Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

He chucked his underpants in the pile of clothes to be washed. He earnestly sought his lost calm in his nakedness, but for that he should have removed the weight of his body from his soul.

You really think, Mother, that you will tell me what’s right for me.

And when he finally got the big knife in his hand, because the damned little one hadn’t turned up, he gripped it as if he were getting ready to kill. He never wanted to keep animals, to avoid the need to kill them. He had seen too much human blood not to dread the sight of killing. He faced the simple task of cleaning and chopping the string beans, but what occurred to him was that he had never beaten a prisoner of his own free will. He was not quite clear about whose question he was answering this way, nor could he deny that at times he had had no choice but to dish out a few necessary blows. Why on earth did he have to excuse himself now, and to whom. Rebellious prisoners would bang on the cell doors or kick them with the tips or metal heels of their boots; others would make a racket on the ribs of radiators.

Of course he had to dish out some blows; how could he avoid it.

On the Visegrád shore, tipcarts at the distant mine were creaking, making their usual steady noise.

It was late afternoon; the heat let up a little.

They will creak all night; they will keep on creaking in the eternity of sin. And all those fantasies, sensations, visions, and desires that during the past months had settled into fine grooves or drawn furrows on the rim of his receding consciousness, were now hatching, returning, reviving, and cunningly going on the attack. In the parched heat’s heavy vapor and reddish trembling dust, the sun was preparing to take its leave, far beyond the distant mountains. One could still not say, though, that he had thought over his oppressive life, or perhaps his sins, or anything else. He was hurt and afraid, inkling gave birth to memory, memory begat images, and he was being helplessly tossed about among them.

In the meantime the wax beans, locked in liter jars and wrapped in cloth, were now properly steaming in a large pot on the stove. But his feverish activity had not eased his nervous tension. His naked body was becoming sweaty and stained, and when he thought about going to bathe soon, he did not mean cooling off his body. Later, he took soap, found a clean shirt, unhooked a towel, and threw it over his shoulder along with a clean shirt and pants. He turned off the gas stove, giving the tap to the container an extra twist. He walked out of the house, carefully locked the door, and was about to hide the key at its usual place, under the large stone with which his son would one day bash his head in if he weren’t careful, when he was violently shaken by a mute shadow he detected at the edge of his vision; he shuddered, and on his back and chest the muscles froze into veritable knots.

The pastor was standing motionless under the apricot tree.

When he had come by earlier, he’d shouted good evening very respectfully and then had stopped when he heard dull, harmless noises filtering from the little house. He did not intend to surprise the other man.

Now, he quickly, almost stuttering, begged Balter’s pardon.

But meanwhile his eyes roved over the other man’s naked body, from his neck to his loins, and more thoroughly than they had at midday.

What in God’s name are you looking for, shouted a surprised Balter, what do you want on my property again.

Of course he meant not his property but his uncovered loins, by which men measure each other’s abilities.

All the pastor could do was not look at Balter’s naked body; he looked straight into his eyes.

Which only deepened the embarrassing feeling in both men of male defenselessness and vulnerability. Because it is forbidden to look at what arouses their curiosity.

It was especially painful for the pastor that because of his careless glances their conversation had begun with blasphemous swearing.

He really did not mean to catch him by surprise, the pastor said quietly, please forgive his coming back uninvited, but frankly, he could not rest because of his crude way of talking earlier that day.

He would like to apologize.

Frankly, that is the reason he came back.

Balter did not care for this kind of weakness, that a person should have to apologize for having used abusive language, and therefore he did not believe the pastor. He just looked hard at him, wondering what he really wanted.

You don’t say, he replied roughly, so you’d be that famously strong priest, he said aggressively, though more softly than before.

The pastor responded with the shy smile of a truly strong person, you’ve got it, that’s me.

Now, don’t go thinking I scare easy.

Frankly I don’t.

I already saw at noon, don’t you worry, that you were just a priest or something, Balter continued.

I am a pastor, the other man corrected him quietly.

I’m not blind, I see what I see, but don’t worry, I’m not interested in your business. You can be a priest for all I care. I’m not interested in God anyway.

His voice, the hard edge of his words, kept him from being at one with what his face was projecting.

People also say about you that you like chopping wood better than preaching, and they like you better that way, with the axe.

His smile now was the kind a pleasant memory produces.

But then what do you do with that son-of-a-bitch God of yours.

Suddenly the afternoon’s nightmare ended for him. He felt that with his involuntary smile he was back in his element, and so he continued what he had started.

Don’t for a minute think I’m scared of any kind of god or priest or parson. You can bet your ass on that. For all I care you could be Miklós Toldi* or Hercules himself, you’d better believe it.

I gladly believe it, I assure you, the pastor responded, and despite Balter’s nakedness he stepped closer. But the other man’s every word had hurt him. I don’t want to lie, but looking at you, I don’t think I’m a match for your physical strength.

This created a long silence between the two of them.

Balter wasn’t sure whether the pastor was mocking him. Those three phrases— gladly believe it, looking at you , and physical strength —affected him as if they had been blows. As if they were foreign words. He suspected the learned man was dressing him down for his ignorance, was making fun of him, had nothing but contempt for him. And the pastor weighed the likelihood that Balter might try to hit him, given how close they were, but he feared not for himself, only for his glasses.

The glasses were new; the lenses had to be made to order, specially, by the optician.

Nonetheless, with his wide smiling blue eyes behind those glasses he charmed the other man.

If one lives for a long time without feeling any physical and spiritual friendship, even the germs of feeling tend to petrify.

At that moment, unexpectedly even for himself, Balter slipped the key under the stone.

I always put it here when I leave the house, he said quickly, as if he didn’t himself know why he was giving away his most precious secret. Since you’ve seen it anyway I might as well tell you, he said by way of explanation. Anyway, it’s better to have someone else know about it, one never knows what might happen.

He put the soap down on the step, hung his shirt and towel on the door handle, and then with leisurely motions slipped his legs into his pants. The leisureliness was part of his fraternal feeling.

As a young man he had had a friend, and the two of them would have jumped into fire for each other; in the army too he had had a bosom buddy. But not since then.

He had to pull hard on his leather belt because he’d lost a lot of weight over the past few months.