Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

You may be disturbed by anyone’s physical proximity.

I guess you can put it that way, said Döhring, as if suddenly relieved.

Our being distrustful is mutual, if that’s any reassurance.

But I feel it’s better than dissembling.

I understand.

I know you do.

I must tell you a lot of things so you can see clearly and understand the connections.

I’ll try to understand them, anyway.

Though my case can’t have much to do with the case you’re investigating.

If that is so, you are making me especially curious.

May I ask something of you.

First let’s hear your request, then I can decide whether you may ask it.

Would you tell me what I am suspected of.

That’s a rash question. If the occasion arises it would have to be asked not by you but by your lawyer. But I can give you a clear answer.

Please do.

Suspicion arises when factually and objectively we know what happened. I am free to suspect someone when the evidence allows me to raise charges against him or her. It’s not worth doing before then.

This would be the paradox of your profession.

I don’t know about that, but this way it’s practical. Otherwise one goes astray. One should not shut out other possibilities because of one possibility, and this is a basic premise not just in our profession.

But I had the impression I was under suspicion. Maybe not by the others, but you suspected me. And I must admit that really got to me. As if I were truly the culprit.

You’d probably find it flattering if it were so, but I had no reason to do that.

I know what I’m talking about, I don’t need you to flatter me with such things, I’ve been preparing for a murder for years.

I understand, I should have known.

To be precise, I’ve been getting ready for it for two years.

You probably want to share this compulsion with me so you won’t have to commit it.

There isn’t necessarily a causal relationship between the two.

How should I understand that.

It’s hard to explain, or rather, impossible. I’ve never talked about it seriously. I’ve no experience in it. And I hate people gushing about themselves.

You despise them, you’ve already said that.

I despise them, but I also hate them. I know I should be ashamed, others are ashamed of it, but I’m not. I can hate them individually, but I especially hate them collectively.

That is why I’ve come, you made me curious to know where you’ve acquired so much strength to despise people.

I see you’re at home in psychology, you’re trying to calm me down.

I studied it for two and a half years, to have some idea of it.

Or to learn a few tricks of the trade. When you say I’m strong, for example, you can count on my growing weak.

There’s hardly anyone who wouldn’t grow weak from that.

That I should be easy prey for you.

When we use tricks in our conversation, that doesn’t necessarily mean our intentions are false or treacherous.

I have to kill my father.

There was silence for a while; Kienast sensibly let it be a long pause. And Döhring didn’t even dare swallow during this time, because he wanted to carry out his mission: he wanted to tell all, but the problem was he didn’t have the proper method for doing this. His Adam’s apple moved up and down too rapidly, like that of a young adolescent.

Had Döhring not become so sharply outlined in his exertions, if insanity had not distorted his features, Kienast might have said to himself that Döhring was amiably childlike.

He was struggling with the air, or struggling for it; it can’t have been easy to combine such great trust with such great distrust and then express this.

Almost everyone has to kill his father, said Kienast by way of helping. But that’s not a personal problem but rather a ritual, which should be considered a ceremony. In earlier times the Elevation of the Host or Holy Communion must have had this significance. To take to myself a body that others have murdered and whose bones they have broken, when you think about it, that’s no less brutal and barbaric. I, for example, am in trouble compared with others because my father killed himself instead of killing me.

Döhring was silent again; his eyes shone soberly out of his insanely distorted features.

If you want me to, I’d be happy to tell you about it, Kienast continued readily. And we’ve reached a point, given the various beliefs in supernatural powers, where even girls have to kill their fathers, and I tell you, this is based on my professional experience.

He stopped for a moment, as if he had lost his breath like the young man, because he did not understand how two things that have nothing to do with each other could cross paths so powerfully.

Little girls seduce their fathers so they can kill them, with the help of their mothers, for the incest committed.

Somehow this created a profound silence between them.

From a sociological viewpoint this is a salient symptom in the new era, Dr. Kienast continued cautiously, wanting to say something rational in their mutual silence. You must have read the story of Lolita, or you will read it; the secret of her success must lie somewhere in that attitude.

That’s not what I’m talking about, I’m talking about our own father.

I don’t mean to take the edge off what you’re saying, don’t misunderstand me.

I’m not very interested in ethical questions, so I’m not interested in commercial novels either. Our father had no personality of his own, anyway, so in the sense that you propose, the way you think about it, I’d have no reason for wanting to get even with him. He was a nameless, clumsy petit bourgeois, a nobody who preferred to go around staying out of the way, avoiding everything and making sure not to stand out in the crowd.

Now it was Kienast’s turn to wait and see what the young man was getting at.

He’s the fellow who wouldn’t harm a fly.

Is that why you think, asked Kienast, still guided by surprised caution, that he might be in your way.

It’s not so simple as you might imagine. I’d have to squeal on or accuse family members individually, including dead ones. And you’re coming on with these miserable conceptual dichotomies. If I may, I beg you, please stop it. The others are truly frightening murderers, but not disgusting. Because one can understand them. But my father is a common opportunist. Legally speaking, this seems like a ridiculous accusation, as if I were harping on obsolete business. But it’s the matter of obsolescence, of statutory limitation, that gives me no rest. I won’t lie to you about essential matters. This thing torments me, nothing urges me on so much as that they continue to make a living out of this statute of limitations — until someone exposes them. And there, at that point, that’s where it has to be cut, you understand, so they can’t go on living off the statute of limitations. It’s not the legal process, I don’t care about the law — everything is legal or everything is illegal, that’s a matter of litigation, it’s all the same anyway — what interests me is the way later developments push aside earlier events and the sly way they play with this. I enjoy it too, the place of dread always filled by the next dread. Why should I remember anything, that’s what I want you to explain, but I bet you don’t have an answer.

Kienast did not want to reply to this question, it was simply not his business.

Or why do I still have this penchant for remembering things despite everything. This cannot be understood, and we cannot forgive one another for it.

He stopped suddenly and looked at Kienast as though he now saw or realized why he must kill his father or at least forsake his family.