Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Merely a fresh idea, he continued lightly and instructively, as if he’d never thought of keeping secret — and couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to — the very personal emotions that had nourished his idea. You won’t get the Rome institute, not while I’m alive, but you can help me get close to this young woman in Budapest. We both know, Frau Professor, that after a five-year hiatus it’s high time for us to open a new institute. We can delay no longer. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to the Frau Professor about now. I have two further subjects, both of them very urgent. One of them is personal, he said severely and dryly. It has to do with Hans’s misdeeds.

In his self-consciousness he took care not to pause between words. The other has to do with the long-drawn-out question of ownership of the Wolkenstein house.

I would like to settle these matters.

Although he managed to finish what he wanted to say, the baroness barely acknowledged the second half of the sentence and was already weeping so threateningly and loudly that Baroness Erika, entering the adjacent small salon, and Countess Auenberg, hurrying toward her to inquire about the little boy, both heard it.

What Hans, what misdeeds, what have you got up your sleeve.

Look, I’m responsible for this situation, exceedingly embarrassing for both of us, Schuer continued, rather loudly. Actually, I received the documents about Hans last week, but I simply had no time to look at them until this morning.

What house, what long-drawn-out question, what ownership would you like to settle, with whom, with whom, the baroness kept crying out, very rudely and harshly, and although her features hardened, her self-discipline kept them from becoming distorted.

The timbre of her voice did not slide upward as it would have in simple anger, but because of excess blood became dark and ominous, deeper, taking on a masculine tone.

The voices in the study could be heard in the small salon but not clearly, and the two women, chatting animatedly, strained to listen.

They were talking about childhood fainting spells, of the deep concern with which both parents had been following Siegfried’s development.

Disgrace, the insulted baroness shouted again, which the women in the salon heard loud and clear, and though they had wanted to speak over her loud words, they fell silent, as if compelled by a magic wand.

Please, Frau Professor, why don’t you sit down, please, let us talk sensibly about your son, the man continued, unemotionally, as one who knew neither fear nor mercy.

Of course, I understand you are upset.

Please, leave it to me whom I talk to, when, and about what subjects.

Schuer could easily let this last sentence go by, since Karla Baroness von Thum zu Wolkenstein did not turn on her heel, did not move from her spot.

This morning, however, I finally looked through the dossier, he said, and he pointed to his desk, where a hefty sheaf of papers did indeed lie. Believe me that I offer you my friendly services with the best of intentions.

What are we talking about, what do you wish, please say clearly what you mean.

I must inform you about details of your little son’s examination, details you obviously are not familiar with, but as to their consequences neither of us can have any doubts.

The baroness, greatly agitated, wanted only to ask what kind of examination, what are you hinting at, what results and what consequences, damn it, and what has any of this to do with the estate in Wiesenbad; but she suddenly lost her voice or breath.

Might Schuer be referring to sterilization.

But she could not ask this question, because the awful suspicion gripped her that these swine might have not only ordered the procedure but also carried it out.

That is why Schuer keeps excusing his procrastination.

A strange moan left her throat.

Nevertheless Schuer answered her unasked question.

I’m afraid, Frau Professor, that the situation is even more serious than that.

But we do have some kind of suppressed secret animal sense of which we are quite ashamed. It doesn’t say this is good or this is bad or ugly, because it has no conceptual language. It follows its sense of smell even though it has no nose. I simply wouldn’t have liked it if they’d taken the woman’s fragrance away from me; more precisely, I wouldn’t have liked it if it had been taken away from me too soon. If she’d left. If her husband or anyone else had taken her away in a closed car before I could taste this perfume to my heart’s content and roll it around under my tongue.

Although this sense has no eyes either, it can see things I cannot see. After all, it was not her fragrance — put more correctly it was not only or merely her fragrance that I clung to, but everything the naked eye could see floating around and about her, what emanated from her or what she was waiting and longing for that she hadn’t had before. This something, which could have been her natural endowment, her need, her being, or her soul, had nothing to do with her beauty. I said, all right, let’s not shit around anymore, and it felt pleasant to be suddenly and for no reason so lighthearted and indulgent, but in fact I only said yes to this ungraspable, unfathomable something, invisible to the naked eye; in no circumstance could I have said no to it. My animal being, perhaps my soul, wanted to arrest, accept, and possess her soul or simply to stay in the company of her animal-like being.

If she had said she’d now turn into a cat because she had to climb to the top of the church tower and I should turn into a cat too and follow her, I’d probably have said no. But at the same time I’d have thought to myself, all right, let’s.

I hadn’t been following her because I hoped that being around her would make everything take a turn for the better.

I followed her despite the possibility that my new situation might become unbearable at some point. Despite that, no matter what, I followed her. Later I might knock my head against a wall for my reckless decision, but I had to endure the pain. And I did, against all common sense, despite my upbringing, my sense of beauty, propriety, good taste, and proportion, despite everything that one carries in oneself as rules of behavior, despite the gold reserves of a good upbringing, despite everything one imagines about oneself.

Whatever happens, let things be. Everything, I said to myself, will take a turn for the better in a moment. Or next week.

My misery continued when I crawled into the backseat of their car. What gives me the right to crawl into a strange man’s car. We had not been introduced. And sure enough, I knocked my head on the door frame and my shin on the back of the front seat. I said hello, but he kept looking out in the darkness and did not return my greeting. Did he think that to all appearances I was crawling into a stranger’s car to seduce his wife. As a motive it wasn’t too convincing, as a procedure not very distinguished or imaginative, not to mention that it was true only as an illusion. I didn’t want to seduce anyone; I had never seduced anyone. I cried out, moaned, and huffed with pain and laughed, wanting to indicate politely that I knew how laughable I was, how ridiculously I was behaving.

I’m clambering after a woman who doesn’t even know my name, yet I had already lied to her. Again I tried to say hello to this strange man but again he pretended not to hear me. I deeply despised myself, with all the contempt I could muster, for being so indulgent. And it was for this reason, while I was crawling in, fumbling and blundering and knocking around, that I took a good hard look at this man in the darkness, the way one animal looks at another. Who is the person who, like me, has been so weakened by this woman. The rival was a handsome, large, well-developed, razor-thin dark specimen. Despite his raw beauty, there was something frightening about him. It’s also possible that at that very first moment I discovered a trait in him, or became frightened by a feature, that he didn’t even possess.