Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Klára moved a single finger.

But not the way you think, said the blond boy, whose eyelashes were also blond.

Klára’s one finger gesturing at him sufficed to make him endure all this. So that he could sidle away now, so that he wouldn’t have to see them or listen to Simon.

It’s been a long time since I’ve heard so much Stalinist baloney.

I’m not going to argue with you, you’re a born Nazi.

Kristóf had no choice; he had to accept that the two of them were not alone and would not be.

The chandeliers had been left behind in these big, vacated rooms, one opening into the other, their ceilings not too high — his great-grandfather would have liked them — but most of the bulbs had either burned out or been removed from the sockets. Kristóf very soberly decided to get down to some serious drinking, even though he had had plenty of booze already. He had to step across bodies sitting or lolling on the bare parquet floor, leaning on or entangled in one another in the most peculiar positions. If he could have had his way, he would have cut them all down, to the last one, with a single saber, while screaming his head off. He discovered some acquaintances among the crowd, some of his college classmates, but he didn’t feel like chatting with them about exams or anything related to his studies. And just when he seemed to have succeeded in getting away unnoticed or half-unnoticed, three giggling, chattering women in another room pulled him down to the floor with them — to make the pretty boy drink their sour-cherry brandy.

And does he know how cherry brandy is made.

How would such a mama’s boy know something like that.

They learned how to make it from their grandmama in Perth Amboy, though they don’t come from there.

But mama’s boy must be from Perth Amboy.

They bared their teeth, they were vampires about to eat mama’s boy from Perth Amboy.

Unless mama’s boy from Perth Amboy was a bonny lad from Leningrad.

They devour every pretty boy they meet.

And they are especially nice to disheartened pretty boys.

He should know he’s dealing with three vampires from Vienna.

Which he will feel immediately.

Give him the damn brandy already.

But they didn’t, not yet, first they had to touch him and grab his arms and thighs, check his flesh. They cooed in his ears and bit him.

Wait, sweet boy.

Bend your little head nicely into Julika’s lap, and I’ll start sucking your blood right away.

But he must close his eyes.

It was cognac, some lousy Albanian cognac that had nothing to do with Grandmama or sour-cherry brandy. But they tickled him while he tried to swallow some. He put up with the tickling so he could drink; he wriggled about, completely lost in their hands and enjoying it immensely. When he swallowed, they reached between his legs, making him snort and swallow the wrong way, scream with joy, writhe and beg for more.

They were common and sweetly innocent. But by morning he did not even remember how and when he had broken free of them or they of him. But he did remember his friend, that he should find his friend.

Completely drunk, he tried to make his way out among the many bodies and again he noticed Klára among them. And he saw that she noticed him too. Goddamn it, she had to see this too. Her radiant face darkened a little, because he too was such a drunken animal, that’s clear now, but what the hell else could he be without her.

But now he too raised his hand before his lips and with a single finger motioned to her.

Klára pretended not to see him; now why in hell did she do that.

That can’t be; no way, this is not happening.

Just then, from behind, exquisitely fine female hands planted themselves on his eyes so he could not see; not to see anything, let there be darkness at least, let his life end now.

But he was so insane, so drunk, that in his agony he could think of nothing but Klára, only her. No one else. He could not imagine these were not her hands. No one else had such fine small hands.

Who is this woman, shouted the woman in the darkness, I am jealous of her.

Her fine fingers vibrated on his face; long fingernails dug gently into his flesh, into his lips, it hurt, which felt inexpressibly good, she could have tortured him more with those sharp nails.

Of course it wasn’t her but that stupid Gyöngyvér, who must have noticed what he’d been doing.

But this also meant that the old fascist was still alive, otherwise it wouldn’t have occurred to them to come to this place. And that brought them too close to each other, closer than they had ever been before. Not even when in the adjacent room Gyöngyvér was squealing for his benefit. They were both drunk too, but there was another reason: they both felt abandoned in every sense of the word. They grabbed each other’s hands, and dumb Gyöngyvér shouted into his ear, right in front of everyone, who is this woman, because she looks like a high-class lady and she won’t put up with high-class ladies in Kristóf’s company.

He told her he had to go because a friend was waiting for him outside, in the corridor, his best friend.

But he’ll be right back.

He should answer her question first, does he need these women, and he shouldn’t go anywhere, because she wants to tell him right away what’s happened.

She can tell him when he comes back.

No, she wants to tell him right now.

And not only did she not let go of his hands, holding them down between them, but with her groin she pushed against his genitals. With her pubic bone, she clung demandingly to Kristóf’s loins, and while they supported each other like this, they could do nothing else; she breathed her stupid words softly and slowly onto his face.

Luckily she was no longer screeching so loudly that Klára could hear her.

Somehow Kristóf let himself go; against his will he let himself be carried away by the tension that the ideal position of their loins had created for them.

Kristóf won’t believe this, but less than half an hour ago this lousy Ágost proposed marriage to her. That anybody could be so disgraceful. She had been drinking ever since, like a fish, but she wasn’t so drunk that she believed a single word of it.

He could feel on his back that Klára saw him yet he couldn’t get rid of Gyöngyvér. And then everything would be over. His drunken agony increased so much that he wanted to scream. And now he didn’t want to lose Gyöngyvér either. He wasn’t actually listening to what stupid Gyöngyvér was saying. The truth was, he felt an appetite for her loins, that was the honest truth. He had observed her before and felt that when he had, watching mostly her cunt, he was not mistaken. The way she ran all over the apartment in her short slip. Not to mention her squeals from the other room. So that he couldn’t sleep. Why not let her cunt scream a little for him. He wanted it to scream for him, he wanted her breath, and her long fingernails. These truly awful red nails with which she was digging into his clenched fists.

She laughed silently, her head thrust back dramatically.

But she’d rejected the proposal, that was the limit. That somebody should be such a louse. She chased him away, out of my sight, you animal, scram, back into the belly of your mother who spoiled you rotten. She did not say all this to him but she had chased him away. He’d missed the boat, he was too late. This Ágost thinks he can just do anything he feels like doing. For weeks he’d been torturing her. Now she’s completely drunk, but she wants to tell Kristóf quite soberly what she’s not yet told Ágost.

Go ahead then, tell me.

If he can hold his mouth, while he’s so drunk.

Why couldn’t he.

He should swear to it.

No, he won’t swear to it.