Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Gyöngyvér sat sunk into herself, pale, sucking in her lips, abandoned for long minutes, motionless.

It would have to happen differently because he could not speak. He could not surrender himself to someone who probably knew everything about him. He walked in the footsteps of the beloved being, and that seemed satisfactory for some time. On a summer evening like this, it grows dark very slowly and tactfully. And they had to hurry. They would not have had time for a detailed confession. Neither of them had ever learned from anyone, perhaps they should have learned from each other, how to talk about their feelings. Suffering has no language, and its muteness only deepens it. Later they lost their way in the darkness, for a long time they lost track of each other, they could not find the tip of the island and the water carried them both past it. They each had to swim alone in the night.

Although the moon lit up a riverbank opposite them, it was as though they could no longer be sure which bank was pulling away from them so rapidly. They swam, worked their lungs and muscles, swam on, alone and abandoned, and they did not reach it, did not reach the far shore.

It probably couldn’t have happened otherwise, though it would have been impossible to give up what happened.

Perhaps he should have taken Bellardi into his arms, right there on the riverbank.

Gyöngyvér in the cab could think of nothing else either; she was continuously compelled to think of that one thing, never again.

And if she could think of nothing else, how could she free herself from all the various senses of never-again. Her body filled with all the sensations contained in never-again. There were many kinds of pain, suffering, each according to its kind, and much pleasure, much lightness, and joy.

It would have been impossible to distinguish among them.

And she could not possibly live by his side, in his icy apathy.

Could not live without him.

And, because of her self-respect, she was the one who should initiate their breakup, she must take the first step.

I’ll move out.

They will humiliate her.

If she doesn’t go away, these Lehrs will humiliate her more than anyone ever had, anywhere and at any time. If she doesn’t manage to say tonight, I’m moving out.

It’s over.

If he does it again in front of her, if he dares, and won’t let her close to him.

You must be a pig if you can beat your meat in front of me and not even look at me. But at least I had the chance to see what men do with themselves. Now I know everything about you pigs, you lousy wretches.

Yet she felt there was no humiliation she could not endure. If only she could stay with him.

But he should spurt it on her, spurt his semen on her instead of spluttering his come on the floor, not on the parquet floor, so Ilona could see what the pig had done; how could anybody be such a filthy pig.

Lady Erna watched the young woman silently as they left Moszkva Square behind them.

You’re so quiet, Gyöngyvér, my dear, you look unusually pale, she said in the backseat of the Pobeda, her voice quite loud though she still held herself aloof.

Listen to me, Ágost, Gyöngyvér kept saying to herself, because she wanted to rehearse what she would tell him that evening.

It’s over, I should have known it would be over because of you, but now it really is, everything is over between us.

After what you did to me last night.

And she heard Lady Erna saying something to the effect that she sincerely hoped everything was all right.

Except I might faint, but I wouldn’t say that to you aloud.

Lady Erna has nothing to worry about.

What a lousy, rotten old woman, she thought, as rotten as her little son. What could be all right, what in the fuck could be all right.

But heedlessly she begged Lady Erna’s pardon, she said everything was perfectly all right, she was only ruminating on something.

Ruminating on what, what was she ruminating about, Lady Erna cried with an offensive laugh.

She’d have given anything to know what Gyöngyvér had to ruminate on so thoroughly.

Luckily the other person can’t know it.

Aunt Nínó should not worry about her.

Well, she has enough to worry about Ágost. Who keeps disappearing. That’s the cause of her heart trouble, and the constant maternal worries have ruined her general health.

Gyöngyvér has no idea how much.

The moment they get to the hospital, she will call him, Gyöngyvér responded in her servile voice.

What did Aunt Nínó think he’d been doing to her. That maybe he’d made Gyöngyvér an exception.

No, not a chance.

He’s rude.

Says, I’ll pick you up at six.

He’s not there at eight or even at ten.

Something’s come up — hard to believe, but that’s all he says.

But what has come up, Ágost, my dear.

Unfortunately she always talks to him as if she’s already forgiven him for everything, in advance, for anything.

How could she be kinder or more polite to him.

He doesn’t answer.

And why didn’t you call me, Ágost, my dear, to tell me that something’s come up.

He has no explanation for the simplest things, acts as if he hadn’t even heard me.

Of course she would try to reach him, to find him.

He just keeps staring with his big eyes.

It’s very insolent of him to cause his own mother so much grief.

And at a time like this, added Lady Erna and, quite unexpectedly, still somewhat mellowed by her wickedness and sentimentality during the previous minutes, she cried out, then cut short the sound and swallowed her tears. Though she felt at home in Gyöngyvér’s company because of the younger woman’s submissive tone, she also pitied her almost as much as she did herself.

That’s very kind of you, Gyöngyvér, and it will be important to do, since I think we won’t have much time.

Lady Erna could count on her, absolutely.

Because if she couldn’t find him, she was sure she would find one of the boys.

They were still calling to each other, seemingly in vain, when they both reached the shore on that enchanted night, which they felt to be endless.

I can always leave him a message if I can’t reach him otherwise, that he should come right away to Kútvölgyi Hospital.

After continued and desperate hooting, they found each other, teeth chattering.

Or if I can’t find the boys, their secretary will surely be at her desk, by the phone.

As if it were the world’s greatest miracle that neither of them had drowned in the river and suddenly they were both standing there among the pale moonlit trees, their bodies trembling, only an arm’s length apart.

But then, shaking and trembling, they had to look for Bellardi’s abandoned car, and he did not even hear what the two women behind him were chattering about.

They looked for it so long in the darkness punctuated with the hooting of owls that they thought the entire night would be spent in the search and that they were merely dreaming that it was possible to find anything.

From then on they said not a word to each other; in the moonlit darkness they even restrained the chattering of their teeth, so that they’d have absolutely nothing to do with each other, not even what chattering teeth might betray.

They could reveal nothing about themselves to each other, and mainly not their weakness, nothing about the fallibility of their bodies.

There was a terrible chance that they might loose their infernal wrath on each other’s goose-bumpy body.

They would have loudly reproached each other for something for which they could not reproach themselves. As if they had lost each other because of each other. They could not find the damn car with their clothes in it because of him; it was his fault, that damned other one.