Parallel Stories: A Novel (145 page)

I sincerely hope, she said very quietly, that you are not being so charming and amiable because I have offended you in some way.

On the contrary, replied the man, no less quietly, I am always happy whenever I can reciprocate your attentiveness with something.

You must have acquired your manners in the Battle of Voronezh.
*

I’d have readily acquired them at the Sorbonne if I’d known I’d be in the company of such illustrious types.

I enjoy the company of a tippler.

But I can’t abide your social class.

You don’t mean that seriously, do you now.

They looked into each other’s eyes and I can’t say they didn’t enjoy it a bit. Two obstinate foreheads, two fighting profiles, two magnificent manes of hair, two individual self-hatreds; even I enjoyed seeing their wildness.

Then would you mind telling me, my darling, what happened, what’s wrong, my one and only love, what’s wrong, what’s wrong, repeated the woman with increasing rudeness, ever more harshly and loudly, as if she had truly had enough, as if she’d go mad if she couldn’t redeem herself with hysteria.

Yet she quickly managed to reverse her ominous tone. I really didn’t mean to make fun of you, she then said very quietly. I’d like you to calm down a little. That’s all I want.

You haven’t answered my question.

I did close the door properly, though, didn’t I.

Most laudable.

I am one hell of a girl.

And you really think that everything’s all right now, don’t you.

I don’t know what else I could do to further our progress, the woman replied with a raw grin.

That I’ll forget it, that’s what you hope—that I’ll forget and forgive everything.

You’ve nothing to forget, my darling, my one and only, and you’ve nothing to forgive.

They looked at each other for a long time, as if they were playing on some peculiar instrument: two human heads bewitched by each other, two proud human heads. What emanated and radiated from the posture of their heads was that no matter what they might do for or against each other, they’d never run out of artistic ideas. Now it was the man’s turn to give in first, because her raw grin seemed to have stuck to him, no matter how hard he tried to defend himself against it by struggling for quite a time to put on a serious expression. Laughter probably helped the man accept his new defeat. Like two mischievous children at the successful completion of a prank, they burst simultaneously into brief, quiet laughter. Laughing must have helped the man through this latest defeat. It was painful to hear the two merry voices together. It was as though they were saying, we did this really well, but our shared success means that striving for happiness is more important than truth or justice. And then it was the man again who lost, with his search for truth, and the woman who won, with her search for happiness. Their attraction was much too strong; I could not resist it. I felt the man’s defeat in my cock stuck in my underpants, shriveled with fear yet moist with desire. And the woman gently leaned toward the man and was about to kiss him on the mouth, right in front of my nose. I had no idea what to do on that very hard backseat designed for luggage.

She barely touched him and quickly recoiled, alarmed; I could see the genuine shock on her face.

You’ve had a drink, she cried out desperately, like a child, which meant the man had broken his promise again.

I had one vodka, true. I couldn’t help it.

I can feel that you had more than one.

Even to please you, I can’t admit to more than one.

In that case, please be kind enough to take me home.

And I should go by myself.

By yourself or with anybody. Wherever you want to, however you want to.

After the latest squabble, their silence turned hopelessly dark and ominous. A moment ago, despite all my humiliation and resistance, they had captured my curiosity, but this skirmish unsettled me. For what they were doing to each other now needed no witnesses; my observing them was no longer explainable or endurable. This did not occur to me as a moral question; it simply hit me in my stomach, in my guts. One never knows what sort of life to wish for, because one would have to wish for several different kinds at once, to weigh the possibilities, but surely one wouldn’t wish for this kind. I worried that in my fright I’d have to fart.

I felt the moment had come; I couldn’t keep the results of my prolonged anxiety in check.

I began to speak, quietly and cautiously, calling the woman by her first name for the first time, and to emphasize what I was about to say I leaned closer to her and with both hands grasped the back of her seat near her shoulders. I took great care not to let my fingers touch her coat.

The man eyed me hostilely in the rearview mirror.

