Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Simon’s travels are strictly confidential, now he has gone to Brussels and Paris, but Kristóf must not know this.

From that moment on he took care of her. He came to visit her several times a day, bringing fruit, flowers, compote in a small bowl and delicious chicken soup from Andria; he took and washed her laundry so Klára would have a clean nightshirt every day; she had to change her underpants frequently too.

She washes and rinses them in the sink.

No.

When she had to get out of bed, she could hardly stand up. She couldn’t walk out into the corridor without holding on to something.

He found a way to get into the hospital outside visiting hours.

Klára waited for him.

It was a quiet happiness, but they were very happy with each other and because of each other.

And he did not say a word about the disappearance of Andria’s coat. He had a strategic plan about it.

Because of the mourning and the preparations for the funeral, the apartment on Teréz Boulevard was constantly filled with dissembling people. It was not simple to carry out his plan. One sunny morning the prime minister showed up with his secretary, Karakas, but luckily Kristóf happened not to be home. These dissembling people repelled him, they seemed to be light-years from the quiet, painful happiness he was sharing with Klára, and, since she had given him a key to take or return things she needed, he preferred to stay in Simon and Klára’s apartment in Dembinszky Street, sleep in their bed. When he had to go home for clean underwear, some clothes, or his notebooks — because he did go over to Buda to look in on some lectures at the teachers’ college — Ilona told him what had been happening or what could be expected to happen and when. Gyöngyvér will not move out after all, oh no, now everything has changed; they will be getting married just as soon as possible. They will do it in the greatest possible secrecy, avoiding all formalities, not to crush Nínó completely.

They will go on their honeymoon right after the funeral, which is something she, Ilona, doesn’t understand, what’s their hurry, she doesn’t understand that either. But something has really changed between them; all day long they bill and coo, behave as if nobody had died in the house.

They’ll simply go over to the district council office, Hansi and André will be the witnesses, then they’ll go out to eat somewhere; not only is she, Ilona, forbidden to cook anything, but she’s not even to know about this.

She begs Kristóf too not to know anything.

One doesn’t do something like this to one’s dead father or mourning mother, she doesn’t understand it.

She does not understand them, simply does not.

Andria Lüttwitz picked her words carefully when he dropped in on her. It’s clear that Klára will have to stay in the hospital for at least ten days. Such a tremendous loss of blood.

When they bring her home, though, Andria would like to see her mink coat again. Kristóf shouldn’t misunderstand her, not because she needs it, she no longer goes around in such coats, no rush either, there’s no need to hurry, Kristóf shouldn’t trouble himself too much.

The elderly woman’s shyness was touching, and Kristóf was furious that Pisti had done this to him and to Andria.

Andria waited anxiously for Kristóf’s response and, looking for his goodwill, added, when I die it’ll be hers, anyway, because I’ll leave everything to her.

Even if he knew where to look for Pisti, he didn’t have the courage to squeal on him.

No matter how weak Klára still was, Kristóf had to tell her about it.

The coat had not reached her consciousness or she did not care, which made Kristóf’s situation easier. Klára fell asleep, Klára woke up, Kristóf fed her, gave her something to drink, holding her by the elbow, he took her to the toilet; he was on good terms with the nurses, who were curious to know who this handsome young man was, who was not her husband, who had so suddenly disappeared.

First he went to see his uncle in the apartment on Damjanich Street, where he had not been for years. To find out whether it was possible to purchase a mink coat in Budapest, preferably a full-length one, new or used, any kind.

The real question was how much would one spend for it.

Kristóf was very interested in this question.

It would depend, of course, on the quality of the animal, and for whom the coat was to be made, if I am not offending you with my questions.

Actually, Kristóf enjoyed talking about this as dispassionately as if they were real merchants. He did not yet want to say more to his uncle. He wanted to figure out whether his plan could work. This is where he learned from Irén that he had to move out of the Teréz Boulevard apartment because he had irrevocably offended Nínó. He didn’t care; how could he have offended her. And he did not even believe it, because he knew Nínó better. Then he looked up in the telephone book whether that certain photographer, István Stefanek, still existed on Köztársaság Square.

He had to do it before the front gates were locked, so that neither Balter nor old Mr. Pálóczky, helpless since his wife’s death, would see him. He figured he’d do it on the eve of the funeral. The body was indeed lying in state in the lobby of the academy, on a splendid catafalque surrounded by huge clusters of floor standards, and the next day it would be taken from there to be buried.

The widow with her son and brand-new daughter-in-law had not yet come home from their audience with the president of the academy.

He chatted for a while with Ilona, and when he was left to himself in the passageway used as the dining hall, he simply took the painting of the 1848 battle scene off the wall. In his room, he wrapped it in an immaculate lightly starched sheet but, before tying it carefully with string, he had to admit to himself that this would not be enough. He took another painting off the wall of his own room, packed it along with the first one, and left the apartment unnoticed. He chose these pictures because they were not so large that he couldn’t take them by taxi and he guessed that their value would cover the cost of a mink coat.

He made the phone call the next morning, but he was so terribly excited that he had to start several times; he could hardly swallow, let alone speak.

Mrs. Stefanek picked up the phone and put on her husband immediately.

He did it exactly as his grandmother usually did, as dispassionately and briefly, whenever they ran short of money.

What would you say about a small Egry, Kristóf asked.

About what, asked the photographer crossly.

What I just said, about an early Egry.

The quick-thinking photographer had to restrain his astonishment.

And what would you say about an 1850 Neudorfer.

The photographer mumbled something to the effect that he would have to see.

He could come over with the paintings.

Gyöngyvér related almost everything to Ilona, who in turn passed it on to Kristóf on the day of the funeral. They would go to the Rhodopes for their honeymoon; they’ll fly to Sofia and from there they’ll be taken by car to a beautiful house in the mountains, where Ágost’s Bulgarian friends had invited him earlier. Ágost is crazy about mountains. Ever since being recalled from Bern, he doesn’t know how he has survived in this bleak Hungarian wilderness. They might even encounter snow.

Gyöngyvér has never been in the high mountains or in an airplane; true, she hasn’t seen the sea either.

But Ilona did not understand why they were doing it, why they had to do it like this.

However risky Kristóf’s undertaking was, his timing turned out to be good. On the day of the funeral no one noticed that two paintings were missing. Afterward Kristóf himself forgot the whole thing. Empathy for his aunt overwhelmed him — not because of the death but because he understood, from the proportions of the dignified ceremony and the sight of the assembled mourners, how dependent his aunt and uncle had been on each other and what burdens the two of them had carried on their shoulders together, no matter how ridiculous he had thought them.