Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Which told him right off that no matter how risky it was, he had acted correctly when he let Isolde go, let her go to her happy little paradise and take her limitations and irresponsibility with her. He had broken the last thread that tied him to their reality. Where is it written that because of them he should censor his dictionary and even his imagination. He would do his own worrying about his vocabulary. He and the detective had to be left alone. The Creator’s hound has found not only the needed spoors in the universe but also his hangman, who will carry out the sentence.

This is as it should be, how could it be otherwise.

He did not understand the other gods but, at last, to himself, he could easily translate this more brutal god’s language into human language.

Let Isolde go to her dear rue Cassette, let her go and not worry.

Nothing more can go wrong.

At the very most they would be unable to decide whether cultural or mythological images are uniformly part of a cosmic reality, or whether they function as independent entities in a reality that is homogeneous for everyone.

Everything will be all right.

What he should say is yes, now the one I’ve been looking for has found me. And I shall carry out the sentence entrusted to me.

You called me, the detective said gently when he reached him in the patches of light cast from the house, and he showed his bright teeth in an overly nice smile.

Döhring wanted to reply just as gently and lightheartedly, he too wanted to attempt a smile, this obligatory flashing of mood, but instead he said to himself, I have to behead this man who has finally found me, and he shuddered at the happy thought of this verdict, that he has to finish him off.

He thought that wherever there was sin, there had to be virtue as well.

Not that having seen the axe, the detective wasn’t clear about the danger facing him.

While they were looking into each other’s eyes in the coldly dripping twilight, as if it couldn’t have been three days since they’d met for the first time, as if in the meantime not many things had happened to them and they needn’t think about so many other things, other dangerous persons and other dangerous occurrences.

If you take one of the handles, I’ll take the other, the detective said cheerfully and reached for the basket filled with chopped wood.

A man in love becomes very generous even with total strangers, though right away he saw how little enthusiasm the other one showed in accepting the generosity. He saw in Döhring’s very sharp features, and mainly in his compulsively small steps and tight movements, that his initial impression had been wrong. He had to correct himself. As though standing in the Tiergarten he had not acknowledged that this young man was not just an egomaniacal urban jerk; what he had was not neurosis, but schizophrenia. He saw the obduracy and the destructive desire to break free, he saw how the two clashed and did not let each other breathe. As if Döhring were urging or forcing himself to take steps to flee, or as if he were lurking around his own body. He was at once driven and treacherous.

If he wanted to learn something from him, he had to be on guard and address not the young man but the lurking stranger; he would have to overtake the fugitive in his flight.

Döhring’s eyes were wide and alarmed; he looked at the other man and showed that he did not understand what was happening or what more might happen as they walked together, carrying the basket.

He felt a kind of defenselessness that he could not resist, but neither could he forgive Kienast for it, and these contrasting feelings tugged and pulled his features in different directions.

And at that moment he accepted something he did not know, something he should not have accepted or come to know. A love-filled sentiment radiated from the other man for which he had no words, which he did not know, and which was not intended for him. He realized he was scowling, though in his own interest he should have been smiling at this miserable cop.

His grotesque silence felt oppressive once they reached the house; he felt he did not have enough air and was behaving in ways that did not serve his own interest, especially after they put down the freshly chopped wood by the fireplace. Maybe it was only because of a single bad move. Kienast hardly had time to look around, for they’d brought the wood in just in time; the fire was about to go out. And Kienast was, very politely, about to lift the short-handled axe out of the basket so that Döhring could quickly throw a few pieces on the fire, or who knows why he did it.

Döhring grabbed at it as if someone was trying to take it away from him or as if he feared being assassinated. As if Kienast were an assassin. Human blood had clung to the handle of this axe once before, and it had been carefully washed off so the axe could be used again and not given or thrown away; both handle and head had been sandpapered clean. The Döhrings did not talk about this, but everyone knew what had happened with the axe. Even though no trace of his uncle’s blood or marrow remained. And objects cannot be held responsible for their being used for irregular purposes. He managed to grab it, but this move embarrassed them both, the embarrassment of one only strengthening that of the other.

As if they were mutually familiar with every episode in the other’s life.

The mutually revealing move and mutually felt fear offended them in their shyness and dignity, affected them all the way to the groin. Surprised by the unexpected contact, they had the presence of mind to exchange furtive bashful looks, as conspirators do when they take large risks and then turn quickly away.

Which emphasized the silence all the more — the fact that until now Döhring had said nothing, had not returned the detective’s greeting, and was unlikely to be the one to break the silence of this house in the woods. Nevertheless the detective decided he wouldn’t be the first to speak, no need for hasty politeness, he’d bide his time. He had come here in response to the young man’s schizoid outburst, having understood the hidden meaning of the personal invitation, and that should suffice for now. He could not appear weak. It was warm and there was a smell of apples, and anyway it was time to look around, see who these Döhrings were, what he might expect. The walls were covered with old wainscoting, wooden stairs led to an upper floor, and every light was on, every lamp and sconce as well as the chandelier.

Döhring hastily leaned his carefully guarded axe against the side of the fireplace as if his very body, his bodily existence, had become shameful. To avoid facing the leisurely, brazenly inquisitive detective with his intrusive physical self-assurance, he squatted down before the fire. But he was unable to break their mutuality. He quickly surrounded the dying flames with thin pieces of kindling. Everything was positioned on its prescribed course; he could not deviate from it. The detective actually liked to see how practiced Döhring’s fingers were at this, though he had no movements that weren’t hurried, sharp, unrestrained, compulsive. He probably always leaned the axe against the fireplace at the same angle.

He blew on the fire so the flames would catch the new kindling, his agitated blowing obviously meant not only for the embers but also for the detective. Who then turned away, as if to absorb the young man’s quiet performance with his shoulders, as it were, and with leisurely steps creaked his way around the room, whose beamed, old ceiling seemed low. The rather friendly space seemed to be struggling under the weight of the upstairs bedrooms. He looked out every one of the small windows.

A man in love likes to flaunt his body. He became terrifically excited at the sight of the threatened young man. He would not have admitted to himself that he considered him easy prey. According to the rules of his profession he must remain indifferent.