Parallel Stories: A Novel (120 page)

She desperately envied them for their always different lives, none of which would ever be hers.

Not to turn around or look back.

At first he only quickened his steps, trying not to limp so much, but the dog’s tapping feet followed him even faster.

He did not want to take the starving cur under his wing now that he was so defenseless himself.

Only not to turn around.

Then, as if hit by lightning, her brain was shot through with an electric discharge.

Whereupon her hearing seemed to open onto her voice, and the voice, small and miserable because of all the secret crying and infinite joy of having possessed that beautiful man, now breaks free, is liberated, and this time she is the one chaining someone to herself. Who is not right for her. Although she had been with a man like that before, this is not the first time she has done it with them, Jews. If he is a Jew—he says he isn’t. And she felt the joy because of this incredible exhaustion too, and her elemental fear of him, being so exhausted because of her. All right, let him be half a Jew, what do I care, it’s all the same to me. Anyone can wear you out in three days, that’s for sure. Why should I be scared of things that are good for me. Because of him, she won’t be able to go to work today, yes, because of him. And she trembled because of her constant anxiety about having the money to pay Médike. I should be ashamed of what he did to me, ashamed that with me anybody can do anything; he can make my knees shake and my soul tremble at the same time. My head will explode, because I’m such a miserable creature, God put me down at the wrong place, Providence slipped me into the wrong body and there isn’t a person in the world who can help me.

Everybody gets my goat and I have to be afraid of women too.

Yet she had never before experienced such profound sexual contentment with a man.

It was more than ever before; simultaneously, she moved with him in various deep layers and on high plateaus, simultaneously.

Well, goddamn it, it’s not all the same to me.

It was new and shocking, just thinking about it was enough to make her brain cells come, but she was just as enthusiastic about that old saying she had heard in Tiszavészt
ő
, that humans are mortal and licentious. She must have picked it up during a Bible lesson, or maybe it was from a familiar psalm, but which one.

Then it must be something by Bach. She vainly searched her mind for the fucking psalm. So she could quietly console herself with it in the endless city night.

Which made her realize for the first time in her life—she in fact saw—what a wide ditch yawned between physical and mental gratification.

If this was so, then all these years she’d been getting fucked in vain.

Only for things to be a little better.

I’ve been getting myself screwed for nothing; with their puny cocks, these wretches could give neither of those gratifications. If they had the cock for it, they lacked the necessary rhythm. What’s to be done if, in her case, one ability does not exist without the other. They can reach neither her body nor her soul. They could never get it up enough to screw her properly or, who knows what and why, something was always off. They stayed too far away or pushed themselves too close and left her no room to feel, but feel what. Because of her mortality and licentiousness, then, she had thrown away her soul’s opportunities. She’s been wandering soullessly in this earthly existence, but this too is but a psalm.

Because this one too will be only a dumb little technician in her life; they try hard, they pant, they hope to make every effort, which is why they shove, push, chew, and lick so desperately and so fast.

The moment they stop, their things droop; men become miserable because of me.

With his beautiful body, he works very nicely for me though he’s completely soulless toward me, as I am to him. I don’t love him, that’s the truth, I just needed to chalk up one of these well-educated men. She saw her fate before her; the terrible ditch opened up like this, like a wound. To this day, she knew exactly where the ditch ran between the reapers. Only the big boys could jump across it, in the spring, when the ice began to melt and the ditch filled with water. She couldn’t jump across it, but she thought nothing of getting into a fight with them. You weren’t careful with your clothes, were you, you snot-nose, you little shit, you useless thing, you, who will buy you clothes now, you barren creature. From the very beginning she had to give up things because she not only had been born a girl but was a foundling. Children can jump that far only if they get their milk every morning and without the sweet cream taken off the top beforehand, and if they also get potato noodles. She understood that the Bizsók boys had to have the cream so that their noodles would grow better, but who decided that she shouldn’t be a boy but a foundling, this she did not understand. Mrs. Bizsók made the decision. She understood that girls did not have to grow as much as boys because girls didn’t have noodles between their legs. Mrs. Bizsók beat her soundly when she got her dress wet in the ditch. She’d done something wrong, spoiled something again. But Mrs. Bizsók always had some cream, so why didn’t she have one between her legs, and why wasn’t she more understanding toward her. You knew I forbade you to jump across, but you went ahead and tried just the same. I always ruin things because I don’t understand what I have to give up. A foundling should behave herself, lie low. You can’t have anything to demand of us, not even before the law, little girl. And a female child should be especially obedient. You should be glad I’m teaching you, you useless thing, you. Who will slap your face, you little shit, or spank your butt if not your foster mother. And she always talks back to me, this state orphan here.

She barely sticks out of the ground and she’s already working her jaw.

We barely get anything to raise you on, you hear me.

A father only has to beat his son, can’t your tiny little brain remember even this much. You’d like your foster father slapping your ass, wouldn’t you.

I’d let him have it for that, I would.

She’d like that, yes, she would.

It’s always her impatience and her demands that ruin her life. She’ll fuck things up with this lovely, ravishing man too, just as she fucked it up with the old Jew, which is why she hasn’t inherited anything, but what the hell am I talking about, I can’t believe the things my mind can dredge up. At least his feet don’t stink. You’re safe with these people, you can even lick their asses. He not only shits but properly washes it for himself. And he also knows what is where in the other person’s body, he knows what he’s supposed to lick patiently, for a long time, oh, so delicious, what to keep softly sucking or what to stab with just the right force.

And if she loses him, it would be just as it was with Bizsók. Or with Médike, from whom she could really learn, finally, where to look for what in her own system.

Her dumb adoration and thirst for revenge scare them away.

She must be on her guard.

