Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

His aunt kept quiet, thinking she had better wait before saying anything.

It rang for so long I thought you’d never pick up, added the young man.

Why wouldn’t I pick it up, the aunt asked, cool and measured; she asked what happened.

I was just about to hang up, the young man said excitedly. I thought you might have gone out.

Where would I have gone, replied the aunt — and now the irritation was clear in her voice — after waiting for you for an hour and a half.

I only said that, the young man explained, stammering, because you didn’t pick up for so long.

Perhaps we should stop talking about when I picked up the phone or when I didn’t, and talk instead about what’s going on. I am waiting patiently for your explanation.

Nothing special, answered the young man indignantly. All that happened was that I fell asleep. I’m very sorry I’ve made you wait so long.

Well, that’s nice, said the aunt, a little shocked.

So you fell asleep, she added slowly, as if trying to gain time in which to understand the situation.

You probably didn’t go to bed on time.

As a matter of fact, she could not have said what it was she didn’t understand, but there was something. Mainly she didn’t know what to make of the young man’s unusually dull, unclear intonations, his agitated or forced overtones. While looking out the window to keep an eye on the telephone booth, she again leaned her forehead against the glass. There is a train from Berlin almost every hour. If he had fallen asleep why hadn’t he called her earlier, and how could he have arrived after such a delay from exactly the opposite direction.

She sensed the confused pulsing of madness in the telephone line. And a few sentences sufficed for some of the madness to stick to her.

She had to protest.

Outside, the bare, shiny branches were flying back and forth; while the windows kept out the noise of the cheerless wintry wind, the telephone line transmitted it. It was like a static that could drive one mad. It’s possible he had fallen asleep, but then he’d fallen asleep somewhere else, he’d arrived from somewhere else and not by train at all; someone must have given him a lift and dropped him off at the corner of Insel Street.

He must have some reason to be vague.

Nothing is inconceivable in the busy life of a young man. Except that her nephew had no busy life, he had no kind of life at all.

This is what made everything so worrisome. It was impossible to understand what had been happening with him, or rather what things had not been happening with him.

Carlino, said the aunt, her voice full of anxiety, before her nephew could reply. I do understand a lot, I do accept almost everything, I’m not curious about anything, but please tell me now from where exactly have you come.

You don’t have to give me a full accounting, but I’m interested, if you don’t mind.

The young man, whose full name was Carl Maria Döhring and whom only his aunt addressed with the Italianized diminutive, was concentrating at the moment only on how to cut short the conversation as quickly as possible. And how not to forget the telephone number he had carved with his nail into the yellow cover of the telephone book, and lo, the carving was visibly, slowly and dangerously fading. In his inattention, he unfortunately misunderstood the question.

He answered, of course Berlin, where else would he be, but he sincerely hoped he’d be able to catch the next train.

The next train, asked the nonplussed aunt, who in her surprise let out a shout, what next train, which the young man interpreted at the other end of the line as his aunt’s being familiar with the railway’s entire departure timetable, and he realized the deception was out of the bag.

Provided, he said quickly, hoping to fight his way out of the entanglement, that we immediately put an end to this conversation.

He’d called only to ask her indulgence.

He’d really like to catch the next train, he must run.

He won’t be able to stop by at her place, but the moment he gets home in Pfeilen, he’ll call her.

He hopes to find a way to meet somehow during the holidays.

The aunt replied quietly and solemnly, that he knew perfectly well she would be spending the holidays in Paris, but she was willing to wait patiently and see how her nephew’s comedy would play out. Then, as if she herself had said something very funny, with her mouth open wide she laughed into the telephone. She wanted him to know she was on to him, she knew what was at the bottom of it: a woman. She knew how to laugh with gusto. But unguarded laughter created complete confusion between them. Carlino did not understand what his aunt did not understand, or what more he should tell her to make her understand and accept what she hadn’t yet, not to mention that her saucy laughter irritated and offended him, hitting him at one of his most sensitive points.

He had nobody. He has never had anybody. He has never even been close to having anybody, ever.

But the aunt could not comprehend why her nephew stuck to this impossibility, why he needed to; and if he is already here in the Hofgarten, what does it matter what woman he’s involved with, why does he have to go on lying, why all the fuss.

She did not understand any of it, but of course, she was the more indulgent one.

Carlino, my dear, there are so many things in heaven and on earth that I should understand, and honestly I do try, she shouted softly, still laughing a bit, but if I understand correctly, she continued haltingly, then pouncing on him with all the power of her voice, you are in two places at the same time.

What two places, what do you mean, Döhring asked irritably, and it seemed to his aunt that, judging by his voice, he really did not understand her. I don’t understand you, he said, I have to get going right away.

That’s great, the aunt answered, and she no longer saw any further reason to restrain her voice. While you are making a phone call from a booth under my window, you are also going to catch your train in Berlin.

Very interesting indeed.

What a numbskull you are. You think it’s that easy to fool your aunt.

But to her stentorian good mood she received a quick and determined reply she’d never have expected.

Because Döhring finally realized how carelessly he had been behaving. Which meant that once again he was the weaker one, the loser, the dolt who could never gain the upper hand with anyone. And he began to shout so desperately at the other end of the line, bellowing, really, that his aunt yanked her forehead back from the windowpane and the receiver away from her ear.

He shouted that if she really wanted to know what had happened then he would tell it to her now, no problem. Yesterday he killed somebody.

Yes, he thought to himself at the same time, I lent a hand to my Creator in his daily devastation. He regretted that he did not dare say this aloud.

He found it delightful that here he was, standing in the telephone booth while outside the wind was blowing furiously, and shouting across the world at least one third of his confession that could be made public.

Of course he’d denied it, he yelled, because he thought he’d get away with it. But he wouldn’t, because he didn’t want to get away with it.

One can’t get away with everything.

He was horrified at this sentence, and he shuddered, though not as he had the day before; not his bones, not his flesh, but the roots of his hair, his hair follicles, the entire surface of his skin very finely turned into a field of goose bumps.

He’d never try to get away with it. Yes, exactly, he was going back to Berlin. He’d retract his first confession. And he’d shit on the Christmas holidays. He wouldn’t wait that long. And it wasn’t only that his skin was shivering, but the shivering itself, both fear and pleasure, had done something profound to him.