Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

You listen to me now, buddy, said the other boy, his voice bullying and almost sober in its sternness, I am not your Pisti.

Kristóf could only stare at him; he said nothing.

And don’t you tell me again that I’m dear to you, he said slowly with a drunkard’s helplessness, and tried to sit up at the same time but only managed to lift his head off the step.

And you know that goddamn well yourself, don’t you, and if I let you have one upside your head, by Jesus, that’d be worse than God’s curse. You know that too, don’t you, little buddy.

He talked as if he had not forgotten that they still had a heavy account to settle.

In fact they had nothing to settle, not then and not now, except perhaps the terrible raw dread with which they had feared that Pisti would be tracked down before he had a chance to leave Wiesenbad.

Fuck it, man, I’m not your dear, I’m telling you, and remember that, goddamn it.

Kristóf, alarmed, could only think that Pisti suspected him of something.

You’re a big shit-head, you know, a ridiculous little fop, Pisti said contemptuously, which reassured Kristóf a bit because the boy could have called him a dirty Jew. A lousy craven shit, that’s what you are, little buddy, he shouted, I’m telling you right here and now, damn it, say it directly, right to your face, I’m not any kind of dear one for a shitty little fop like you.

Until now he must have been pressing his face hard on the grating so as not to throw up, but occasionally he just had to vomit and he did so now, into the elevator shaft.

And Kristóf was not interested in what the boy said in his drunkenness, not in the least.

But his heart trembled that Pisti might have thought he was the one who had betrayed him to the Russians, and in that case how could he clear his name now. If there existed one human being to whom he had never meant, not even in his thoughts, to do anything mean, dishonest, or immoral, it was this boy.

He had gone to several places in Budapest, had repeatedly returned to them over the years, whenever he had a new idea about where he might find him; he never stopped inquiring about him, but the possibility of betraying him or turning him in had never been in the cards, not even in his darkest hours. He had gone to Csepel many times to find at least the place near the old beach where Pisti’s grandmother lived. Every morning they climbed across the fence, at least in Wiesenbad, where they slept next to each other and sometimes told each other stories all night; at least that’s how he had told the story about his grandmother.

He found the poplars.

But no matter what Pisti suspected him of, Kristóf could not suddenly give up on him now.

All right, I admit, you’re not very dear or kind right now, and he laughed kindly into Pisti’s threatening, laughable face, while his naïve heart trembled at the terrible thought, but please get up.

As if he suspected himself of the kind of betrayal that Pisti, in his mind, might have already suspected of him.

Pisti wanted to say something, to answer, but he could hardly steady his heavy head on his neck. He had such a big head, a hard head. On his drenched face, imprinted with the pattern of the grating, and on his twisted nose there was mucus and pap of undigested food mixed with tears.

May the big black dog fuck you, buddy, that’s what should fuck you, pal, if you understand what I mean. He still had enough strength to drag this much out of his own dark malice.

Kristóf did not understand this, but with every word the disgusting sourness of the undigested contents of Pisti’s stomach hit him in the face.

His head was wobbling dangerously and Kristóf grabbed him by his shoulders to keep his head from knocking against the stone stairs. Even now the boy was still dear to him, together with his stench and his vomit stuck on the grating. He could not but rejoice and be cheerful about having found him, being able to see him again. He could not take seriously the possibility that now, in this condition, or during the time that had elapsed before, Pisti had come to suspect him. Because, in fact, Pisti had told him everything. And even if he took everything seriously, what of it, Pisti was here, not hanged as so many others had been. He failed to make him sit up; the obstinate animal would not sit up but flopped exhaustedly on the stone stairs.

Kristóf reached for his handkerchief to clean off some of the boy’s filth; he would take care of him.

He raised Pisti’s rather disgusting, smelly head by the chin, kneeling next to him on the steps.

Left me, whispered Pisti, sunk in his angelically drunken innocence, I don’t have a lover anymore.

Kristóf turned the head toward him a little to wipe off the muck, a move that Pisti could have felt as maternal.

Fucked me first, though, he whispered, blubbering and whimpering idiotically, did nothing with me except use me, goddamn it, he yelped, d’you understand, buddy, used me for nothing else, ever, fucked me and left me, that’s all.

Kristóf somehow heard this, this surprising confession. Which, according to language rules, he could understand only as meaning that another man had made use of Pisti, some selfish character; but still, it was as if he hadn’t heard it. As if he hadn’t heard it while wiping the dear one’s face with one of the immaculately white batiste handkerchiefs, rinsed, washed, gently starched, and ironed to perfection by Ilona.

Somehow he did not dare allow the things the drunken boy was talking about to reach his consciousness.

Even if they had, he would not have understood them. All his irregular experiences of long years notwithstanding, his heart and soul remained completely innocent. He believed he had to become familiar with the world and had little choice as to which parts of it he would know; and when he did come to know them, he thought no, this could not have happened to Pisti.

He must be misunderstanding or misinterpreting something, since his own experiences had been impossible.

And to stifle his shame, he swore loudly, blaspheming God, taunting him to fuck him.

What’s this circus for, he began to revile Pisti, as if becoming drunk with his own urge to swear, why is he such a drunken animal and why can’t he behave decently. Should be a little bit of a gentleman. He reached under Pisti’s armpits to lift him up, laughed at him, rebuked him, for the sake of God’s cunt, don’t let yourself go like that.

Come on, stand up already.

But the drunken boy, with a drunkard’s hideous delight, kept resisting, he will not get up, no, he won’t, he will stay where he is till the end of his life.

Well, I’ll be dipped, shouted Kristóf with no less delight, making the stairwell echo loudly again.

Who the hell is Kristóf to tell him what to do, Kristóf of all people. A little jism jockey like him telling him what to do, eh.

Hold me back, somebody.

Can’t you see, little buddy, what a filthy drunken animal I am, and if you don’t watch it I’ll start swearing at your mother in a minute.

Great, so that’s what you’ll do next.

Because he had told everything to Pisti.

Stop the acting, pal. The little boy would like to play good boy from the Red Cross. But fuck it, man, I will tell the whole fucking Red Cross who you are.

Right now, dumbbell, the question is, where did you leave your coat.

The truth is you’re a big jism jockey and not the genuine goody-goody you’d like to pretend you are. I checked you out, boy. I got your number. I’ll tell the Red Cross the truth about you, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

He felt like yanking him up, to avoid inflammation of the pelvis, sit up already, but the drunken boy tore himself away from Kristóf’s hands with such a fury that it seemed he might hit him.