Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

After this they had to console themselves with each other’s body and mouth for so long that in the end they could barely extricate themselves from each other. Although in their private darkness thickened by silence, they heard the man in the tub waking up.

They did not spare each other’s tongue or saliva.

Get out, get out of here while I fix my face, but I won’t forgive you.

I’m watching, I want to watch you do it, I won’t get out.

Get out, don’t be a baby, and do it while I’m asking nicely.

I won’t leave you here with this guy.

If he gets fresh, I’ll throw hot water on him.

He waited for her outside the bathroom for at least twenty minutes.

During that time, other people went in and he couldn’t stop them; they’d come out again while he stood there foolishly, a laughingstock, lost in this corridor busy with human needs that had to be satisfied. But it was good to be alone a little; people went into the bathroom and also to the adjacent toilet, he heard everything, and then they came out.

He stood there until he remembered that the bathroom had more than one door.

Klára had disappeared, and the tub was ominously empty, no, that can’t be, he thought, but he did not find her anywhere in the crowd. So she hadn’t forgiven him. That cannot be. But luckily he noticed the man, now in the company of other women, on whose account he had endured hell’s torments for so many long minutes.

And from then on he ceased his maniacal search for her.

He’ll punish her.

Why should he look for her, pant for her like a dog.

Instead, he wound up in the midst of a heated discussion among some people, and it didn’t matter about what. They were arguing about art, he only watched from the sideline or shouted his views; they were all drunk as skunks. Well, is Picasso really a fraud, leading everybody by the nose, or a truly great artist, a fucking great artist who loves to bluff, and you, daddy-o, wouldn’t know how to separate his world-class bluffs from his art.

Then define bluff.

Why should I, let some smartass give a definition.

You can’t even define what it’d be like when I send you back to your mother’s cunt, daddy-o.

In the arts, we can’t get anywhere without definitions.

But you still have to know, daddy-o, where you are inside your mother.

He became mixed up in this argument because he happened to recognize one of the participants as someone he knew from the Emmi Pikler children’s home on Rózsadomb. This boy was a few years older than he, and he recognized him immediately. Both of them were surprised that he was not mistaken. He hailed the other one by his old name. They had taken away this boy’s name too for a time; they had a good laugh about that now. After a while, though, he had to resume his search for Klára because he couldn’t stand being without her. Perhaps Klára had gone on to someplace else. People would sometimes just get up and leave parties like this. He was ready to run out on the street and chase after her. And then he found her, leaning against Simon’s shoulder and talking animatedly to some people. Which caught him unprepared. He was almost ready to turn around and go, to get away from here. The people she was talking to suited her well: a bright-blond, wildly gesticulating, heavily freckled fellow and a peaceful-looking round woman with a large pregnant belly. With his free arm, the boyish fellow was hugging his wife as if holding her up. Simon, addressing some other people, thundering across a quieter conversation, as it were, was explaining in his penetrating hoarse voice that everything was fine, there was no reason for anxiety, nobody should worry about the communist movement. Next week the French will skedaddle out of Algeria like a shot.

But what does that have to do with the communist movement.

Lots, he’d bet his life on it.

That much, eh.

Anybody refusing to leave willingly will be wiped out completely, he said, and took a long swig from the bottle in his hand. And Ágost can say anything he likes, but Hungarians will always be in conflict with the French. Even in the communist movement.

Maybe, but the French won’t even notice.

People were smiling at Simon’s claims, but he continued with his explanations, making himself out as quite invulnerable; he declared that everyone else was mistaken and he was the only one who was predicting events correctly. The people who’d thought they were right tried to rescue what could be rescued, but now there was no way back. Mendès-France was mistaken, Pascal Pia and de Gaulle too;* I’ll tell you how it is, he shouted.

The great mistake of the French is embedded in their religion, Catholicism, that’s how simple it is in history. They wanted to save those filthy little Arabs for the civilized world, you know. Only the generals thought about it clearly,† with iron and blood, how to preserve everything for at least another fifty years.

And he could also have told them they didn’t have that much time.

Life will be more awful for those who want to stay than it’s been for the stubborn British in India.

One doesn’t have to be a prophet to know that the French, with their incredible diplomatic skills, will declare their loss. It’s a matter of days, mark my word. He’s willing to bet that Louis Joxe‡ will make the announcement.

That’s how this whole bloody affair will end, but the real show will only start then.

And while Simon was holding forth in his loud and threatening way, flourishing his wine bottle, in front of him stood Ágost, Kristóf’s melancholic cousin, his arms folded comfortably so he could support his chin in one hand, looking very elegant and aesthetic in one of his well-cut tweed jackets and a cashmere turtleneck sweater, a dandy , with his straight black hair falling over his forehead and brow.

And Kristóf was there too, standing off to the side with his hatred, awkward and wounded, wearing Ágost’s hand-me-downs. Everything he had on had once belonged to Ágost, from the blue underpants to the blue socks, all in perfect condition, even the socks, because his cousin would never wear anything frayed or mended. And he liked blue in all its hues, so Kristóf had a chance to hate all things blue, even though he actually preferred blue to gray or black, to say nothing of brown.

You don’t have to be an oracle to see that now it’s the people’s turn, all oppressed peoples, you just watch, now they’ll be the ones to conquer the colonialists. That’s what the next fifty years will be all about. They’ll take everything back; he’s willing to bet his life on it. Sooner or later the war against the colonial powers and the communist movement will make contact, blend into each other, or just link up geographically, and then God have mercy on everyone because nothing will stand in the way of a world revolution.

The freckled boy stopped gesticulating; he gaped, and let go of his wife.

Everyone seemed deeply and seriously shocked, and they were mute about this drunken world revolution. What could anyone possibly say about such a hope. Kristóf watched them with disgust, just as Ágost kept looking at Simon with a certain revulsion, which was why he hadn’t noticed his cousin. Suddenly Kristóf wanted to turn away, maybe even leave the place. Because no matter how much he couldn’t abide Ágost, he had to admit that the quality of their attention when listening to a third person was very similar.

And if he stayed, he would come to loathe Ágost even more for that, or himself.

Just then Klára motioned to him with her hand raised before her lips.

The freckled boy spoke first; dreamily elongating his words, he said he was shocked.

Simon said that was exactly what he would have expected.