I think my presence is really unnecessary, I said, and told her that with her permission I’d like to get out.

As if she had waited for my voice, she turned around—but not just with her head, with her entire torso—and her shoulder pressed my fingers into the upholstery. And I was just going to turn to the man to take my leave. If the situation turned out like this, there was no reason to reverse it or pretend it wasn’t the way it was. But with her shoulders and her back, the woman bound me to herself, I became bound to her, and it wouldn’t have occurred to me to free myself from her. This was nothing more or less than what happens when one fits the right plug in the right outlet and the current flows and the bulb lights up. She had to feel how excited and tense my body was. Through her coat, I sensed there was no reason to be nervous, because her calm or security would not be upset even by momentary despair. And for the next decade I would light up, would emit light, only for her. That’s it, the matter was taken care of. An enormous keel of confidence, tranquillity, and security steadied her, and other kinds of emotion or feeling could only scratch its surface, they could not disturb it.

The darkness we sat in glimmered, because light from the streetlamp outside was diffused by slowly accumulating drops of a fine rain that rolled quickly downward on the windows; the dark depths of the car were pervaded by the smell of stale tobacco, wet hair, coats, animal hide, and perfume, and now I could detect the reek of booze.

The man’s black hair emanated its fragrance differently from that of the woman’s blond mane.

For me, at that moment, everything had an elemental force, a perspective, height, depth, light, shadow, and of course an impalpable dark side. Be it a sight or a feeling, elemental forces were pitted against one another and, so that they would not be noticed in their naked forms, the words said one thing and the gestures said something else. Otherwise, they’d have knocked me out or carried me away completely. Although everything was interlaced with helplessness—the dominant feelings of the times, saturating and pervading everything, were total hopelessness, fear, disappointment, regret, exasperation, apathy, and tension—this state of affairs inevitably clashed with the confidence that comes from being alive; one’s own breathing offered assurance and hope for the next few moments and also, and above all, energy to endure many things or at least to throw a bridge over them. Even while making that remark about intending to leave, I knew I could never extricate myself from this affair. But I’d known that before, known it well in advance. She could see me better now, and I was afraid that her husband could too, though I hadn’t the vaguest idea with what and how I had revealed my shock. At any rate, the light of the streetlamp fell on my face and left theirs in the dark, but there were two unmistakable flashes in the woman’s eyes with which she meant to reassure me. As if with one flash she was saying, the problem is pretty big but this time I can handle him, and with the other, referring to my hysterical fear, she was peremptorily blocking my desire to escape: stay, help me.

Yet this was not what she said aloud, or rather, she arranged her words according to the rules of propriety.

She said, go ahead, go, she saw no problem, and while I hadn’t recovered because I was still trying to understand how I could be of help to her, she reached over for the door handle, the door was already open a little, ready to step out and fold down the front seat and let me out.

I still wonder what would have happened if the scene had ended there.

If it had, I’d probably never have gone back to the store and my life would have turned out very differently. My hysterical fear would have overcome me and I’d have met something entirely different. I would surely have met somebody on Margit Island who would not have been a woman. But I’ve no way of knowing that. Maybe I’d have found the wonderful giant again, whom I could never forget anyway. But the scene could not end that way: the man started the car—it all happened so fast—and in an instant the old motor moaned and bellowed, all revved up, and Klára managed to yank the door shut.

Puddles spurted under us, the wet roadway sizzled, on the empty road we barreled into the darkness at an insane speed.

And from then on none of us spoke.

