Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Thanks for telling me, she responded, a little embarrassed, I’ve noticed it myself. My bras, slips, my blouses, everything is full of milk all the time, she added, laughing a little and a little irritated. She took a deep breath. But if you don’t mind, I’m still interested, could you possibly tell me why you never let him come to you again. Please don’t be angry for my asking such a thing, you probably understand I’m asking this for my own sake.

Which sounded like an unnecessary confession.

As if assuming Geerte hadn’t understood why she asked.

She simply wanted to compel the other woman to continue, to speak, to tell her everything. Not to let modesty hold her back. She felt she was entering unknown territory, violating all the rules of propriety. And that was exactly what she wanted. It helped that she was speaking a foreign language; that way she could go much further than in her own. And Geerte was turning her head this way and that, as if showing her willingness to speak; after all, her openness also had its selfish side. But she was still thinking; she opened her mouth as if in the next instant she’d find the right word, but then she merely nodded to what she thought to herself.

She was struggling.

She did not dare or could not say it.

Erna found so much seriousness rather comical, even though she understood the hesitation.

She struggled stubbornly with herself; she did not want to be false or vulnerable. She lowered her heavy eyelids, her large lips trembled several times. She was thinking, weighing things; and it was beautiful how she let it be seen that she had to reach back into the past for the answer. With her thoughts, she obviously grazed herself several times — while she was thinking, contemplating, and while Erna, in pleasurable anticipation, waited for her response. On every occasion, no matter what they talked about, Erna was moved to the depths of her soul by the seriousness and openness of this exceptionally structured pale face. Absentmindedly, she continued unbuttoning her blouse to free her other breast too, from which milk was visibly seeping. Under her blouse, she wore not a bra but a tight white camisole. Earlier, to free one breast quickly and pacify the baby, she had undone only its upper buttons.

When she was done with the blouse, she had to continue with the buttons.

I’d like to, I’d really like to tell you. Still, I’m not sure I can, said Geerte after a short while, drawing out her words, and as she spoke, her eyes absently focused on Erna’s ringed, nervously busy fingers as they looked for the tiny buttons sewn closely one below the other. The camisole was so tight that the base of each button, sewn with strong thread, stretched every buttonhole to the limit. The impression was that at any moment her strong, ample body would split the fine material and pop all the buttons. It’s also difficult to talk about something like this because I don’t know, I’ve no way of knowing, how you feel about it, Erna. Or anyone else. I believe people don’t talk much about this sort of thing. They think it’s such a simple matter it’s not worth talking about. And perhaps they’re right. I don’t know. A woman gets pregnant, gives birth, and that’s that. That’s the end of it. And then she suckles the baby. But it was never like this for me. For me it was never that simple, and that’s the reason I could never talk about it to anyone.

Not even to my mother, least of all to her.

My mother is the kind of woman, you can believe me, Erna, who gives everything, and I mean everything to her only son, and denies everything to her daughters.

If she could, she’d take the food out of my mouth.

To my mother, I couldn’t either, interrupted Erna vehemently, not a word, never. Imagine, my mother didn’t even tell me, listen, my little girl, there will come a time when you’ll bleed.

The deep resentment she had felt for her mother subsided as rapidly as it had awakened. Her vehemence had more to do with how much she understood Geerte, how closely she followed what she was saying about this difficult, painful matter. Not only did she want to identify with her, she was identical to her. No, this is indeed not simple, she added, a little confused. And quickly stopped talking because she did not want to catch herself in a lie.

She fell silent because until now she too had thought that it was a very simple matter. More precisely, she did not understand why it wasn’t as simple as it should be.

One feels, at least I always felt, that I could not be away from my child anymore, Geerte continued. And I don’t really like to put the blame only on my husband. The relationship between two people is difficult enough; how much more complicated are relations among three or four. Though I must say he behaved badly, what I’m saying is that he already became rough after the first one. He’d been rough before, but maybe I hadn’t noticed what kind of man he was.

The feeling that even when we were alone together, I wasn’t there by myself anymore, as he was, that is what he wanted to extinguish in me. As if he wanted if to be just the two of us again.

I’ve been ashamed ever since, or rather I’m ashamed for him. But the point is that one probably can’t break free of one’s child, not for a moment, because one is not a separate body. Or maybe one can’t break away from oneself, and the whole thing is nothing but terrible, animal selfishness. That you can’t give of yourself, or what you can give only your child deserves.

Perhaps one shouldn’t say this, but maybe I’m not a good enough mother, said Erna quietly after a little while, because I don’t feel anything like this.

She doesn’t.

Believe me, I do not. And my husband is not rough with me, he is patient, considerate, cautious, and likes to show his happiness. He strokes me, calls me pet names, and wants to pamper me. I feel and I know he isn’t thinking only about himself when he wants us to be together again, just the two of us. Sometimes he’s quite touching. Once, we even cried together.

They were both silent for a long time before Erna could speak again.

That’s not it, no.

It must be something else, then.

Something else.

I don’t know.

It’s as if we have been split, broken up, for I don’t know how long, as if we’ve been hacked apart. And then how could I wish him to come inside me again the way he used to long ago. No, I couldn’t. I’d rather never do it again, ever. I am not whole. Well, at first, one thinks it’s because of the torn perineum. When I had the little girl maybe it didn’t tear as much as it had with the boy, or maybe it healed faster. Or I just don’t know, really, that’s why I’m asking you, because I really don’t know what’s happening, and I’m beginning to be afraid. And to be honest, what sort of thing is this breastfeeding. Don’t be angry that I’m talking about things like this. Now, with the little boy, it didn’t hurt as much, or maybe I knew what to expect and that’s why it didn’t. But since then my whole body has been a wreck, my whole system, my everything, and no matter what I do, it does not pass. Everything. Maybe I’m just impatient, but I don’t know, compared with what should I be more patient — with him, or with myself, or with whom.

And you can see, I am literally flowing away, in all directions. All right, eventually that will stop, but sometimes it disgusts me so much. Is this what I have to put up with, every time.

While I feed the baby from one, she said, laughing a little and raising her breast, I’m dripping from the other. And there are other things one doesn’t talk about. The other things one must endure in the meantime.

Yes, I’m a wreck, I am devastated, all the time. And I don’t want to feel that it’s good to be like this. Yet it’s good to be this way, good, very good, this agitation, she cried out.