Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

They looked at the third woman, without having to be ashamed of anything.

The glass wall of their hostess’s big living room was kept wide open from spring to fall.

Surrendering to the splendid view, every evening they would stroll out on the terrace for some fresh air and to exchange a few confidential words. Now, however, they paid no attention to the city, which with its glittering lamps and bridges barely registered on their absentmindedly contemplative countenances. Southward, one could see all the way to Gellért Mountain; to the north, though, past the island sunk in darkness, the bleak shadow of the Árpád Bridge was hovering above the river, shining metallically with the reflection of arc lights, and beyond that was nocturnal wilderness. The lowlands of Fót, where artillery fires had first flared in December 1944 and seemed so close that people hadn’t known whether to be hopeful or fearful. They were talking quietly into the space before them, cutting into each other’s monologue with unguarded words and sweet, almost dutiful smiles; their gaze roamed over the ridges of the Buda hills, resting occasionally on the range’s distant peaks blending softly into one another.

There, in the west, where later the front moved on, something of the twilight red was still shining, making the mass of mountains glimmer in dark blue; their eyes were drawn to the meeting of light and darkness.

The noisy little tugboat, towing at least six linked and fully loaded barges upstream, had just reached the pillars of the Margit Bridge, and there, between the pillars, the engine noise was so compacted and amplified that involuntarily the two women raised their voices.

A truly brilliant idea, Mária, continued the woman in the silk dress, almost shouting, but I think we should wait for Irma. We could invent a little holiday for her. Let’s say the festival of lemon blossoms or something like that.

The card table waited for them at the open terrace door; around it, four hard-backed and probably not very comfortable chairs, to the side a tea trolley on which Mária Szapáry put a pastry tray as she raised her eyes, surprised and mistrustful, to the two women on the terrace.

The faience clinked on the glass surface.

Is something wrong, she asked. You probably came with bad news again, didn’t you.

The two women on the terrace exchanged glances, losing their smiles. They had no secrets from each other, and if they did they couldn’t keep them. But with Mária Szapáry they had to communicate differently.

No, nothing at all. There’s nothing wrong, nothing whatsoever, replied the woman in the silk dress, her voice rather colorless. We were just mulling over something that has to do with Irma, actually.

I don’t really know what to do, added the other woman, who, because of strong French cigarettes or perhaps naturally, had a slightly rasping voice but a most contagious smile.

The breeze coming off the river caught the tiny funnels of the freshly watered white and mauve petunias hanging in abundance from the terrace railing and gently wafted the sweet fragrance into the spacious, almost empty apartment. Mária Szapáry would be put out if her friends spoiled her good mood. The summer evening was too lovely.

The fragrance of the petunias did not overwhelm the stench of carrion that, try as she might, she could not but imagine smelling. Neither could she pretend she did not sense the tension in the other women.

I’d be grateful if you shared it with me, she said, slightly irritated at her own politeness, as if declaring right off that maybe they shouldn’t and please don’t expect any advice from me, she couldn’t offer advice about anything, anyway. She wore wide, gray linen trousers that seemed rather tight across her belly, and white, yellow-soled, down-at-heel linen shoes. Her white blouse, with long sleeves rolled up to her elbows, looked more like a well-worn man’s shirt. In her nonchalant appearance, there was something quite masculine, strong and free, or, at least by common conventional standards, something blatantly not feminine. As if nothing compulsory in her wider surroundings had ever affected her. She took a step toward the other two. Never a piece of jewelry on her, never any makeup. They weren’t to think she wanted to stick her nose into things. She had two quick and characteristic movements for fixing her heavily graying short-cropped hair, parted in the middle: constantly brushing it off her forehead, and tucking it behind her ears to keep it from falling forward, which it always did, immediately. Perhaps this was her only visibly compulsive habit.

She wouldn’t want to know more than required by common courtesy.

If the name Erna Demén means anything to you, said the woman of festive appearance and contagious smile with her deep, rasping voice. The belt on her surprisingly slim waist was fiery red; her name was Margit Huber, though among themselves the women called her Médi.

Oh but it does, cried Mária Szapáry, surprised. If we are speaking of the same secondhand junk dealer.

Your memory is rather selective as to her human qualities, noted the woman in the silk dress, who, though no shorter than the other two, was ethereal, slight, delicate, all nervous tendons and fine long muscles.

They all laughed.

Sometimes one is too vulnerable out of self-interest, en fait , came Szapáry’s contrite reply.

Supposedly, Irma as a little girl was often their guest. In their manor house in Jászhanta or some such place.

Yes, the Deméns did have a place like that as far as I know, Szapáry replied wryly.

But your family had no contact with them.

There was a brief silence. This your family was a topic that they, for lack of a shared background, could not touch. Or rather, that caused certain difficulties, created unspoken tensions among them.

I don’t think there was an opportunity, replied Szapáry in a tone that forbade more inquiry.

Irmuska would stay with them only a few days, added Margit Huber quickly, to take the edge off the embarrassment.

The question was indeed improper; how could they have had any contact with a Jewish landowner.

At least that was Erna’s story, that they really knew each other. Still, Margit Huber did not want to force the issue.

You must have been puzzled by such an unexpected telephone call, interjected the woman in the silk dress, hoping to clarify the situation. She’d quickly seen that their hostess was furious.

Her transparently blue eyes grew dark, she strained her thick neck, on her aggressively white skin red splotches appeared.

For god’s sake, what on earth are we talking about anyway, she thundered. I don’t understand anything, and now she blushed from her neck to her forehead. I have the feeling you’re being incoherent on purpose.

What we’re talking about is that Erna had a daughter who was taken away in October 1944, said the friend with the rasping voice in the softest possible tone. I guess during the same days when they took you away too. And the girl never turned up.

I see. I didn’t know about that, forgive me. I seem to remember she had a son in Switzerland.

The clattering and puffing of the tugboat on the river could be heard coming closer and closer.

For a few long seconds she sensed in her eardrums, in her loins, and in her throat that it wasn’t just some clattering and puffing she was hearing, but a steady, unavoidable throbbing. All her self-discipline was inadequate; she could not bear them — these unexpected blows. Just when she thought it was going to be a nice summer evening. In truth, she was surrounded and could resist no longer, she’d be swallowed up for good. This insane throbbing was nothing but a new yet long-familiar warning.

She was a first-year student at the faculty of arts, had her hair in braids, wore knee socks, continued Margit Huber, her raspy voice easily rising over the dreadful din of the tugboat, as if only she, with her smile, could trek safely across this difficult terrain.