Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Now they were already out in the institute’s garden, richly planted with flowers; it was separated by a single, severely clipped hedgerow from the splendid rose garden attached to the director’s villa, where the roses were in their second bloom of the season.

Countess Auenberg thought it quite embarrassing to be using a rear entrance, no doubt to surprise the family with their arrival.

Indeed, an unsuspecting and relaxed Schuer was leaning against the railing of the upstairs terrace with an open book in his hand; he was explaining something to his whimpering son. And the lady of the house, with her garden gloves and clippers, was still gathering flowers for the festive table.

The institute’s doorman followed her with a pretty little basket, telling her something she seemed very interested in.

The two guests had arrived a few minutes sooner than expected.

And after they got everything nicely sorted out and were in the salon Baroness Erika introduced to the countess the twelve-year-old Siegfried, the ten-year-old Sieglinde, and the six-year-old Ortrud, they all hurried into the dining room to sort and then tastefully arrange the flowers in small vases and bowls; since the countess took a very active part in this, Karla Baroness von Thum zu Wolkenstein found an opportunity to take her boss aside and tell him about the person of her young lady friend. He had to know that he would be chatting not with any old Hungarian countess, there should be no misunderstanding or mistake of any kind in this matter. She was a guest of the state, received at the highest echelons, and within a few months she would be a queen.

Without further ado they sat down at the table.

She was walking ahead of me and I followed her. As if she didn’t hear it. I felt disgust and hatred. And envy and admiration that she could do something like that. And I was the miserable wretch she could do it to.

For some reason, they closed the store a little early that day. Luckily I’d gone down before that to stand in front of the building. My heart was racing; I thought it would burst. I was preoccupied with all the time I had to wait. I couldn’t understand why I was so restless, so weak and childish because of a woman. Who doesn’t interest me very much. I was angry with myself. I felt as if I were doing something important the wrong way. Or doing something I shouldn’t be doing. First I followed her from across the boulevard, and when her boss disappeared in the lobby next door to give the steel box to the concierge, I went over to her side. She was just turning into Szófia Street when the bell of the Terézváros church began to peal. Like a secret signal that I did not understand. Maybe I couldn’t relax because of the blustery evening wind. She kept walking and I followed her. It didn’t seem likely that I could call after her, and even if I managed to calm down, where could we have gone in such weather. I did not understand what I was doing, but I could not avoid doing it. It was not completely dark yet, the sky was aflame, and gigantic clouds were swimming in it. It was no longer raining, but with each new squall I felt light spray on my face. The streetlamps’ yellow lights were swaying. The city, with all its wet flags, was deserted.

In this dark little street, she had to hear my footsteps. She was tapping in my brain with her fine little high heels, or maybe in my soul. I did not want to catch up with her, because I really didn’t have anything to say to her. I couldn’t figure out what I should say to her. Still, I was counting on her stopping suddenly, was hoping for it, yet could not imagine what we would do if she did. Since she’d started out and I’d followed her, she gave no sign of noticing me at all. It would be hard for me to say how I felt. Maybe I wasn’t feeling anything. Because I was more interested in what she was feeling, or what she was thinking about, or why was she doing it in this particular way. That’s what I wanted somehow to intuit from her, from her carriage, from her steps, from anything. And to know whether she heard my steps and was only pretending she didn’t. Because if it meant nothing to her that I was following her, then she must have forgotten me, she wasn’t running away from me, she wasn’t leading me anywhere but, having finished work, was simply hurrying someplace. And that would be the end of our story, I’d have to accept that. But at least I’d see whom she was going to meet. Because I knew she was going to meet somebody, I just did.

It was as though I simultaneously had two unrealizable hopes, equally strong. If she was going to meet someone, I could simply avoid her; just keep walking. But if she didn’t meet anyone, there’d be no more excuses; I knew that too. If we could not talk to each other, open our mouths and understand each other, then our relationship would remain a painful illusion, a disgrace, a defeat. And I wished for nothing more than such a defeat, accepting in advance that I would be the loser. Or rather, I’m not sure I could imagine such a great defeat. But if I had to open my mouth, I might have nothing to say to her. This was just too much; I can’t talk about it. And I wished nothing more than that I should have nothing to say to her. Then at least it would be over. In the meantime, it was most important that I could see her, follow her, adjust my pace to the patter of her high heels. I had never before seen her walking on the street from so close up, and this became more important than anything. Whatever happens later, this I will find out now. Or maybe I already have. Even though I couldn’t know in advance what I wanted to find out. But I knew I was curious about this monotonous sight that changed every second, though I had no idea why. I drank up the vision, blotted it up, and was not disappointed by a single moment of it.

Maybe her coat caused a slight disappointment. If not disappointment, a little confusion. She wasn’t wearing her own coat; it had to have been somebody else’s; I could see that it wasn’t hers. No stores sold such coats, it was too big, sand-colored, made of some light material and maybe a man’s coat. And this sand-colored blotch was leading me down dark Szófia Street. The coat not only bothered me, this ill-fitting coat that made it so I couldn’t see her, see who she was, but bothered the tenderness I felt for her. It was not her body I wanted to see, or maybe it was. The silence of her naked body, unhindered. When I’d seen her from a distance or in her white work coat, nothing disturbed my sense of her beauty. And nothing restrained my fancy either. As if only in the finest garments could I appropriately dress her beauty. But her coat reminded me of socialist reality, of the disagreeable and recurring thought that I was pursuing just an ordinary woman who worked in an espresso bar, and then this couldn’t be more than an awkward little adventure anyway. Which I didn’t need. And if I was already thinking this, it was almost as if I had already offended her. As if a wicked aunt were calling to me from the pages of a pulp novel: you can’t belong to each other anyway. I’ve always made allowances for women, but it was high time to admit to myself that I was more passionately interested in men, since what I’m really interested in is what I am like. Seeing her in her white work coat, there might have been room for a romantic imagination yearning for elegant richness, but seeing her in her awkward penury made that impossible. As though nothing was or could ever again be in its right place. Women were not the ones. I couldn’t find my own way, or anyone else’s, or anything at all. Perhaps this inability of mine lent weight and strength to her beauty, but I didn’t want to retreat from my illusions. Luckily for me, she did not stop and gave no sign that she heard my steps. She hurried on as if she had urgent business somewhere.