Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

The younger woman literally leaned into the wind, walked sideways against it; the older one, as though enlisting her entire body in her defense, doubled over and scurried forward as if making an escape. They both wore hats, Gyöngyvér’s a firm tiny round box decorated with bits of lace, of the kind usually called a pillbox, Lady Erna’s soft and woolly, wide-brimmed and large.

The wind kept changing direction; now it rushed into the city from the north and swept across Andrássy Road, now it came bouncing in from the west off the hills of Buda and wreaking havoc on the boulevard. They had to hold down their hats with their gloved hands. Identically, they pressed their pocketbooks hard to their chests. With that same movement, Lady Erna also held together her short fur coat. Gyöngyvér’s broad, long coat, the color of faded violet, had a large decorative button right under the round collar, and if she hadn’t clutched the coat together over her breasts, the wind would have opened it, reached under it, and made it flutter in every direction. Although the two women’s bodies differed greatly in weight, firmness, dimension, and pliancy, looking at them from above, their gaits seemed very much alike.

They both wore high-heeled, narrow, long-tipped pumps; they appeared to be toddling. And with every gust of wind their nylon-stockinged legs faltered a bit.

Before they reached the curb, the cabbie thrust the rear door open from inside and quickly leaped out to help the older woman into his vehicle. This courtesy was surprising because in those days taxi drivers had long ceased to fulfill this basic business obligation. Younger ones probably didn’t even know such a thing was expected. They didn’t say hello or bother with a thank-you when accepting a tip, though they did not refrain from remarks if they found the tip too small. Lady Erna saw the man’s strong profile for only a moment, when he raised his head to see out from under his cap and rain sprayed his face. She thought she might have known him from somewhere; he was about her age.

The three people appeared to be participants in a ritual, performing a sacrificial dance around a large, dimly glimmering cultic insect.

They halted abruptly, colliding gently as they walked around each other, parted by leaning away from one another, paused, and then bent over as the wet wings of the insect closed behind them.

The small, dim thuds could barely be heard behind the closed windows on the third floor.

The moment they slid onto their seats, they filled the tobacco-smelling cab with the fragrance of their perfumes.

The cabbie was a man of the old school; though his face was abundantly supplied with bitter, vertical creases, his playful, watchful eyes evinced a humorous or ironic disposition. Such eyes inspire confidence. He had on a well-worn visored leather cap, which seconds before he had pulled down tightly over his forehead against the wind.

Private chauffeurs used to wear caps like this, a long time ago.

Still, Lady Erna could not shake the nagging thought that this man was a retired secret service officer. But then how, where would she know him from. There was something about people like him; one could tell right away they had been ÁVH men. As former monks and nuns gave themselves away by their sickly pale complexions and overly cautious way of walking. Everyone knew that the mustered-out ÁVH men stuck together and were only waiting to come back to power and take their revenge.

Once the women were settled comfortable in the back and the man turned around, looking at them expectantly, she no longer had any doubts. This is a superannuated ÁVH man. He flicked up the visor of his cap with his thumb and asked where to. Who knows what kinds of thing he must have done in his life. Everyone knew they kept themselves in a permanent state of preparedness and were very influential. This man, with his small graying mustache, was not at all bad-looking. His lips were too pretty. Unpleasant, very unpleasant to ride with such a person, she was brooding to herself, as if to pluck cautiously the familiar strings of dread in her memory.

Or maybe he was Arrow Cross.*

We are going to Kútvölgyi Hospital, she called out, in a voice unlike her usual one, as if making an official announcement through her nose.

The cabbie’s playful glance did not change. One could feel he was not ready to accept this tone.

He asked if the hospital would be their final destination.

His wrinkles seemed to radiate all over his face from the inner corner of his eyes.

That’s correct, our trip ends there, came Lady Erna’s short, unfriendly reply, and, so as not to be exposed to the impersonal, penetrating look of those eyes, she turned away.

The driver started the cab, drove across the square, but the tension between them remained, and in the rearview mirror he quickly sized up the other woman too.

She wore a tolerant, slightly suffering, restrained smile. It wasn’t easy to figure her out; the impression she gave was that with her entire devoted being she would go along with and support Lady Erna in everything that might happen. Though it was also obvious she was playing a role, and that Lady Erna did not object to this.

They were sitting too close together. This had never happened before. Which was somewhat embarrassing for both of them. As if trying to keep their bodies at a distance, they did not turn to each other. Gyöngyvér played her role well. Lady Erna, despite her resentment, couldn’t but admire the young woman. Perhaps she envied her son for having her and may even have feared for her. For she knew the relationship could not last and already felt sorry about the inevitable complications of a breakup. She had occasionally helped to speed up the predictable separations. Carefully yet relentlessly she had let her son feel she did not think this was the right woman for him. She admitted that a person from such a low social class, with nothing and no one in the world, who not withstanding dressed so impeccably and showed such diligence in her behavior, well, however silly she might be, she must have talent of some kind.

She must be truly knowledgeable in something to which her son clings steadfastly. No question. Of course, Lady Erna could not even think of these talents without summoning up their opposites. A chameleon, she said to herself, a common little minx who disguises her eagerness and greed in a rather primitive way.

She had better be careful with her.

Yet, her eyes could never have enough of the young woman’s body. She had made detailed reports of it to her best women friends.

It was her general experience that it was best to be forthright and unhesitating when talking of dangerous things. Her friends had a great laugh. What wouldn’t that Nínó make up, what fanciful new tale.

To talk openly of a mature female body was not among the conventional conversational habits at Café Gerbeaud, the Abbázia, or even the casino on Margit Island.

Ultimately: nowhere.

Although she had talked of it unreservedly, her repugnance got the better of her. What a miserable little chameleon. Her stunning figure and perfect appearance can’t be denied, even if she isn’t really beautiful. No, she isn’t. God, her low forehead right away tells you where she’s from. The less said of her mental abilities the better. And her character isn’t exactly flawless. But there was no flaw in her taste. This irritated Lady Erna, who had a broad education and a practical background in art history; she had been an appraiser for a while, and among her friends she was considered a kind of expert in aesthetic matters.

In fact, it was not the young woman’s flawless taste that fascinated her but the ascetic nature and dry austerity of this taste. She could not look at her without seeing her as a precious object she must guard and look after, precisely because she was so aware of precious works of art.