Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

But I will ask you to leave God out of the game, don’t go on mentioning him to me, because I hate Jesus Christ with all my heart.

Grave silence settled between them, silence of a quality that belonged to neither of them, and for a while neither dared break it.

I despise him, if you’d rather hear it that way, Döhring shouted desperately.

Your preferences are clear: you don’t care about the law, don’t bother with ethical questions, and hate God. However, I haven’t mentioned them, you’re wrong about that, neither Jesus Christ nor God.

Of course you have. You are a blasphemer and so am I. You mentioned their holidays, that’s enough for me. You mentioned the Elevation of the Host, the sacrifice of the body, of course you did, all those flowery words.

Again there was silence between them.

Don’t mention him again, Döhring shouted, you’re probably Catholic, that’s why you mention him so loudly, but don’t mention him to me here, because I hate him, I hate him.

Perhaps they were standing too close together; the poker protruded dangerously from Döhring’s hand. They were barely an arm’s length apart.

Until now, I thought I could follow you without difficulty.

The one they call Jesus Christ I cannot take seriously, I despise him.

Kienast’s glass was still on the mantelpiece; he wanted to reach for it.

But what does this have to do with what they’ve been talking about, and Döhring has to explain that.

It’s probably not his fault, maybe he’s not the one to blame for not redeeming anyone’s sin, Döhring continued, as simply and smoothly as if they were talking of the beneficial effect on the world’s stock markets of the fall of the Berlin wall, which was also something factual, but perhaps it’s really impossible to comprehend or understand what sort of crime it is to let others delude themselves with false hopes of redemption. Why would that be a more forgivable nastiness or crime than murder. Why shouldn’t every person be able to end this ugliness of several thousand years, or one’s own life.

You may be right, but not only am I not a Catholic, I’m not even a Protestant. I left the church, have nothing to do with it. The matter is much simpler than that. I’m thirsty, Kienast answered rather softly. I left my church, you understand, I’m hungry as a wolf, that’s how simple life is.

He was not in the mood for a theological debate, did not want to discuss religious wars, would have no counterarguments. If only because he saw how great the adolescent confusion was in the other man’s head, and he did not believe it.

Maybe you know a roadside place nearby that’s open now.

Upon hearing such an indecent proposal, Döhring was not only taken aback but momentarily struck dumb.

Man, oh man, he shouted after a brief silence, and then, flying into a passion, he laughed strangely, very strangely. Here I am, asking you about the existence of the deities and you come back with material things, your hunger and thirst.

Perhaps his laugh was not even a laugh but the beginning of a convulsive dance of his facial muscles.

But that’s what I’m talking to you about, your hunger and your thirst, which Christians can never appease or quench.

He cried out as if he were deeply wounded.

You can’t seriously imagine that anyone around here would dare spend Christmas Eve outside the family circle.

How could there be anything open tonight. No, you won’t find such a depraved place here, not in our neck of the woods. The people who live here are all decent hypocrites.

Isn’t there a different kind of place.

You don’t understand what I’m talking about.

Still, despite your theoretical resistance, I invite you to be my guest, Kienast replied relentlessly.

Just this once, I ask you to sit down and listen to me. Hear me out.

Come on, get your coat, stop groaning and moaning.

I won’t leave the fire. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to leave the fire just because of you. I didn’t chop all that wood to let the fire go out now.

I’ll relight it for you when we come back. That’s one thing I’m really good at, lighting fires in fireplaces.

Go by yourself, I’ve no objection to your coming back.

I didn’t see any food in your kitchen, have you had anything at all to eat today.

The refrigerator is full.

I didn’t ask whether the refrigerator was full but whether you’ve had anything to eat.

What do you want from me, and so what if I haven’t eaten anything.

Get your coat, we’ll go eat something and while we eat I’ll tell you what I want from you. We can also have a glass of something and talk about theology.

You will not talk to me about the object of my hatred. You may not do that.

What, are you preaching to me again, I understand you very well, but please stop these tasteless tirades.

This God of yours has been torturing me all my life.

I have nothing to do with him.

I hate him.

Stop shamming and get your coat. You think other people don’t suffer or other people have no god. I’m not suffering. You think you’re the only one who does.

I don’t think that.

You’ll live through it.

That’s true.

There, you see.

We’re not talking about suffering.

Good, let’s keep it that way, because I can’t stand your mawkish gushing.

But what can I do when my family is crawling with murderers.

We can’t decide before supper which of our families offers the more meaningful example, because my family is crawling not only with murderers but also with suicides.

That’s true.

How would you know. Stop talking like an idiot.

I know.

You see.

I know more than you can guess.

Where’s your coat.

The young man went upstairs and presently returned with the expensive Scottish windbreaker he had received from his aunt.

Wait, he said when they both had their coats on, and he grabbed the poker again.

First, he had to find the cat and chase it out of the house.

Meanwhile it had grown dark outside.

It’s a stray cat, he explained.

He reached under the sofa with the poker. Sometimes it disappears for weeks or months, but it always turns up.

He can’t stand seeing the cat slyly scurrying around, sneaking in and out. He so can’t stand the sight of it that once he managed to hit it twice in a row with the poker, on the spine, right above the rump, ready to destroy it.

He saw the spine crack.

There was snow on the ground that day, and he threw the cat out into the snow. It made no sound, as if he had done it in his sleep. The body sank into the snow.

But the next day, in daylight, he could not find it.

He didn’t tell the policeman the whole story, though he wanted to, but he could not forgive himself for it. He doesn’t feel sorry for people; he wouldn’t feel sorry for their brats either. If he killed a child, it would be like carrying out a verdict of acquittal. Whenever he found himself near a small child, he was afraid he might do it. Regarding children, he felt ready to do anything to save them from the life awaiting them. The cat, however, reappeared after a few weeks, sneaking, scurrying, alive, and he found no joy in this.

The owl must have perched somewhere in the bare orchard, emitting a single sharp sound at regular intervals. It sounded like water drops plopping on metal.

Another owl responded from a great distance.

The car was still breathing warmly when they got in it. For a while they sat mutely side by side and actually had a cigarette. They did it so they could engage in at least this small activity without lying.

Pardon me for asking again, the young man said after a while in the dark. I’m still curious to know your possible answer. In your opinion is there a god in this world or the universe, not the Christians’ but anybody’s, and I mean any kind of god.