Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

Even in the most conventional position, he always worked rhythmically, almost inattentively, at least pretending to be aloof, or, conversely, he’d put everything into it, get on his knees to hold the woman’s vagina captive, yet leave enough freedom to slide smoothly between clitoris and the orifice of the uterus, keeping his movements strong and finely detailed so the woman would reach her first major climax as soon as possible and not be demanding, surrendering herself to a continuous gratification; and in this labor, his ass would inevitably spread, open wide, and he would be surprised by a good friend.

All he needed for this was to feel the coolness of the room in the crack of his buttocks, to have a current of air stroke his cleft. A close friend. Though he had no such close friend and normally would not even want one.

This fantasy spoke more of his naïve inexperience than anything else.

The friend had no face.

He put up with him though he abhorred him, did not see what was happening yet had to endure the violence.

So much for friendship.

Although he could easily sublimate this ungratified desire and secret dread of his excited anus, he tamed it. When with his mouth and tongue bathed in prodigal amounts of saliva, he slid from women’s vaginas to their tight assholes and they cried out in surprise. It was as if he were calming his own anus, as if he were searching for his own.

He didn’t think much of friendships.

He had no idea that feeling ashamed about this was unnecessary; after all, the tight bundled muscle curling back on itself, the musculus levator ani , closely binds genitals and anus together in everyone.

You probably have to get up early, said Mrs. Szemző apprehensively in the dark, as if she had not seen that someone was lying on top of Gyöngyvér.

Yes, unfortunately, I do, very early, replied Gyöngyvér, and despite all her efforts, her words sounded like gasps.

And here I am, so heartless, waking you up. Don’t worry, when I come back I’ll try harder not to wake you again. And now I really won’t bother you anymore.

Filling up someone must feel very different from being filled up by someone, these feelings are not interchangeable; yet, halfway between the anus and the genitals, at the point where the powerful dual self-enclosed muscles meet and cross in a figure eight, the image men and women have of themselves do not differ.

Go on, and have a good time.

I just wanted to tell you that I left the light on in the hallway on purpose.

I know, dear Irmuska, answered Gyöngyvér emphatically, as if she were talking to a slow-witted child. She’s still not leaving. And she felt like screaming. Get this old hag out of here. What’s she doing spying on me. She had no strength to scream, because insidious little vibrations and tremors were pouring into her from the man, and she shuddered with helpless fury. With the effort not to feel them.

They should not spread to her vaginal muscles, should not even come close.

With which she inadvertently took on Ágost’s preventive attitude.

Though she would have found it very amusing, a worthy revenge, to reach her orgasms mutely, right in front of the old hag.

Actually, wasn’t she basically trying to conform to the situation and satisfy everyone as best she could. The effort she was making to have it not be like that now only filled her pelvis the more powerfully with painful pleasure. She tightened up, she couldn’t do otherwise, she tightened her anus and the tightening immediately returned to the oval muscles of her vagina and spread in all directions.

This is how she returned it, amplified by her own strength, to the man; thus, the spreading not only didn’t stop at but brimmed over the sandy shores in ever greater volume.

She saw before her those not-too-distant shores.

Don’t turn it off.

Oh, no, I won’t turn it off.

It was as if her pleasure would make her give birth; her pelvis widened, ready to burst. She herself was the bed of the mighty river, which the water filled with its surging mass.

But yesterday you did turn it off.

By mistake, Irmuska, I promise I won’t this time.

For a moment Mrs. Szemző stared at her quietly. It’s one thing to have something in mind, to think about something, and it’s a whole other thing to see it right in front of us.

Over the man’s shoulder, virtually steaming with heat, she stared back at Mrs. Szemző, as if pleading with her.

But she did not budge.

There was no longer enough light in the small room for them to see each other, yet their looks were as if glued together. As though one of them used this look, wrested from the darkness, to spirit away what the other did not want to show; oddly, this impossibility became their compromise.

Well then, go back to sleep, said Mrs. Szemző. And thank you, it’s very kind of you, she added fleetingly. Pleasant dreams.

Yes, I thank you, Irmuska, came the hesitant answer from the darkness. Good night, she said loudly.

The door of the maid’s room closed, the draft it created made the window above them clink, but they could not move, because Mrs. Szemző still wasn’t leaving, was still rummaging in the hallway.

They didn’t dare open their mouths.

As if the wall between the maid’s room and the hallway had been broken through and they could feel on their skin the little noises of her rummaging. They didn’t dare laugh or express alarm or displeasure. And wild joy burst out. But they had to stifle it. They grabbed, held on to each other on the narrow bed with the bad springs. But this solved nothing. Because in the woman’s pelvis the trembling kept on radiating, with intermittent silent vibrations slashing through; it had no rhythm, she returned what she received, or she gave it and received it back and then, as if pushed along, it coursed through her spine and thighs; it would unexpectedly make her knees jerk, her brain jouncing painfully with every jerk. Which made her unable to speak. Oh.

So good. More, it hurts, oh, but it’s good. How it hurts. She knew nothing else, wanted nothing else; more, it hurts, oh, that was all she wanted. Though she had pangs of conscience; why did she have to bring here a man who weighed a ton.

And that is why she wanted to stop, slow down, absorb the jerking with her muscles. She might have been ashamed of the sounds she made, of her own stupidity, of her pain, of being busy with her own gratification even in such an impossible situation. She could not stop the jerks, not the trembling, nothing. They kept coming. They hurt. She wanted them. Her orgasms came. She could not reject any of this, her brain was rattling.

In the dim hallway, Mrs. Szemző discovered that for months she hadn’t put away her winter gloves.

As if to say, that’s the limit. As if profoundly upset by her own carelessness.

She found herself alone in the unventilated hallway crammed with furniture, and this felt like a slap in the face that could not have been avoided or mitigated. And the walls were indeed not so thick that she couldn’t have heard them, but she kept to the recent compromise. Those two inside didn’t want to make a sound, so she wouldn’t hear them. If she left right away, she’d be breaching the compromise she had made. And their bodies went on working whether they liked it or not, they did it several times, in succession, the bed creaking under them. It was becoming uncomfortable. If they hadn’t been making selfish little moves the bodies simply couldn’t have endured it.

Mrs. Szemző did not hear much of all this because she was busy with her anger, but her anger had painful fissures in it. She loved her gloves. It was not a question, not for a moment, whether or not she knew what her soul was or wasn’t doing to her. She needed to avoid unnecessary dramas, yet she was in them up to her neck, and she could not deny that perhaps she wanted to be in them.