A Book of Memories (61 page)

Of course, later they continued where they had left off, but for the moment Father, as if really in the midst of some frivolous chitchat, said yes, of course, he'd wash up promptly, he was on his way, and this was a kind of warning to Mother, whose face turned even more deeply red, but she readily reached for her robe, if only to turn away so she could hide her face, trembling with rage; she said she'd have to change, she wouldn't want to come to the table in her robe, she'd hurry, it would only take a minute; and the nervous twitch of embarrassment on János's face quickly dissolved into a smile, as if by this rapid change he was protecting what had to be kept secret; this was habit, too, the conspiratorial smile matching most precisely the genuine joy, expressed with phony exaggeration, which Grandmother had beamed at him; in their own way both smiles were perfect, since by hiding their feelings both Grandmother and János managed to produce real emotions.

He wouldn't describe himself as happy, exactly; János grinned, and reciprocated Grandmother's touch by touching her arm, but he was glad to be here, of course, though he couldn't quite comprehend just what was happening to him; Grandmother's face assumed a properly sympathetic expression: your poor, poor mother, she said with real emotion, her eyes welling up; there was a real kinship between them now, producing, most likely, the same emotional cliché, namely how sad it was that his mother couldn't have lived to see this day, but the cliché was effective enough, and because they were looking for a possible common ground, the sigh, the pitying intonation, the misty eyes harked back to the first time they had broached the subject, soon after János's arrival; this, then, was the closing of the subject, its quiet and heartfelt burial; Grandmother composed herself and gently, consolingly, as if embracing his dead mother as well, took János's arm.

I did not move; nobody was paying any attention to me anyway; Father disappeared and Mother went to change.

Ern
ő
must be beside himself with excitement, Grandmother said with a laugh, he's so anxious to see you.

And they started for the dining room.

János, who adopted this convivial, conversational tone easily, was somewhat embarrassed about his oversight and asked a little too eagerly, How is Ern
ő
? which made his voice ring false.

How clearly the mind can see now what back then was absorbed by the eyes as gestures, by the ears as sounds and stresses, and by memory, who knows for what reason
—all stored aw
ay.

Hearing this stray tone in János's voice, Grandmother suddenly stopped before the dining-room door, as if she had to tell him something important before going in, withdrew her arm from his, turned to face him, and with eyes slightly dim with age looked up at him; all the brilliance she had forced on her eyes moments before was gone, replaced by sadness, fatigue, anxiety, and still she wouldn't say what she really wanted; she changed direction, pretended to be distracted, and grasped János's lapel, which she tugged with the apparent embarrassment of a young girl; this seemed like something serious again but was only a further hiding of something inexpressibly real.

Just when János felt that his features were safely under control, when he thought he'd found the only (properly false) voice to suit the situation, the discipline of his face broke down, nearly fell apart, and all the suppressed excitement, not of this moment but of the earlier moments, rose to the surface, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes began to twitch and vibrate, and he seemed to be dreading what Grandmother might have wanted to say but wouldn't, although he knew what it might be.

You know, Grandmother then said very slowly, almost whispering so no one else would hear, he's been a very active man all his life
—she pronounced the word as
actif
—he could never stay put, and now this whole thing—I don't know much about politics, and I don't want to say anything—but this thing has also destroyed him, this helplessness! and your tragedy caused him much suffering, too, I know, although he never talks of it, or of anything else, he just keeps to himself, not saying anything, and that's how he lives his life from one attack to the next, he's driven everybody away, doesn't talk to anybody; Grandmother's whispering grew ever more passionate, and signs of her own deep hurt began to appear on her face, for she really wanted to talk about her own grievances; that man couldn't be helped anymore, he didn't want anyone's pity.

János stroked Grandmother's hair, not as if he was comforting a silly old woman, but as a bashful, faltering attempt to reach out.

Grandmother laughed again, wanting to elude the true meaning of János's gesture; So that's how things are, she said, come on, she added, and opened the door.

But she opened it only for him, she didn't go in; she and I watched this meeting through the open door.

And he most certainly needed all his presence of mind to accept as natural the sight that was waiting for him, which caught him unprepared.

One can bear life's vicissitudes only because our reflexes do for us what should be done with one's whole being, which in turn gives the impression that the body is not quite present when it is indeed present, and that's how our feelings protect us from our own feelings.

It was clearly visible on his back, his protruding shoulder blades, and his neck reduced to skin and sinews, that it wasn't he, János, who stepped into the room, because he was shocked and rooted to the spot; it was his humane duty that borrowed his legs and brought his body into the room.

In the dining room, the chandelier glowed brightly above the long, elaborately set, festive table, and my grandfather was standing behind his chair, feeling ill but fighting it, grasping hard the back of the chair, not even looking up, his gaze somewhere between the cream-colored china, the silver flatware, and the crystal glasses, but in fact he was listening to his own breathing, seemed almost to be looking at his breaths; his fragile face was dark, and above the two deep hollows of his temples, high on his arched forehead, whose sternness was relieved by the smoothed-down waves of his feather-light white hair, two thick blue veins protruded; he had to pay attention to every single breath, how to inhale and exhale, making sure it all went smoothly, not to let choppy breathing slip into an uncontrollable attack; he was an ancient but still beautiful man; at the other end of the table, my little sister sat on her chair on a stack of pillows, all dressed up in a smart blue outfit with a round collar, her hair neatly combed; deeply engrossed, and totally undisturbed by the opening door or the approaching stranger, she kicked the table with evenly paced kicks and banged her little tin plate with her spoon; naturally her mouth was open.

