Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

I began to speak, quietly and cautiously, calling the woman by her first name for the first time, and to emphasize what I was about to say I leaned closer to her and with both hands grasped the back of her seat near her shoulders. I took great care not to let my fingers touch her coat.

The man eyed me hostilely in the rearview mirror.

I think my presence is really unnecessary, I said, and told her that with her permission I’d like to get out.

As if she had waited for my voice, she turned around — but not just with her head, with her entire torso — and her shoulder pressed my fingers into the upholstery. And I was just going to turn to the man to take my leave. If the situation turned out like this, there was no reason to reverse it or pretend it wasn’t the way it was. But with her shoulders and her back, the woman bound me to herself, I became bound to her, and it wouldn’t have occurred to me to free myself from her. This was nothing more or less than what happens when one fits the right plug in the right outlet and the current flows and the bulb lights up. She had to feel how excited and tense my body was. Through her coat, I sensed there was no reason to be nervous, because her calm or security would not be upset even by momentary despair. And for the next decade I would light up, would emit light, only for her. That’s it, the matter was taken care of. An enormous keel of confidence, tranquillity, and security steadied her, and other kinds of emotion or feeling could only scratch its surface, they could not disturb it.

The darkness we sat in glimmered, because light from the streetlamp outside was diffused by slowly accumulating drops of a fine rain that rolled quickly downward on the windows; the dark depths of the car were pervaded by the smell of stale tobacco, wet hair, coats, animal hide, and perfume, and now I could detect the reek of booze.

The man’s black hair emanated its fragrance differently from that of the woman’s blond mane.

For me, at that moment, everything had an elemental force, a perspective, height, depth, light, shadow, and of course an impalpable dark side. Be it a sight or a feeling, elemental forces were pitted against one another and, so that they would not be noticed in their naked forms, the words said one thing and the gestures said something else. Otherwise, they’d have knocked me out or carried me away completely. Although everything was interlaced with helplessness — the dominant feelings of the times, saturating and pervading everything, were total hopelessness, fear, disappointment, regret, exasperation, apathy, and tension — this state of affairs inevitably clashed with the confidence that comes from being alive; one’s own breathing offered assurance and hope for the next few moments and also, and above all, energy to endure many things or at least to throw a bridge over them. Even while making that remark about intending to leave, I knew I could never extricate myself from this affair. But I’d known that before, known it well in advance. She could see me better now, and I was afraid that her husband could too, though I hadn’t the vaguest idea with what and how I had revealed my shock. At any rate, the light of the streetlamp fell on my face and left theirs in the dark, but there were two unmistakable flashes in the woman’s eyes with which she meant to reassure me. As if with one flash she was saying, the problem is pretty big but this time I can handle him, and with the other, referring to my hysterical fear, she was peremptorily blocking my desire to escape: stay, help me.

Yet this was not what she said aloud, or rather, she arranged her words according to the rules of propriety.

She said, go ahead, go, she saw no problem, and while I hadn’t recovered because I was still trying to understand how I could be of help to her, she reached over for the door handle, the door was already open a little, ready to step out and fold down the front seat and let me out.

I still wonder what would have happened if the scene had ended there.

If it had, I’d probably never have gone back to the store and my life would have turned out very differently. My hysterical fear would have overcome me and I’d have met something entirely different. I would surely have met somebody on Margit Island who would not have been a woman. But I’ve no way of knowing that. Maybe I’d have found the wonderful giant again, whom I could never forget anyway. But the scene could not end that way: the man started the car — it all happened so fast — and in an instant the old motor moaned and bellowed, all revved up, and Klára managed to yank the door shut.

Puddles spurted under us, the wet roadway sizzled, on the empty road we barreled into the darkness at an insane speed.

And from then on none of us spoke.

Well, there’s nothing I can do about it; if he wants to drive while he’s drunk, let him. I threw myself back on the stiff leather seat meant for luggage and did not give a damn. Wheels screeching, we turned sharply from Nagymező Street into Andrássy Street. Maybe this man is not only drunk but also crazy; in a little while, I caught myself enjoying his craziness. I caught myself not only holding on but also letting my fingers go exploring, patting, and stroking, and these movements were involuntary and revealing. As if I were taking possession of something that belonged to them. I wanted some hide, some skin, while thinking again about the giant. I am touching and feeling this finely made black leather seat, stroking the decorative, richly grained, brown stripes of nacreous luster that, at the height of the backrests, tauten the vertically cushioned, ribbed, gray upholstery. As if I were discovering only now that in the interior of this old rattletrap everything was flawless, comfortable, and luxurious. This flawlessness went well with the woman but not with the man. I enjoyed the speed, their obstinate necks, their craziness, my own madness, I enjoyed the streetlights flitting by so regularly, I enjoyed having no idea what would happen to me or what I could do with my unstoppable thoughts. I enjoyed the little freedom I had gained from them, enjoyed having left my usual life so far behind that all questions seemed to reach me from a great distance. I gave myself over to the mad rush — from today’s perspective it probably wasn’t all that fast — which seemed to squeeze my soul.

He must have seen from far off that in front of the Savoy Café, around an open assault vehicle, policemen were cooling their heels and smoking; still, he didn’t slow down. The Savoy was empty that evening, as was the Abbázia across the street. White tables had been set for guests in the empty light. In fact, the entire dark city, paralyzed by the emergency situation, was empty, though filled with news and rumors; everyone preferred to stay quietly at home. Jostling and rattling, driving parallel to the streetcar tracks at full speed, we crossed the boulevard, decorated with drenched flags. For some reason, the police decided not to pursue us. I didn’t dare look back because I couldn’t imagine what would happen if they decided to chase us. It was a good, warm feeling, dictated by a groundless sense of confidence that even the possibility of a chase would not faze me; let them come after us. But they didn’t. In a few moments the car pleasantly warmed up and the rain-beaten windows became a little hazy. It occurred to me that the police might have thought Simon was one of them because of his leather coat, or that he behaved so fearlessly because he was a police officer. Regular cops did not wear such fine leather coats. The wet bare branches of the plane trees hovered above us in the gusting wind and rushed above us on Andrássy Street, a straight, wide boulevard with two tree-lined promenades that divide the broad roadway into three double-lane strips.