Parallel Stories: A Novel (164 page)

Not become paralyzed by the terror of existence.

And then they both ascertained each other’s location. Madzar seemed to have risked more.

If you break the rhythm of your strokes for even a second when swimming upstream, the current will begin to carry you back, and then it is very hard to reclaim your physical independence from the mass of water rising from the depths of the river.

Not only are you afraid, you also begin to feel cold.

When they looked around and acknowledged each other’s position and instantaneously gauged the necessary reference points on the impossibly reddish shore, still retreating, they both knew they had as much ahead of them as the distance they had already covered. Bellardi had always been faster, he was a little closer to the shore but affected more by the current, while Madzar with his stronger, more stubborn strokes remained more or less on the course he had set with his eyes; the current had not deflected him too much.

It must have taken another eight minutes before they reached the shore. And there, in the heavy silt, they had to walk lifting their feet high.

They felt happy when the warm air fully embraced their naked bodies.

There they stood again, basking in the paradisiacal abundance of warmth and gentleness, jumping, hawking, spitting, shaking the water from their ears, wiping their eyes, their bodies shivering foolishly, of which they were ashamed before each other, they were slapping and rubbing themselves, both of them thickly covered with goose bumps, their teeth chattering.

In their momentary condition, they did not seek each other’s closeness.

That is when the last red trace of twilight vanished from the shore, though an orange reflection turning into hues of lilac remained, which made the moon shine more brightly and show its outline more brightly in the blueness.

They looked at each other from a distance, only to see if the other was there, all of him. That’s all they wanted to see; though, a little bit, this was like mutually acknowledging their physical condition that had let them run aground in their mad adventure.

To see if there was still a way back.

The water must have carried them about a kilometer and a half from the tip of Cigányzátony. On foot they would have to cover twice that distance to be back again at their starting point.

But it was better not to think about it.

It would be dark soon. There would be hardly any reference points in the water. And when they happily reached the other shore, they would still have to swim across the river’s smaller channel.

Now, however, they must warm up. They should not jump and run around too much; it was important to preserve energy and keep from cutting their feet on shells.

When their teeth stopped chattering they lay down at a respectable distance from each other. They did warm up a little on the slowly cooling sand, and Madzar even dozed off after a while. He opened his eyes to see Bellardi squatting at his head. The world around them was somewhat cooler and full of stars; he felt the warmth emanating from the other’s body. That he was lying on the sand in the heat emanating from his friend. Stars now penetrated the still-blue sky.

He sat up. Down here, on earth, it was dark enough for them to start out.

For a while though, he observed what this male image of his own soul was looking at.

In truth, already in April I wanted to tell you, Bellardi repeated, his words heavy, that Elisa left me for good, and you’ll be surprised to know that she did it because of Mária Szapáry.

Madzar said not a word; he would not have had the strength to breathe enough air to form the words.

They looked at the moon together, not daring to look into each other’s eyes, at the glowing of its cold outline above the water.

She called me at dawn yesterday to tell me Elisa had had a cerebral hemorrhage. That I should hurry if I still wanted to see her.

Madzar cried out involuntarily, or rather he moaned.

Bellardi had to get up in response to this so the other one would get up too.

Now they looked at each other, also held each other somehow, but their nakedness stopped them. They could not have known what the other one was thinking; no one could ever know. They were standing in the warmth of each other’s skin, and Madzar felt very fortunate, though he tried to talk himself out of this feeling because it was inappropriate just then. The movement begun could not be completed. There was so little chance of completing it that he thought it better to get away from the place.

He thought that regardless of the occasion, regardless of Elisa’s death, touching each other should be repeated at least every ten years, so that his life, despite all the misfortunes, would be a fortunate one. Bellardi, however, thought he should continue what he had started.

And then, as they were, they set off, up on the darkening riverbank.

Neither of them could squeeze out a word.

As Bellardi followed Madzar, who was finding his stride, and could see nothing but the powerful thighs, large buttocks, and stooping back with its slabs of muscles, he felt that, yes, this was when he should continue his story about Elisa. Because of the enormous happiness that was his now, he could no longer keep his secrets locked within himself, the terrible suffering he had to endure in the last months.

Gyöngyvér sat sunk into herself, pale, sucking in her lips, abandoned for long minutes, motionless.

It would have to happen differently because he could not speak. He could not surrender himself to someone who probably knew everything about him. He walked in the footsteps of the beloved being, and that seemed satisfactory for some time. On a summer evening like this, it grows dark very slowly and tactfully. And they had to hurry. They would not have had time for a detailed confession. Neither of them had ever learned from anyone, perhaps they should have learned from each other, how to talk about their feelings. Suffering has no language, and its muteness only deepens it. Later they lost their way in the darkness, for a long time they lost track of each other, they could not find the tip of the island and the water carried them both past it. They each had to swim alone in the night.

Although the moon lit up a riverbank opposite them, it was as though they could no longer be sure which bank was pulling away from them so rapidly. They swam, worked their lungs and muscles, swam on, alone and abandoned, and they did not reach it, did not reach the far shore.

It probably couldn’t have happened otherwise, though it would have been impossible to give up what happened.

Perhaps he should have taken Bellardi into his arms, right there on the riverbank.

Gyöngyvér in the cab could think of nothing else either; she was continuously compelled to think of that one thing, never again.

And if she could think of nothing else, how could she free herself from all the various senses of never-again. Her body filled with all the sensations contained in never-again. There were many kinds of pain, suffering, each according to its kind, and much pleasure, much lightness, and joy.

It would have been impossible to distinguish among them.

And she could not possibly live by his side, in his icy apathy.

Could not live without him.

And, because of her self-respect, she was the one who should initiate their breakup, she must take the first step.

