Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

He hid the rake in the thick prickly blackthorns by the side of the dirt road.

Perhaps chance led him this way, perhaps predestination; at any rate he wound up at the pond. He had heard about it but had never seen it before for himself. The picket lay there, the one he had seen once before in the presbyter’s hand. Two nails were sticking out of it. It was an old piece of rain-beaten wood with brand-new nails. He thought about that for a long time, could not decide whether to touch it. As if he had to decide to what power he should entrust himself. He could not comprehend what sort of connection the pastor and the presbyter could have had with his son. Even though the picket lay there as clear proof of this close connection.

Then he decided to go for sure; he took the picket with him.

A few days later, when the unforeseen events were reconstructed, the presbyter could corroborate Balter’s confession. He was the one, indeed, who had forgotten the picket and left it there when he found Dávid’s sandals at the edge of the thicket. Later this corroborating evidence gained decisive significance. Because if the old piece of wood had not belonged to the presbyter and Balter could have quickly hammered the two nails into it, then not only the intent of his deed would have become provable but also its particular cruelty.

The presbyter had already removed the old pickets of his fence when he realized he might not have enough new pickets. He had to replace the old bent nails on the old pickets with new ones. To make sure they wouldn’t be loose in the old holes, he hammered one in a little higher and the other a little lower than the old holes. Experts found his testimony truthful. The pastor had called to him just as he was about to refit the picket, but he took it along with him because without a weapon one never knew what might happen in an encounter with a tramp.

No, he would not have hit him with it, because of the nails.

Balter gave his account of everything without hesitation.

He caused some difficulty with his behavior only when he had to relate the immediate circumstances of the deed.

It’s lucky the culprit was not my son, he repeated gently, smiling with great satisfaction, very lucky, that is my great luck.

They attributed his words to his inevitable confusion.

At the time when the offense was committed, fallen apricots almost completely covered the ground, and more kept falling. The investigating policemen picked up undamaged apricots a few times and ate them.

Balter did not deny the deed; therefore his hazy details or gratuitous smiles did not hinder the investigation in the least. The police dutifully contacted Budapest and let their colleagues in the Zugló precinct see what they could find in the Balters’ apartment in Turul Street, but for a long time they had no response. Not only the new uneven spots on the ground and the abundant bloodstains smeared everywhere, but also the trampled thick pulp of apricots were sufficient evidence of a struggle between the two men.

To re-create the events of that night they had to rely on marks that could be mapped exactly. Based on the injuries caused at different times, the coroner estimated that the perpetrator dragged the body into his house about four hours after the death. Balter confirmed this. Outside it was getting light all right, that’s for sure, he said, smiling gently.

But it was still night inside his house.

He did not light the kerosene lamp, he explained; instead he ate everything edible he could find in the dark. That means you had to step over the body several times, the policemen noted. That’s right, he agreed, he did not deny that he went to the pantry for food and then back to the table because that is where he ate his meals. First he ate what had been left over from the string beans seasoned with garlic, but he did not want to lie, he was still hungry. He went to the pantry again. He had one and a half dry Csaba sausages, which he ate with three scallions but without bread. He went to the pantry a third time, he does not want to lie, and put away a full packet of sweet biscuits while standing there.

Then you must have been looking at the body, man, while you ate, said the policemen, because you were standing right above it.

He doesn’t want to lie, he replied, smiling gently, that’s right, that’s how it happened. At the kitchen table he also polished off three cubes of processed cheese. He ate them sitting down, the way he ate the sausage. He peeled the skin off the sausage, because he can’t eat anything with the skin on, not even sausages.

The empty saucepan with the spoon in it was still there on the stove, next to the dishwashing pot. On the table tops of scallions, bits of sausage skin, the large knife, the biscuits’ torn, empty cellophane wrap, shreds of tinfoil torn off the cubes of processed cheese.

But to the question what he had been doing between 11:30 in the evening and 3:30 in the morning, Balter could not give an acceptable answer.

Maybe I fell asleep, he said with his gentle uncertain smile.

During those hours, of course, it became lighter in the house, still warm from the previous day’s heat, where, the policemen assumed, Balter had to smell the odor emanating from the torn flesh.

He smelled it; he did, for sure.

At dawn he took off his clothes.

He did not put his soiled pants and shirt with the rest of his laundry but on the kitchen chair, properly folded and rolled into a package. He took a few bottles out of the dishwashing pot and dipped his towel into the water from which he had been drinking, very economically, for two days. A little bit was still left at the bottom. He squeezed out the towel, not to waste any, and that’s how he washed off the stains from his hands, face, and neck.

He would not say bloodstains.

Those stains came off easily enough; sweet apricot is much harder to wash off, because it is sweet and sticky as honey. He had to dip and squeeze out the towel several times.

But you saw, man, didn’t you, that everything was becoming bloody.

He did; he doesn’t want to lie.

The bloodstained towel had dried in the meantime; they found bloody water in the dishwashing pot.

Truth was, he didn’t pay much attention to that because he was in a hurry. He washed off most of it, wanted to catch the first ferry. It leaves at 4:40 unless someone requests a special trip.

He would not have wanted to wake up the ferrymen for a special trip.

He put on the same white shirt, the same dark suit in which he had taken leave of his mates on the Vác shore to take the first ferry in this direction.

He carefully locked the house with the body inside.

The sleepy ferrymen noticed nothing unusual about him.

On the far side, at the end of the landing dock, a young woman waited for them that summer dawn. She had a medium-size suitcase in her hand. Halfway across, the navigator had already noticed that little Melinda was coming home. With irrepressible joy he passed the news to the ticket taker. Until the side of the ferryboat bumped against the landing dock, the two men wondered why she was arriving at such an unusual time. They could see that she maintained her smile, though she seemed a bit sleepy. The ticket taker did not tie up the ferry and the navigator did not even shut off the engine, rather they both began to shout to her, asking her to get on board, they’d take her across on a special trip.

Balter the murderer stepped off the boat without saying good-bye, and the lovely girl got on, laughing. The special trip across the river carried Dávid’s sister, who had thought out well in advance what she would say to the ferrymen and to her grandfather, and how she would satisfy her kid brother’s curiosity.

Balter broke out in a sweat, but nothing happened during the early morning crossing, and the ferrymen certainly did not ask him anything. Later, shrugging their shoulders, they said they had figured he’d been called in to his former workplace. He probably could use a supplement to his pension. As soon as he stepped off the ferry, he removed his jacket and with a youthful motion threw it over his shoulder. He walked up the paved shore like that. There was no one on the street that led him back to the prison.