Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

She looked up for a second. She saw that the young man had misunderstood her, turned away, and was already becoming red from the neck up. She didn’t wait for the blush to overtake the young man completely because she wanted to spare him her own lustfully gloating look.

I don’t know how you people over in the Gellért did things, she continued, looking at her crocheting, but here we know what to do and we stick to the rules. Our guests are pretty keen on it too, you’ll see. They notice everything, and I mean everything, and they also have something to say about everything. If they’re convinced that the water in the men’s pool is at least two degrees warmer than it should be, then it’s two degrees warmer. Another might tell you that today it was colder. Warmer or colder, I let them say whatever they want. It’s all the same to me. If they want me to, I can take the water’s temperature ten times a day. You do it for them, show it to them, because you never know who is who. Later you’ll find out, believe me; you’ll know exactly who is who. Unfortunately, that’s the way it is, Janika. I’m only telling you; don’t argue with them. Well, will you look at this, you’ll say, it’s really colder, you’re right, and that makes them happy. Or they’re happy because it’s warmer. Just make sure you do things that keep them happy. You don’t have to let them do everything they want, but most things they want to do, you can let them. You, of course, don’t know it yet, you can’t have that much experience, on account of your age, but believe me, people are similar, very similar, but they’re also very different. Sometimes we play on how similar they are, sometimes on how different, you can’t learn more than this, Janika, not even from Uncle Józsi, believe me. She stopped for a moment, and since there was no response, neither questions nor objections, not a peep, she added almost apologetically, that’s right, Janika, there are many kinds of people, no end to the variety.

She wasn’t impatient.

She waited for him to process everything properly and when she looked up she noted happily that she had managed to sidetrack the young man for quite a time. The new attendant was standing before her, all red, nervously switching from one foot to the other, almost kicking them to the side, as if he couldn’t control himself or his limbs were about to fall off. Actually, she liked him. He was a pretty nice boy. She liked his wide peasant face, his protruding cheekbones, now in tremulous motion, his milky skin, his angrily knitted brows. She pitied him a little for being so shiftless.

Motherless. That’s what popped into her mind first, and afterward she could not get rid of this conclusion.

Well, why don’t you go about your business, Janika, she added firmly. Hose down your corridor; it’s getting to be ten o’clock already. The chief won’t wash it for you, I can assure you.

But this was too much for the new attendant, more than he could bear.

He weighed things for a second, and the richly bejeweled woman could see well on his face what he was struggling with, still he could no longer restrain his irritation.

Now don’t tell me, just don’t say that my mouth stinks, he said, fuming.

I didn’t say that, Janika, I didn’t say anything about your mouth, came the woman’s dignified severe reply, now why would I say such a nasty thing. But you probably eat head cheese or garlic sausage every morning, that I’m willing to bet you anything. I can even detect the red pepper. Maybe your little bride likes it, but it offends others. And take this as an honest remark, nothing else, and I made it straight to you.

So you people will tell me what I should eat for breakfast.

I won’t tell you what to have for breakfast, sonny, but if the chief took it into his head to tell you, well, that might not be such a good thing for you.

The new attendant felt himself shuddering because he would have liked to slap the large, shiny, calm face of this woman, or to kick over her table. This rotten woman had found out not only that he had a bride but also that he ate sausages for breakfast.

Which nobody in his right mind could comprehend or accept.

In the Lukács Baths, regardless of the season, cabin attendants always wore white linen pants and white sleeveless undershirts; only the bath masters wore short-sleeved white shirts. He now felt as if an icy wind had rushed at his bare shoulders, as when an icy wind clings to hot perspiration. But wind does not cling to anything. What happened, he asked himself, alarmed, what has this woman done to me; what’s happening to me here. Which did not necessarily refer to the place he was standing. The question grew large and loud, though in fact he couldn’t say a word. But he too, deeply disgusted, acknowledged the stinking smell of garlic. A dried-out, mute mouth, from which he could not disgorge the smell that nauseated him. He had cleaned up enough puke, pumped enough toilet bowls blocked with shit and toilet paper, and now it was as if all his experiences were pouring back into his mouth, as if he were retching them up from his stomach. Exactly the way this rotten woman had described it to him. He mustered out of the army six months ago and thought things would be better because in the army they were constantly fucking with him. He had to hose down and wash muddy corridors; in the laundry room, he was the one who had to stuff the shitty underpants into the machines, and they made him scrape all the soapy hair from the drains and gratings. If he didn’t hustle fast enough, his trainer cursed his whore mother and he had to take it, he had to take whatever they dished out. Still, he had never felt so humiliated, done with such cunning, as he did this time. No matter where he looked, he saw nothing but closed doors, and nothing had changed on the rotten woman’s smooth face. Then why am I feeling this rotten cold on my back. As if he could never break free of those motionless eyes; of the ridiculous eyebrows drawn on her shiny forehead; of the blood-red beads rattling on her neck, ears, and arms. No matter how scared he was, how much he cursed her, how he raged inside, this female saw it all, everything, because on him everybody could always see everything.

To scream; he would have liked to scream, but he stifled it; the intended scream turned into a pitiful whimper, barely passing his throat. Which surprised him so much he didn’t know what to do. Suddenly his tears began to flow and something gripped his throat, squeezing from it one last pitiful whimper. His body stiffened, he ceased shaking his feet, and he stood in front of the woman’s table as if he were nailed down. In his misery, he alternately threw his head back and let it drop forward, all the way to his chest. His crying bubbled up in spurts. His face is also cute, thought the ticket taker, without giving any visible indication of her thoughts. But what can one do with such a big crybaby. She was prepared for everything, including the possibility that the new attendant might lose his mind and even attack her. She was fairly immobilized in her corner post next to the entrance; she wouldn’t have a chance to rush out. In a fraction of a second, she took all the necessary preventive measures. And luckily, those strong men were still there at the end of the corridor.

She kept the ball of yarn in a plastic bag, the bag resting in her lap. She now lifted the bag and, along with the completed crocheting, wrapped it around her finger, put it expectantly on the table. She quickly turned the needle outward from between her large thick fingers, so that it protruded from between her blood-red nails like a dangerous weapon. She will defend herself. She leaned forward a little. If the young man attacked, he would first upset the table. She readied her legs. But I’ll poke out those little pig eyes of his if he attacks me.