This time—because of the hungry hatred she felt for them, her will to take everything and learn everything from them, feel contempt for them, be better than they and better than everybody—the F sharp found its right place.

More correctly, several necessary things found their proper places all at once, and because of that she could at least put the note in its right place. If not her entire life, retroactively and in anticipation. She was busy contemplating her hatred—clearer than daylight—and remembering Médike’s prediction that if and when she ever put the note in its right place she, Gyöngyvér herself, would hear it.

She would feel it as though she had acquired an entirely different system of hearing.

The Holy Spirit or some such thing must have seized her.

You’ll be standing next to yourself, listening to your singing.

To hear what you’ll be hearing then, you won’t need your ears, my dear.

Or perhaps sweet Médike lent her own hearing to her.

A feeling of triumph will be swelling in your body.

In her joy, she felt like pissing on Mrs. Szemz
ő
’s old piano stool.

It was only her dumb urge to pee that put the note in its place. Of course, in this miserable maid’s room, where she could hole up thanks to the generosity of these grand ladies, she’d caught another cold. Sweet Médike would be glad to predict everything for her. Now she can suffer again for weeks with her bladder infection and ovaritis; she’ll be bleeding and then she’ll have to send away even this rotten pretty boy too.

Experiencing the convergence of so many different things enthralled and moved her so much that she propped her arms on the keyboard and then lowered on them her migraine-tortured pretty little head. She continued with her infinite self-pity, lamenting that she had been dealt such a cruel singing teacher who was nevertheless the best voice coach in the city. That she pays fifty-seven forints per hour. Every month she has to give half her salary to this woman; she can’t buy herself a damn thing, every one of her best pieces she has had to charm off somebody. How could she be so hapless, such a shiftless, hopeless case who can’t exploit her own talents, such a useless mortal. Doomed to suck cocks as babies do tits, but without finding a man who at night would give her what’s rightfully hers and love her tenderly.

There is no such man and never will be, but at least she knows where to put this shitty little F sharp.

And not even these people can take this away from her anymore.

In the meantime she’s making ungodly noises with her helpless limbs on the superannuated concert piano.

What makes you think that such a pampered pretty boy would give you yours, of all men, such a Lothario. Don’t hold your breath, the young gentleman looks only for his own pleasure in you.

Why must we women be such dumb whores.

Why should I get him a blanket. Why should I steal a nice warm blanket from Mrs. Szemz
ő
’s closet for him.

Let these pretty boys look to the Almighty of their decrepit old mothers, why don’t they go lick and suck Him.

Oh, my good Lord, I shouldn’t be thinking of Him like this.

I’ll slap your mouth, little girl.

Only don’t turn around; and while he prayed like this, which made him shudder, he began to run. But on the bridge there was no place to run to and running made his injured shin throb terribly.

The moment he stopped to chase away the dog panting at his ankle, to beat him away cruelly, mercilessly, however he could, no stray dog like that should follow him, and to do this he had to turn around, he felt the dog’s feet on his shoulders and a warm wet tongue on his face.

From then on Kristóf wore on his face the stamp, as it were, of the dog’s wide, warm tongue. Although not everyone could see that he constantly rebelled against his own goodness with all his might and wanted to hear nothing about any kind of mercy or compassion.

He staggered, yelled, and shoved the dog off.

In an instant disgust and nausea covered his entire body with spots and pimples, and he swallowed helplessly.

Enchanting, you’ve done it magnificently, my dear Gyöngyvér.
Sie haben es geschafft, geschafft.
I worry only about your impatience and hysterics. But this,
das hätte ich nicht geglaubt, nicht gedacht.
Don’t become overconfident.

And then I fuck it all up again by thinking all these lousy, obscene things about this gorgeous and darling man.

Who doesn’t shit on her.

You’ve done it wonderfully, but let’s look at it a bit closer. Did it happen by chance.

Nobody is going to tell me what to do. Why shouldn’t I be overconfident.

First, I’ll give you a few F sharps, listen, Gyöngyvér, but I want the same thing in the right tempo and with the text.

Áperté
, we’ll see whether you really found it this time.

Shit on you, Médike.

I think you can do it without all that nodding. Don’t keep nodding so much with the text, just sing, sing, damn it.

Don’t open your mouth so wide. Gaping like that won’t help you one bit.

Stimme
, how many times do I have to tell you,
Stimme
.

I don’t want to see you making grimaces.

Let’s take it again from the top.

I really couldn’t care less what you’re saying, I shit on all of you.

I shit on the listless cocks of all those jokers.

I want to hear your voice, my dear, not see your mimicry. Your little-girlish hatefulness doesn’t interest me at all. You can’t conjure voice out of mimicry, and hysterics can’t help you.

Please don’t open your mouth so wide, it’s ugly and unnecessary.

At the memory of this note, Gyöngyvér Mózes pricked up her ears, raised her head, wiped her tears, and listened into the mute night.

Was she hearing the noise of the elevator rising in the glass tube of the stairwell, which echoed the slightest little noise. She heard thuds, the pounding of running feet, booted and coming closer, shouts and then rattling, as when a window is smashed with a rifle butt.

She looked around for a hiding place.

That night of the second day of Christmas when a group of Arrow Cross thugs broke into this building and rousted everybody just as they found them out to the snow-covered street, Mrs. Szemz
ő
and her two sons had been long gone from their apartment. Alajos Madzar had placed very few objects in any given space, and with Mrs. Szemz
ő
he had a very easy time when it came to minimizing the need for objects. He put very simple, etched-glass-covered sconces with matte chromium-plated armatures on the rustically splattered walls. And in that space Gyöngyvér Mózes heard many notes she could not possibly have heard.

Perhaps her heart pounded so loudly in fear.

Somebody was shouting in the stairwell, imploring others that if they knew any kind of god, if you have any soul in you, you would not do this.