Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

I already knew where she lived and that was more than enough knowledge for one day.

What else should interest me.

But nothing was that simple. And not only because Simon didn’t want me to get him cigarettes. He wanted nothing from me and nothing to do with me; he indicated this clearly, as if he were ignorant of the rules of human tactfulness or deliberately wanted to violate them. He didn’t want to accept my politeness. I could think of no reason to give him for leaving, and I also couldn’t leave because of my silent promise to her. Or anyway she’d raised a silent request that I didn’t have the strength not to honor. I’d had enough of them, I’d had enough of her husband, yet I could not give up.

My muddled curiosity, my disgusting helplessness kept me here. I’d had enough of myself. I should have known in advance. Only a total betrayal could have satisfied me. It would have felt good to deceive the woman, take revenge on all the insults. What could she possibly have to do with me, with such a wretch. And what could I have to do with her if she belonged to such an uncouth boor. Whom I couldn’t figure out because of his coat. But what was the point of being fed up with myself and with them if all I wanted to know was how my damn life would continue in their company. I couldn’t get free of this woman until I learned to say no. I was doing what she’d asked me to do, I had actually become her mute slave. I am waiting for her again; for months I waited for her, making myself impossible — in my own eyes, mainly. And I wait in vain. At college, my absences were piling up furiously, I did not go to classes, and it was clear that at the end of the semester they wouldn’t let me take the finals. If Simon knew how laughable I had made myself already, he’d be content and not bother humiliating me further.

Of course, I couldn’t have known why I did or didn’t do the things I did or didn’t do. When it comes to judging one’s intentions, a person generally piles errors on top of errors. It’s possible that the woman had no silent request to make of me and I had fatally misunderstood something. Did not understand. I’d had enough of her daring husband, for whom I still could not deny my childlike admiration. I’d have been happy to get him his cigarettes. While looking for an excuse to set foot in a bar that had always been off limits to me. I couldn’t have anything else to do with him, even though I’d offered him my readiness to humiliate myself. Because of him, I became like a dog that, snarling and whimpering, submits to the hierarchy of the pack. As soon as I’d gotten into his car, I saw clearly that this was an unpredictable and overbearing man. But suddenly I remembered Ilonka Weisz, whom I had accompanied a few times to the bar when she went to get wine in a large clamp-topped bottle for her drunkard father. I’d always kept away from daring people; I knew well the senseless, power-hungry games of weak men.

The order of my accusations could not be reversed. If I could not find a good reason for a quick departure, then I had to chalk this up to my own cowardice and stupidity, and not blame him. All my moral fury fell back on my own head. Seeing his craziness, I was mainly ashamed of my cowardice. I could not have forgotten with what well-prepared wiles Ilonka Weisz lured me up to the fourth floor, where her churlish brothers beat me within an inch of my life. Why do I need a reason or explanation, I should just walk out on them both; to whom do I owe a reckoning; I am rebelling against myself.

Explaining the obvious to myself.

I cannot solve a problem that any healthy person could easily solve by relying on natural selfishness. I don’t dare decide what would be best for me. Or if I did decide, and now I really have, then the obligation to be polite, which had been hammered into me, proved stronger than any sense of my physical well-being. I have a weak character, or at least weaker than that of anyone else who steers his life according to his own physical and mental interests. The woman did not make me characterless, but she’s the one who pushed me most deeply into the pit of my character weakness. What a ridiculous person I am. Surely more vile and stupid than others. I was full of reproach; in my deep dissatisfaction, I kept saying I was born to be a servant. I’d rather get out of this thing than hurt anyone with my decision; rather endure things than relinquish my precaution. Incessantly, I wanted to get over my refined upbringing, and failed to notice how I was clinging to her, cherishing her every command with delight and tender loving care.

We were standing on either side of the car and I was watching, with confused longing and in search of a saving idea, the lit-up buses and the shadows of men drinking in the old familiar light of the bar. I did this also so I wouldn’t have to look at Simon’s repulsively thin figure.

He did not take his belligerent eyes off me; he saw something I didn’t know in myself.

He was leaning on the half-open car door with one arm, his elbow on the roof, his chin propped up on his thumb. As if he knew what I was thinking about, with what moral doubts I was struggling. His self-satisfaction was a slap in the face because what I sorely lacked was a healthy dose of self-confidence.

Although I held so many things against him, his openness, flexibility, and slimness, there was nothing I could do about or say against his complacency. There was no direct relationship between the physical presence of this other human being and my opinion of him, I understood that perfectly well. One keeps forgetting and therefore must repeatedly bring together these two kinds of experience and knowledge. In the darkness of the old car, I had first noticed the adolescent fragility of his neck. Now, unhindered and from close up, I had to cope with the reality of his face.

And why shouldn’t I want to comprehend with all my senses this person from whom I must tear Klára away.

What virtues should I have, how could I be completely different from what I am, to win her away from this miserable character. It was almost like asking how I might make myself as repulsive as he seemed. But the provocative reality of his face disturbed me and kept me captive — independently of the woman. As if with his features he was playing a game, and I had to accept unconditionally the rules of this game. While I was thoroughly ashamed for him and had no idea what to do about it. Still, I felt I was accepting something unfamiliar, willingly entering something I knew nothing about. Thin men like him seem always to wear shirts at least two sizes larger than their neck requires, which makes them look very vulnerable and fragile. But your surprise is all the greater when you come up against their tenacity, shrewdness, and aggressiveness. At the same time, I discovered that what until then I had thought was just a dark shadow on his forehead was a black spot full of ominous little lumps. As he leaned forward, his elbow still resting on the car’s roof, his dark shiny hair fell over the hideous blotch on his forehead. As if it explained the dread he aroused in me, although I could not think of the name of the skin disease.

The streetlamp on its cable was swinging in the wind directly above us. Shadows from the hair fallen over his forehead stretched into his face, long fingers reaching into him at the whim of the swinging lamp. Occasionally, light flared up on the dark surface of his eyes. As if he were saying something in tune with the swinging lamp, nodding along with its rhythm, but then it turned out he’d said nothing, after all. As if he wanted to ask which of us would put up with this situation longer. Come on, push your beaver up just a little. It was a provocation but not a challenge because he was without armor too. Let’s see how far we get, he seemed to say, how far with each other. Which to some extent referred to the woman but not completely, because with his look he touched my face, reached in among the various layers of my character. His posture called to me, his sheer gaze commanded that I do the same. As if both of us were looking into the same mirror, and in my surprise I had no choice but to lean closer, yet what I saw was not my own disgustingly familiar mug.