuer in a much lower tone, in a voice adjusted to the intimacy of the gesture, one no doubt feels the urge to unburden one’s soul.

I’m sure this is understandable, he added.

Then again he interrupted his own apparently polite but rather absentminded sentence with a peremptory wave of his hand to indicate that he expected both women for lunch and hastily turned his back to join his family, which had been swept to the margins of the throng.

Daring, daring, stirring, an enthralling man, Countess Auenberg remarked, not without an edge to her voice, while with their gloved hands they both waved cordial good-byes over people’s heads to Baroness Erika, Schuer’s wife.

I guess you never know where you stand with him.

The sky above Berlin that day was brilliantly and cloudlessly blue.

No doubt, replied Baroness Thum with a slightly exaggerated severity, he is a stirring and unpredictable man, that’s true, but it would not be advisable to forget for even a moment that above all he is a wonderful scientist with a clear, brilliant mind, and therefore one can forgive him for many things.

And before they started off together on the shady street fragrant with the smell of pines, the baroness stole one more fleeting glance at the countess’s face shining with youth and health, to see whether Schuer’s rude manners had insulted her guest. It had been rumored that the Horthy boy, Mihály, would be elected Hungary’s king, and then this young friend, who was also best friends with Geraldine, queen of Albania, and because of that friendship already a frequent visitor in European courts, would herself become a queen.

And you know, she said with a small, raspy laugh, which resonated both with self-mockery and with admiration bordering on hatred for her boss, I can’t help myself, his manly beauty never fails to move me.

I could not help noticing that it affected you too, she added cautiously.

From under her hat Countess Auenberg gave her a rather inquiring glance, for she had unerringly caught the jealous edge and intention of the remark.

How can you say such a thing, how can you even think such a thing, she replied reproachfully, though not without some self-irony or defiance.

I don’t want to know what you think.

Oh, please forgive me. I’ve been carried away by my own lack of restraint.

Lack of restraint was a delicate subject for many reasons, and just as frequently as they managed to avoid it, they also fell into its trap. The two women were deeply devoted to each other, the girl to the grown woman and, oddly, the mature woman to the younger one. Which they both felt was unusual, and which they accounted for by the great difference in their ages and experiences. On the one hand Countess Auenberg and her two sisters had been small children when their pitiless mother left them; she’d run away with a trickster and they never saw her again; she and the trickster were allegedly living somewhere abroad in very modest circumstances. And on the other hand Karla Baroness von Thum zu Wolkenstein had been blessed with a son conceived in a very early love affair, and ever since the little boy’s birth had been living in strict scientific seclusion, as if in continual penitence; she always found a place for the child, never giving up hope that one day her family would forgive her. For these reasons, neither of them thought silly and pointless sentiments were permissible, and naturally they did not speak of them — although there wasn’t much they could do about them. From the first moment of their friendship they had a secret language, and in their quiet, persistent rebellions, which they indulged in as a counter to their lack of restraint, they revealed much to each other in this language.