Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

At least he will find out, before he has a fit, where things are in the house. The kitchen was icy cold. That meant the bathroom had to be upstairs. He was glad his brain was still under control and working professionally. He greedily drank water, which helped somewhat, and when he turned on the faucet a second time, the pump connecting the pipes to the outside well kicked in automatically, which made him wince, like a civilian. But he had a quick response to this: he slapped water on his face and drank from the palm of his hand in order to wake up from his torpor or from his illusion.

From the kitchen window he could see the old well.

Then he changed his mind: whatever has to happen, let it happen. He will not resist the madness and he will not surrender to his own fit, no way. He would have poured himself some apple wine; there were at least ten wax-sealed bottles of it on the table. But to have a little apple wine he needed a glass, a knife, and a corkscrew; he had to pull out drawers and deal with all sorts of objects. One can’t say he was calm when he returned to the living room; he at least admitted to himself that he was dead tired and extremely vexed. What with the things he’d had to do and those rotten little tools in the kitchen drawers, he was on the brink of losing patience.

He would rage and demand results.

The young man, poker in hand, was still squatting before the fire as if, as opposed to Kienast, he had found no reason to change his position.

Kienast continued shamming, however; he had to. He was the adult and the stronger of the two. Not only because of his profession but also because having grown up with two women meant he was used to the stereotypical role of the long-suffering strong male. He resettled himself in the armchair and, feigning great bodily comfort, busied himself with the wine for a while. What else could he do. He examined the wine’s color and bouquet, while watching himself to see whether he could weather his fit of anger.

I’d be willing to have an epileptic fit just so as to jolt this miserable little fairy, this little meat-beater, this sick little shit-head out of himself. But why should I. This is what his ambition dictated — his insight into human nature, his empathy, his compassion, and all his inclinations and abilities — which also happened to destroy and devastate his own life.

Less would have been more.

At least this way he understood something of himself and of the young man; he even understood that it would not be good for him to jolt Döhring out of himself or engage his attention. What interest would he have in that, save for the possible result.

To forgo that result would not be a professional self-sacrifice.

He found the young man abhorrent, but he was ready to do anything for him now, even show him some kindliness.

Noisily, he tasted the wine, found it rather awful and, clicking his tongue, went on sipping it. Under the guise of this purposeful activity, he had to reassure himself that his rotten life, his brand-new love — of which, by the way, he could have said anything but that it was animal-like — and his very ordinary, idiotic career weren’t going to end now because of an epileptic fit or because of his own dread.

It’s quite weak, he said, raising his glass in belated agreement.

Usually it doesn’t even keep until New Year’s.

What can I say, it has a pleasant bouquet, its temperature is good, what else could one wish for.

It becomes like water without any warning.

But until then it’s not bad at all.

To your health then.

You were probably saving those bottles for the holidays.

Come on, stop bugging me about the holidays.

Who else but guests would you be waiting for with so much wine.

And he became suspicious in his own eyes, for he was trying too hard and insisting on making headway with these stupid holidays and this pitiful boy. As if he had thought that with the help of this copy he could step into the original, the source of his premonition. Before their fits epileptics disappear into the trap of repetition.

And in that case, suddenly kindled love is not the exit from but the terrible entrance to monotony.

Because you have lit up the house so nicely, he said — and no matter how much he did not want to, he had to repeat some of the words — in nice holiday fashion, so festive, as if he were hearing similar echoes in his own skull: holidays, festivities.

There is no holiday, I’m not preparing for anything, Döhring exclaimed, elemental hatred against everything and everyone seething in his voice, but I tell you, since you’re so curious, I am afraid, he shouted, scared, do you understand, he shouted, that’s all, that’s why I lit up the house.

Haven’t you ever been afraid when you were alone in a house, he asked, and his voice faltered as though he was about to cry.

What did he have to be afraid of.

I’m not expecting guests, stop pestering me with this stupidity, and I’m certainly not going to wait for my kid sister.

I thought you were twins. Twins are inseparable.

I hate her anyway. I hate every kind of holiday, he fumed.

As though his hatred had no object at all, only it would have been nice to lower himself to the very bottom of the word designating hatred.

I don’t need calendar holidays for my joy, or for guests. I don’t want anybody yakking at me about holidays or whatever. I constantly think inwardly, on my own I am pretty much enough to make me happy, I can reassure you about that. And I certainly don’t need company to think. Even if I had something to celebrate I wouldn’t have a holiday for it, or I couldn’t celebrate it with others, it’s that simple.

Of course, while he was shouting he suddenly had an insight into this older and undoubtedly more experienced man. Who was sitting here with him, his big thighs spread, his feet in his big shoes, his short jacket open, and, in his large, loving self-satisfaction raising high the misting glass.

As if he were truly drinking to Döhring’s health. As if he could serve himself here to his own satisfaction. He drank to his love, to his happiness; Döhring saw perfectly well what he was drinking his toast to.

And since his sentiments could not be turned off like a faucet, his love spread out over everything, including this unhappy boy. Who was just staring at him, eyes wide.

How does one become so shameless and arrogant with one’s freely gained happiness.

There was indeed much to be astonished about in this question, and what a pleasant astonishment it was.

Kienast felt that he was blushing at having been discovered; the other one had seen through his weakness. He had never blushed before in his entire career. He must have been ashamed of the little secret that he was here because of the woman and nothing else. He was even more ashamed of his soft-heartedness, and not only did he turn away from the young man but he also looked for a place where he could put this stinking glass in case this goddamn epileptic fit decided to get him after all.

He should take off his jacket in this heat. He’d have enough trouble with this miserable man as it was, and he stood up to do this while there was still time; he put the wet glass on the edge of the mantelpiece. He slipped out of his jacket and successfully lobbed it to the sofa, not letting the other one detect the inner struggle in the movement. To which the young man responded by straightening up in front of the fireplace.

It’s a long story, he said in his deepened, manfully ingratiating voice. I won’t spare you, I’ll tell you in great detail.

I have no right to pose questions to you. I must say that right off.

I’m aware of my rights, you don’t need to instruct me, but perhaps I have the right to ask how you ended up here.