Grandfather slowly peered out from behind his glasses, he hadn't lifted his head yet, his gaze did not want to reveal more than what he was feeling, but that was so much, and so true, that what he could say with words would be much less, and so he couldn't really lift his head, but the artificially prolonged whistling of his breathing began to subside, his face grew even darker, his forehead turned whiter; he had things under control.

And with his glance he immediately perceived unease in his guest's eyes; he didn't smile but remained serious, and yet something appeared on the surface of his eyes that we might call cheerfulness, and with this cheerfulness he was helping along János's eyes.

Somewhat playfully, tilting his head sideways, he threw a glance at my little sister as if to say to János, You see, that's how she is, and I'm standing here, making sure she's allowed to bang on that plate to her heart's content; yes, that's what he seemed to be saying, giving János a chance to take a good look at her so he wouldn't have to pretend not to notice what he couldn't help noticing.

Then their eyes met again, and while my little sister continued banging on her plate with her spoon, they slowly began to walk toward each other; they grasped each other's hands, two old hands holding two mature hands over the head of an idiot child; and then I could see János's face again, which had returned to its former look; the two men held each other.

I thought a lot about you, Ern
ő
, said János after a long silence.

If that's true, Grandfather said, then there was nothing more János could possibly tell him.

He had no choice, János said; besides, he had plenty of time to think.

As for himself, Grandfather said, he'd been preparing for eternity; he didn't think, didn't hope, that it would be over one day, or at least that he would live to see it, though he should have known.

Known what? János asked.

Grandfather shook his head, didn't want to say, and then, as if the thing they had meant to cover up
—not for fear or shame, just wanted to—erupted from them, they fell on each other and stood for a long time hugging.

When they separated, my sister stopped her banging and watched the two men, her mouth wide-open; a small sound issued from her, not clearly of fear or happiness; behind me, Grandmother sighed and hurried back to the kitchen.

And they just stood there helplessly, their arms dangling at their sides.

He'd begun to understand a lot of things, János said, so many things that he'd almost become a liberal, would you believe that, Ern
ő
?

What d'you know! Grandfather said.

Can you imagine that?

Then maybe you should run for office in the next election.

And one pair of hands again grabbed the other pair, and the two men literally laughed in each other's face, coarsely, loudly, knocking against each other in their drunken laughter, and then the laughter suddenly drowned in silence, which must have never left them, not even during their laughter, which had been there all along, biding its time.

I was still standing in the door, unable to tear myself away or to follow the events with my body and make it enter the room; I suppose this is the state we describe as being beside oneself; I had to turn away; I saw my little sister, still clutching her spoon, with her big head tilted, who was staring at the men; now with little giggles and a grin, now with drooping lips and whimpering sounds on the verge of sobbing, she also seemed to be experimenting, trying to decide what would best suit this unusual occasion; she could experience any emotion now, most likely experienced a great many, could perceive the situation as friendly, just as easily feel it to be hostile, and because she was not choosing between fine shades of emotion and was perhaps terrified by the impossibility of choosing, she began a dreadful bawling.

Which anyone who had never lived in close proximity to a mentally defective child might have considered the capricious creation of chance.

Later, it was Father who had to push me to the table; I was so paralyzed by my sister's bawling I couldn't make it there on my own; I remember using the excuse that I wasn't hungry.

Grandmother came in with a steaming soup tureen.

As precisely as my memory has preserved the events leading up to this meal, it has buried just as deeply those that followed it; I know, of course, that memory mercilessly retains everything and I do admit my weakness: some things I don't want to remember.

Like how Mother's face slowly turned yellow, a very dark yellow, I could actually see it happening, but she kept pretending there was nothing wrong, and that's why I didn't dare say anything to her or to anyone else.

Or what happened earlier, when she came in wearing her navy-blue skirt, a white shirt, showing off her long, pretty legs in high-heeled lizard shoes which she saved for the most special occasions; as she hurried over to my little sister, I saw a colorful silk scarf tucked under the wide-open collar of her blouse; I hadn't seen her dressed for months, and that scarf showed just how much weight she had lost, she looked as if she had been put into the clothes by accident and the scarf was supposed to hide the weight loss; when my little sister behaved like that, it was best not to touch her, so Mother crouched down next to her and made a bunny rabbit from the napkin.

And the way János was watching all this.

And how Father yelled, Get her out of here!

And how, as she was dragged out, the silence of the three men remained behind, and how her screams faded away.

And the feeling during the hours that followed, that somebody had to be silenced, and the silence, and the voracious eating.

And how the end was so long in coming; the thing was not going to end, kept lasting, there was still more of it no matter how much everyone tried to eat it off their plates; and how everything that occurred to any of them as a solution or possible evasion, everything was part of the end that wouldn't come.

And then they shut themselves in another room, and only random words and stifled cries could be heard; but I didn't want to draw any conclusion from these scattered words; the message, to me, was the same.

And it must have been late at night when I took the screwdriver, I didn't turn on the light and didn't even close the door behind me
—there was no point in being cautious anymore, and in fact I didn't much care what I was doing—inserted the screwdriver between the desktop and the drawer, raised the top, the lock snapped open, and just as I was taking the money out of the drawer Grandfather walked across the dark room.

He asked me what I was doing.

Nothing, I said.

What did I need the money for? he asked.

No reason, I said.

He stood there for a while longer, then very quietly told me not to be afraid, they were just straightening things out among themselves. And then he left the room.

His voice was calm and serious, and this voice, as if coming from a different source, this reasoning of his, coming from such a different way of thinking, exposed, showed up for what it was, what I'd intended to do; for a long time I stood in the dark room, thus exposed to myself; Grandfather wrecked my plan, yet also put me at ease a little; the money, two hundred forints, I put in my pocket anyway.

I left the drawer open, with the screwdriver on top of the desk.