Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

I said, this is mink, as if voicing a professional opinion, and my hand remained where it was.

She responded quite vehemently to my movement, as if she had been waiting for it; she put her gloved hand on my arm.

Yes, it is certainly mink, she said quietly, as if revealing a secret, and how did I know about furs. She borrowed it from her friend because she’d seen that her spring coat had bothered me.

Because of me, I asked, alarmed.

You’re right, it’s not a very attractive coat.

I asked how she had noticed, what sign of mine had she read, and I was ashamed — but she could not reply because suddenly I shouted out, now I know, now it was clear what had been so familiar.

It was Andria who had done her hair.

Yes, she did, but how did I know, and she asked me to go back to the second floor with her and bring the drink bottles she had left there.

That’s what she said, the drink bottles.

How did I know, how did I know that Andria also had that same hairdo. Nobody but Andria has hair like that.

Not only that, I also remember, but exactly, how such a hairstyle is made. Because, I admit, I liked Andria’s hair a lot. First, the hair at the top of the head is combed and then backcombed in the other direction.

Sometimes my cousins helped her because they loved digging their fingers into her hair. My role was to hand them the hairclips.

Andria’s hair is really beautiful, she said evasively, as if she’d been suddenly interrupted. And did I know what had made her turn so gray.

It felt so good talking to her that I impolitely ignored this question and kept on talking, saying that the girls, my cousins, also took lessons from her and were much more accomplished than I.

I had to stop taking lessons, unfortunately.

She was swaying her head, smiling at me as if she could see back into those strange times, and saying that I must have been a very peculiar boy.

My hand, longing for a touch, was still sunk into the warmth of her fur coat; her gloved hand was still resting on my arm. It was as though we both were paying attention to this — how some strange power was flowing from one into the other — and noticing how reassuring it was. And as if we both were talking the meanwhile just to keep ourselves from noticing how important this was. At the same time signs of bewilderment and aversion were deepening on her face. She was glowing and smiling, yet she seemed to be receding. I spoke faster, hoping to stop the sun from setting.

I asked why she thought I had been a peculiar boy. I didn’t remember that there had been anything peculiar about me.

Because boys in general don’t notice or remember things like that, they rarely help out by handing hairclips to someone, and they don’t usually say they like gray-haired ladies.

All right, I said, but Andria was different, and the whole thing is much simpler than this. I spent a lot of time among women, since my grandmother and our maid raised me. Grandfather would only take me for a walk, at best. By the way, he usually brought me here, to City Park. I have hardly any memories of men, had no chance to be with them. That’s why I observed things that other boys might not. Or I don’t know, I was always more interested in girls.

She laughed at this; of course there’s this certain Ilonka Weisz. If I told her more about her, she could see better just what sort of boy I must have been.

I got scared; this was an embarrassing subject. I would have liked to crawl onto her bare neck when she threw her head back as she laughed. Between her sparkling wet, beautiful teeth I would have crawled into the dark hollow of her mouth. She had teeth like a wild animal’s. But her laughter seemed more like an excuse to remove her gloved hand from my arm. I also had to withdraw my yearning hand; I spoke even faster, lest the mutual withdrawal become too conspicuous.

I said I knew something about furs because my uncle had a salon downtown, furrier and fellmonger, that’s what people in the trade called the business, but since they took his salon away he’s been working at home.

Fellmonger , she repeated the strange word.

Furrier too, I explained, perhaps this mink is from his business. I explained that what Budapest parlance calls mink is in fact the name of an innocent animal. There is something inexplicable in this whole fur business, and I probably thought about it only because I had an aversion both to furs and also to this uncle of mine.

So what should one think about when one says mink.

Minks are living animals, and wearing a coat like that is like having committed a robbery and being proud of it.

She interrupted to say that my uncle must have been a Jew.

Indeed he was, I said. Actually, he still is, but that wasn’t the reason I couldn’t stand him.

We both laughed hard at this and our mingling laughs echoed for a while, but that did not please me much.

My jocular mood began to dissipate. It seemed we were offending this miserable dark building with our echoing laughter.

Our laughter probably disturbed her a little too. Hurt a little.

Let’s go, she said, seeming disconcerted.

All right if she wanted to, I replied, but I’d like to know why this was important or interesting, interesting from what point of view.

Why wouldn’t it be interesting, she asked. Everything is interesting, so is this. Just as it is interesting that she is a Catholic apostate. That’s something of interest, isn’t it.

Perhaps she’s right and everything is equally interesting. Still, it’s also interesting that she was interested in this in particular. Because she could have asked so many other questions. She could have asked what was the color of my uncle’s eyes and I would have willingly answered, black, my uncle has black eyes or brown, which is to say I don’t know, I don’t remember. Or she could have asked whether he had a mustache or was he bald, and I would have answered, yes, my uncle is bald, has a small trimmed mustache and a disgustingly hairy body, and he stinks from his furs and leathers.

She doesn’t understand why I’m so irritated all of a sudden.

I am not irritated at all.

Then she doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say. She doesn’t understand what I am insinuating.

She thinks I’m the one who should do the explaining.

No, I don’t have to explain myself. She’d be happy to answer all my questions — but hopes this won’t keep us from starting out.

Prevent or not, I replied sharply, that depends on what kind of explanation I get.

This strong emotion that could not be concealed attacked us from the outside, and it paralyzed us both.

Why is she asking me that, of all things.

Out in the courtyard the wind was making loud noises.

We were both angry and agitated, and we looked at each other with alarm; actually we were looking out, searching for whatever it was in each other that was causing our inability to endure each other’s words for another moment. This was something neither she nor I could give up, let alone terminate.

Let this business end right now, if it has no chance, if nothing good can come of it.

I should forgive her, she said angrily, but she’d really like to go.

I’m afraid it would hinder me in many ways if I don’t get an acceptable explanation.

Right now I was the one hindering her, if I hadn’t noticed.

In what way might I be hindering her.

In my free movement, she answered with a little laugh. But, believe her, not for long.

I laughed back. Only until I get the explanation. She should consider that the condition of her freedom to leave.

She was afraid I had a persecution complex. She was afraid that I had to overcome it on my own. How could I have thought for even a moment that I’d be able to stop her, that I could be violent with her. Did I dare imagine dictating conditions to her.