Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Perhaps she was busy with the car, with the driving and the empty streets, or perhaps she liked and enjoyed the thought.

Later they could not have said when they started in again or how many times they stopped.

How would he know what the order of things should be.

Kristóf had to know this for himself, and she could not decide it for him.

They were approaching Dürer Ajtósi Row, where they’d have to turn.

He should name the reference points of his personal perspective, the so-called pivotal points.

He has no personal perspective.

But of course he does.

He’s one big knot of feelings, nothing else, he’s a nobody. That things might have pivotal points — what an idea.

Enough of this maudlin stuff. They should be talking more sensibly.

It’s Klára who’s talking to him like a strict schoolmarm.

And right now I’m being relatively gentle, I’ll have you know.

Klára should stop sounding so high and mighty too.

Sensing the possibility of falling back to pointless mockery and teasing, they both had to tamp down their aggressiveness.

It’s not about categories that he wants to talk with Klára.

Does he think that world affairs will slowly become knowable and, once they are, can be sorted out in line with his admirable views. Like pralines, candy, dragées, and bonbons. These here are the ones with fillings, those over there are without; or sorted according to the kind of filling, caramel or hazelnut cream, raisins or almonds.

You’re joking again.

It’s easy to joke, but at the store they must perform this thankless sorting job at least once a week because even when one takes great care and pays close attention things have a way of becoming mixed up, and it’s no laughing matter, not at all.

He doesn’t understand why this haughty contempt. Does Klára disdain everyone this much, or are there exceptions. Why did she become suddenly so haughty.

If he could successfully sort out each thing that suits him and separate it from all other things and be aware of boundaries, his response would sound very different than if he thought world affairs were unfathomable, their individual phenomena inseparable or having no difference or connection among them. Because that would mean there were no borders, no such thing as a person’s character; people would have no traits, will, or ethical justification for their actions, at best only arbitrariness and blame or resignation or habit, and so on.

Ridiculous.

Why ridiculous.

Somehow he too had to make a decision, unless he wanted to consider himself an exception in the universe.

In any event thinking comes first — for the sake of the official definition, first comes thinking in the descriptive mode, and only after does one begin to speak. Which is not so exceptional. One surveys the possibilities, reviews what are one’s own or other people’s favored viewpoints. It’s hardly worth mentioning.

But why would this be important or interesting.

Because you are not alone and alone you can’t get anywhere, you’d be a laughingstock if you didn’t know about these things, or if you ignored them or failed to coordinate them with others. Thinking is not a solitary activity.

This made them be quiet for a good while.

Kristóf had a chance to be annoyed once again by the woman’s latest lecture.

Yet their silence affected both of them as if it were a delicate pact regarding their future. Kristóf could not tell what was inherently uneven in this silence. He was, instead, stuck on one word: trampled . The woman had trampled him, had trod heavily on him and then withdrawn. She simply withdrew. This hurt him, but he did not think it was unfair.

They were idling in the middle of the road again, for who knows how long. As if quietly signaling that they had to wait to make their turn in the night at last.

But Klára didn’t notice that nothing was or would be in her way to keep her from turning.

Kristóf was hesitantly motioning what to do, gesturing for her to turn.

And if they had reached the point where they could freely laugh at themselves and each other, there was no reason not to go on to Stefánia Boulevard so Kristóf could show her the other house with the big garden behind the pointed iron fence where his paternal grandparents had raised him. Their easy laughter grew irresponsible, which, more clearly expressed, meant they were hopelessly in love with someone. No matter how they tried to fight it. Protecting their independence from each other. Kristóf is in love with the giant and he cannot refuse to admit this. His mode of admitting it is not yet fully transparent, though it is slowly acquiring shape. And Klára states up front that she will keep Simon because she wants to, gives no explanation for this and won’t do so later. And yet they are progressing further and further into a metaphysical thicket. Where neither of them is on familiar ground because they must deal not with objects but with the essence and emblems of unknown feelings, historical rhymes, genetic assonances, and even more unfamiliar parallels and congruities. Although the building must look different because new tenants ransacked and divided it, sold off the iron fence as scrap metal, cut down the centuries-old trees to build temporary huts, pens, and lean-tos, the two of them did not get that far on Stefánia Boulevard on this stormy night.

Kristóf continued to tell his stories, to explain things, but with waning self-confidence, hinting that it might be best to say nothing of certain matters. He displayed awkwardness with all his talk; with his pig-headed persistence he showed, perhaps to the woman, perhaps to himself, his infantile clinging to various locales. Now he saw how empty they all were. The houses, the streets, the squares. And how futile his attempt to surround the woman with all those words. She avoided him, this woman kept going on her own much more objective way.

Perhaps she wasn’t in the least bit interested in so much abstraction, or he failed to present his story interestingly enough, which deeply shamed him.

As if he had failed to carry out an obligatory service.

This other story of his had little to do with history or with his own life story.

Or with words.

They did not look at each other, barely seeing more than a dark silhouette to their left or right, with the light of streetlamps flashing and fading above the car. Neither of them looked at their watches, were no longer concerned that they might be late or should be going somewhere; their commitments had faded away. Klára continued to handle the young man’s declarations with a certain innate caution. Or remained cautious because of his rebellious tendencies. She considered his vague urban-sociological theory as intellectual decoration, theatrical scenery with which Kristóf rushed to isolate both loud catastrophe and quiet tragedy. If only to spare her. This flattered her; she was moved by his courtesy but not appeased. She and Simon had banished from their life every form of courteous or ceremonious behavior, though she systematically continued to point out to Simon what rule of accepted behavior they happened to be breaking at any given moment. But now her former life seemed to be returning through the back door, a life more in accordance with her upbringing, based on the careful exchange of courtesies and the tactful transposition of brutality into something with acceptable tones. Simon had learned a lot about this, theoretically, in a course on behavioral history at the Moscow School of International Relations, but he acquired it negatively from Klára Vay. He learned from her firm denunciations how he should have behaved in given situations, what he should have done or should do. Klára Vay was not a very sensitive person and therefore minced no words; she could not afford to be sentimental. She had only contempt for everything that was weak, timid, or indirect; she struggled with her own intellect as well, she had to be clear-sighted at all times. Eventually she would begin her university studies and she was ready to do anything for that. She had had no formal education of any kind, though she had read a great deal; she was determined to fight her way through the history of thought, alone. She knew she was throwing her weight around and wouldn’t get far with her suggestion for systematization, but she had to keep on course and she could hardly expect more than that. She now and again tested her conceptual capacity and arrogantly disregarded her fiascos. Nothing interested her but finding a direct, practical, and easily understandable explanation, a formula that accepted catastrophe and, at least for a time, resisted erosion and tragedy.