Well, there’s nothing I can do about it; if he wants to drive while he’s drunk, let him. I threw myself back on the stiff leather seat meant for luggage and did not give a damn. Wheels screeching, we turned sharply from Nagymez
ő
Street into Andrássy Street. Maybe this man is not only drunk but also crazy; in a little while, I caught myself enjoying his craziness. I caught myself not only holding on but also letting my fingers go exploring, patting, and stroking, and these movements were involuntary and revealing. As if I were taking possession of something that belonged to them. I wanted some hide, some skin, while thinking again about the giant. I am touching and feeling this finely made black leather seat, stroking the decorative, richly grained, brown stripes of nacreous luster that, at the height of the backrests, tauten the vertically cushioned, ribbed, gray upholstery. As if I were discovering only now that in the interior of this old rattletrap everything was flawless, comfortable, and luxurious. This flawlessness went well with the woman but not with the man. I enjoyed the speed, their obstinate necks, their craziness, my own madness, I enjoyed the streetlights flitting by so regularly, I enjoyed having no idea what would happen to me or what I could do with my unstoppable thoughts. I enjoyed the little freedom I had gained from them, enjoyed having left my usual life so far behind that all questions seemed to reach me from a great distance. I gave myself over to the mad rush—from today’s perspective it probably wasn’t all that fast—which seemed to squeeze my soul.

He must have seen from far off that in front of the Savoy Café, around an open assault vehicle, policemen were cooling their heels and smoking; still, he didn’t slow down. The Savoy was empty that evening, as was the Abbázia across the street. White tables had been set for guests in the empty light. In fact, the entire dark city, paralyzed by the emergency situation, was empty, though filled with news and rumors; everyone preferred to stay quietly at home. Jostling and rattling, driving parallel to the streetcar tracks at full speed, we crossed the boulevard, decorated with drenched flags. For some reason, the police decided not to pursue us. I didn’t dare look back because I couldn’t imagine what would happen if they decided to chase us. It was a good, warm feeling, dictated by a groundless sense of confidence that even the possibility of a chase would not faze me; let them come after us. But they didn’t. In a few moments the car pleasantly warmed up and the rain-beaten windows became a little hazy. It occurred to me that the police might have thought Simon was one of them because of his leather coat, or that he behaved so fearlessly because he was a police officer. Regular cops did not wear such fine leather coats. The wet bare branches of the plane trees hovered above us in the gusting wind and rushed above us on Andrássy Street, a straight, wide boulevard with two tree-lined promenades that divide the broad roadway into three double-lane strips.

Not a vehicle, not a pedestrian anywhere.

The glimmering cobblestones on the tree-lined street rushed darkly under us. Just before the Körönd rotary I involuntarily yelled, watch out, dog, because a rather large black animal, attracted by the approaching car, was loping toward us from the outer sidewalk. Its surprised master, yelling and gesticulating, was running uselessly after it. The dog galloped at a right angle from him and then was off the sidewalk, across the road, back on the promenade, as if it were planning to hurl himself at us from the flower beds. For some reason it thought better of this, and, with muscles tense and mug thrust forward, it merely barked at the car from among the trees.

But it was not the same dog.

And it did not slow us down. Simon wasn’t driving as if, defying danger or at least taking it into account, he felt free. I’d say, rather, that he was ready for any collision, at whatever cost, and the explanation for his resolve was not to be found in either freedom or servitude. He grasped the wheel tightly, his arm stiffly spread. Nothing had an explanation, really. I certainly had no explanation for why I felt good at last in this anarchy or chaos opening up for me. I was a little embarrassed about my shouting. As if I still had something to lose.

But I preferred that nothing should be the way I’d have wanted it; let everything be the way it happens to be.

Klára’s body did not respond.

True, nobody asked her anything; events as well as the persons participating in them became independent. Ultimately, I gave myself over to the feeling Simon had claimed to himself: I surrendered myself to the mad chase, which covered over all my confused or nice feelings or any other kind of feeling, and which did not even let me know what we were chasing.

Originally, to all indications, he’d planned to drive to H
ő
sök Square, at the end of Andrássy Street.

We’d barely left the infuriated dog behind us when from the Körönd we could see that we might not easily get through what was waiting for us. From afar, it seemed like an inexplicable apparition: somewhere, near or in line with Bajza Street, between the sidewalks lined with gigantic trees, two dark masses were blocking our way; between them lay only a narrow, brilliantly illuminated passage. At first glance, I couldn’t figure out what it was. We could see only a glowing mass of light between two dark masses.