Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Such things simply did not happen in their family. She had no idea where Carlino had come up with such an idea. Who had told him such a thing. Something that nobody had thought about, let alone taken seriously for at least two hundred years; why is he going around scaring her or himself with it now. If he can be taken in by such idiocies then there’s not much point in his studying philosophy or psychology.

But that’s exactly what he was trying to do, to look into the depth of things, Döhring said, defending himself.

Things have no depths or surfaces.

Isolde should know. In the fashion business, she had to learn the lessons of pragmatic philosophy well.

It’s a good thing he hadn’t joined some crazy cult, or maybe he should join the neo-Nazis.

Isolde should not exaggerate, should not mix up different things. He was interested in very concrete questions, and that’s hardly the same thing.

But it is, Isolde cried out, with the full force of her penetrating voice, and she blushed deeply in her anger.

Döhring went along with this childish quarrel, repeating that no, it’s not the same, because he wanted to see Isolde surrender, at least to him. But she could not or did not want to understand his allusions. At least for the sake of their own peace of mind, for their private use as it were, she should confess what she had done. What she had been keeping to herself for decades, which, by the way, everyone knows about.

Gerhardt Döhring killed at least four people because of the gold that had vanished.

Then he had to realize that Isolde didn’t remember anything; no matter how he tiptoed around the subject, she did not want to acknowledge and would not admit anything; and he fell silent.

If she did not understand what was at stake or if she did not want to understand, then let there be tranquillity.

Then let her quickly take herself off for Paris.

He realized that it was not by chance that it wasn’t happening. It was not by chance that Isolde was slow on the uptake and kept denying and denying. Things that fail to occur have the same value as divine portents. Isolde was the only person, the last one who to some extent tied him to his family, and this tie had to be loosened so that he could be perfectly free in his actions and able to carry out his mission. He never understood how he’d wound up among them. He despised his stepmother and had always hated his lily-livered father and ass-kissing younger sister, who allegedly resembled their mother.

It will be like a tooth extraction, it will make an awful cracking sound but then he will be free of hatred.

So he decided to promise her, yes, he wouldn’t think about it anymore, about these bygone things, about this creator or whatever, Isolde should go and not worry, leave him to himself. But he was tired of her atheism.

Sweet Carlino, there is no such thing as a creator, so how could you have anything to do with him, how could he exist, what sort of mission should you have. Before I go, I shall talk this idea out of your head, you can think of it as an accelerated university course.

She should know that he was very grateful to her for letting him come out here, now she should go and not worry.

One does not have any kind of duty in the world, nothing, nada, and there’s nothing that one must accomplish either with or without a creator. And most of one’s fellow humans are beyond help anyway. You might do this or that for them, but that would be worthwhile only if you had a penchant for senseless charity. And you don’t have a penchant for that.

Neither do you. I at least am struggling for it, suffering, why don’t you want to understand that.

As if at the very last moment he risked beseeching her, and his most enlightened aunt did not understand this last appeal either.

No doubt for young people it is very hard to swallow this bitter pill without a sugar coating.

He also knows that there is no creator, he’s not an idiot, has not gone completely out of his mind.

Then don’t drive me out of mine and don’t make fun of me, and mainly stop whining at me. I can’t stand it.

The one I’m talking about, or the thing I’m talking about, is not as the Christians or Jews imagine him, or the way you do. He is much more ancient, much simpler, rawer and more brutal. And it’s not important whether it has a persona or not. It bothers you because right away you think of it as a person and worry that it might be crawling out of some Germanic myth.

Perhaps I could follow you, but I don’t want to.

The reason she needs the whole Germanic mythology or the Christian God is only to conceal or protect herself with them for a while.

Somebody did murder Gerhardt.

No one ever found out who.

He killed at least four people.

You must be listening to too much Wagner, Carlino. Or you’ve become addicted to some cheap drug, you can tell me.

You’re on the wrong track, but crimes must be confessed, no doubt about it, there’s no other way, and I agree about that. Everyone should confess his or her own.

At least you should leave off with this. After Christmas we’ll go not only to the lawyer but also to my doctor. Whatever you’ve been taking, believe me, we can take care of it in no time.

He’d try to formulate it differently, but he didn’t like censoring his words.

As if he were standing on a promontory across which waves were slowly crashing right before his eyes, and soon there’d be no solid ground left under his feet.

Perhaps Isolde is right, that his agitated fantasy is carrying his thoughts in the wrong direction. But why should she be so frightened of him, why call for a doctor right away. This too is only a cultural or cultic collective term to label one’s recurring fantasies, or fantasies of the collective. Wagner is in it, no question, and so are the Greeks, and the Germans — as in a large bowl of soup.

You’re not answering me.

I haven’t become addicted to anything.

Then something very unusual has happened to you. I understand if you don’t want to tell me about it, but then we’ll have to find a trustworthy psychiatrist.

I’ve told you more than once that if you’re ready to undergo your obligatory analysis, I will pay for it.

What’s to be done, Döhring shouted, if there are cultural fantasies with these brutal gods or even the creator sitting in the middle of them. Yes, the Creator. Whether Isolde likes it or not, such words do exist and one can’t avoid them. He knows that everything is very fragile, concepts are also very fragile and one must be very careful, but that’s why. He won’t keep quiet anymore, he cannot stand it, and he doesn’t much care if he offends other people’s convictions with this concept. He will wreak havoc, will smash the system of concepts. He can’t help it, the job of cultural fantasies is to excite, and how can he keep his mind from becoming enlightened at last regarding certain issues that eventually urge him to action.

What are you talking about, Isolde interrupted, trying to turn her entire being into a palpable threat, what words should you avoid and how.

Maybe you can tell me how to protect myself from them or from my own thinking.

He said this because he did not dare mention becoming enlightened again. One day I will tell you what can be done against it, against becoming enlightened, because you’re a big boy now.

You haven’t got very far with it.

Until now I’ve never wanted to interfere with your most intimate private life.

But you have, you’ve done nothing but.

Come on, what do you know about it.

Or, all right, maybe not from them, but how is one to protect oneself from one’s own imagination.

Nevertheless, the detective was coming toward him, leisurely and cheerful, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.