I’ll move out.

They will humiliate her.

If she doesn’t go away, these Lehrs will humiliate her more than anyone ever had, anywhere and at any time. If she doesn’t manage to say tonight, I’m moving out.

It’s over.

If he does it again in front of her, if he dares, and won’t let her close to him.

You must be a pig if you can beat your meat in front of me and not even look at me. But at least I had the chance to see what men do with themselves. Now I know everything about you pigs, you lousy wretches.

Yet she felt there was no humiliation she could not endure. If only she could stay with him.

But he should spurt it on her, spurt his semen on her instead of spluttering his come on the floor, not on the parquet floor, so Ilona could see what the pig had done; how could anybody be such a filthy pig.

Lady Erna watched the young woman silently as they left Moszkva Square behind them.

You’re so quiet, Gyöngyvér, my dear, you look unusually pale, she said in the backseat of the Pobeda, her voice quite loud though she still held herself aloof.

Listen to me, Ágost, Gyöngyvér kept saying to herself, because she wanted to rehearse what she would tell him that evening.

It’s over, I should have known it would be over because of you, but now it really is, everything is over between us.

After what you did to me last night.

And she heard Lady Erna saying something to the effect that she sincerely hoped everything was all right.

Except I might faint, but I wouldn’t say that to you aloud.

Lady Erna has nothing to worry about.

What a lousy, rotten old woman, she thought, as rotten as her little son. What could be all right, what in the fuck could be all right.

But heedlessly she begged Lady Erna’s pardon, she said everything was perfectly all right, she was only ruminating on something.

Ruminating on what, what was she ruminating about, Lady Erna cried with an offensive laugh.

She’d have given anything to know what Gyöngyvér had to ruminate on so thoroughly.

Luckily the other person can’t know it.

Aunt Nínó should not worry about her.

Well, she has enough to worry about Ágost. Who keeps disappearing. That’s the cause of her heart trouble, and the constant maternal worries have ruined her general health.

Gyöngyvér has no idea how much.

The moment they get to the hospital, she will call him, Gyöngyvér responded in her servile voice.

What did Aunt Nínó think he’d been doing to her. That maybe he’d made Gyöngyvér an exception.

No, not a chance.

He’s rude.

Says, I’ll pick you up at six.

He’s not there at eight or even at ten.

Something’s come up—hard to believe, but that’s all he says.

But what has come up, Ágost, my dear.

Unfortunately she always talks to him as if she’s already forgiven him for everything, in advance, for anything.

How could she be kinder or more polite to him.

He doesn’t answer.

And why didn’t you call me, Ágost, my dear, to tell me that something’s come up.

He has no explanation for the simplest things, acts as if he hadn’t even heard me.

Of course she would try to reach him, to find him.

He just keeps staring with his big eyes.

It’s very insolent of him to cause his own mother so much grief.

And at a time like this, added Lady Erna and, quite unexpectedly, still somewhat mellowed by her wickedness and sentimentality during the previous minutes, she cried out, then cut short the sound and swallowed her tears. Though she felt at home in Gyöngyvér’s company because of the younger woman’s submissive tone, she also pitied her almost as much as she did herself.

That’s very kind of you, Gyöngyvér, and it will be important to do, since I think we won’t have much time.

Lady Erna could count on her, absolutely.

Because if she couldn’t find him, she was sure she would find one of the boys.

They were still calling to each other, seemingly in vain, when they both reached the shore on that enchanted night, which they felt to be endless.

I can always leave him a message if I can’t reach him otherwise, that he should come right away to Kútvölgyi Hospital.

After continued and desperate hooting, they found each other, teeth chattering.

Or if I can’t find the boys, their secretary will surely be at her desk, by the phone.

As if it were the world’s greatest miracle that neither of them had drowned in the river and suddenly they were both standing there among the pale moonlit trees, their bodies trembling, only an arm’s length apart.

But then, shaking and trembling, they had to look for Bellardi’s abandoned car, and he did not even hear what the two women behind him were chattering about.

They looked for it so long in the darkness punctuated with the hooting of owls that they thought the entire night would be spent in the search and that they were merely dreaming that it was possible to find anything.

From then on they said not a word to each other; in the moonlit darkness they even restrained the chattering of their teeth, so that they’d have absolutely nothing to do with each other, not even what chattering teeth might betray.

They could reveal nothing about themselves to each other, and mainly not their weakness, nothing about the fallibility of their bodies.

There was a terrible chance that they might loose their infernal wrath on each other’s goose-bumpy body.

They would have loudly reproached each other for something for which they could not reproach themselves. As if they had lost each other because of each other. They could not find the damn car with their clothes in it because of him; it was his fault, that damned other one.

Luckily they were stubborn and determined enough to hold their peace, though each felt strongly the silent wrath and hatred of the other.

And when he finally discharged the two women in front of the hospital and they, tugging on their gloves and holding their hats against the wind, slowly made their way up the steps, which remained blindingly white even under the overcast sky, Bellardi could hardly comprehend that in his unfolding life this might have been the happiness which until now had not proved worthy of even being mentioned.

A completely different, strange life that might have been his if it had found its substance in him, not only resistance and toleration. His happiness could not escape him, though it did not possess him; until this very moment, he had not even acknowledged that it was precisely with this pain and this lack that happiness did not escape him. There was no continuation, and the beginning had vanished in obscurity. Once, a long time ago, his alien life with all its futility and unexpected pleasure had snatched him up from the bottom of unhappiness to take him to itself, body and soul, as an empty object, into its iron fist, and then, just as unexpectedly it had dropped him and left nothing behind except the deadly bleakness of boredom and fatigue, war, humiliations, jail, and privations.