Temptation

by Janos Szekely

  We drank. I now had the feeling that the champagne was going not to my stomach, but straight to my head. I was very dizzy. My head drooped back onto the chair, I couldn’t support it any longer. It was heavy, wonderfully heavy, full of champagne and stars.

  “That was nice,” I mused.

  “What?”

  “What you said about the stars.”

  She sighed.

  “You’re tipsy too.”

  “Yes,” I said melancholically, and nodded, as if to say I was aware of the gravity of the situation.

  “Show me your hand,” she said suddenly.

  I was no longer surprised at anything, not even this. I extended my hand. She took it with two fingers like something fragile; my whole body stiffened with her touch as if her fingers had carried an electric charge, a strange, high-voltage charge.

  She was completely occupied with my hand. She examined it, turned it this way and that, considered. Then she looked up.

  “Did you know whose hand you were squeezing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Weren’t you frightened?”

  “No,” I replied, but then corrected myself: “Not by then.”

  “Of course,” she nodded. “Only the thought is frightening, always just the thought. The thing itself,” she said with a grimace, “is nothing. Isn’t that right? Life, really, is nothing at all, when you think about it.” She shrugged. “You get over it, like an operation. It’s just the thought of the operation,” she said hoarsely and fell silent. She stared straight ahead of her, drew up her eyebrows and gave a little shiver. “That’s terrib-le,” she said, emphasizing each syllable, and leant closer, as if afraid of being overheard. “You’ve got to drink, understand?” she whispered. “Drink a lot. Or really believe in something.” She suddenly laughed—a strange, hysterical laugh. “I drink,” she said disdainfully and, as if that were the end of that, changed her tone completely. “Squeeze my hand.”

  I didn’t understand.

  “Squeeze it!” she said.

  I took her hand. It was a delicate, white, shapely hand, warm and fragile like a baby bird. How could you squeeze that? I thought. But my hands and knees started trembling so hard that—to disguise it—I gave her hand such a squeeze in my fright that her face distorted with pain.

  “You’re not afraid of me, either?” she asked in a strange tone.

  “A little,” I admitted, and dropped her hand.

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “Why?”

  Why? . . . Yes, why, after all? I thought about it for a long time.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I said.

  We were whispering like a pair of conspirators.

  “Squeeze it,” she said, “like you squeezed his.”

  “It’ll hurt,” I whispered.

  “Don’t worry about that,” she said, with a wave of the hand. And then she said, barely audibly: “Sometimes that’s good.”

  There was something frightening about her now. Her eyes grew strangely wide, her mouth opened a little, her lips were trembling. Then she threw herself back with that strange mixture of determination and fear with which one climbs on the operating table. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth: she was waiting for the pain.

  When I took her hand, she shivered slightly. She drew up her legs and her skirt fell above her knees. I could see she was pressing them hard together. The clips of her stockings showed through her skirt, now stretched tight, but there were no traces of anything else underneath—the skirt hugged her form revealingly. She’s not wearing underwear! I thought, and I gave her hand a big squeeze, as if I’d been struck by lightning.

  I could feel the pain flash through her. Her leg twitched, hiking up her skirt and revealing a white flash of thigh above her stockings—a tiny strip, but bright enough to blind.

  I watched her, mesmerized. What if, I thought, I . . .

  “More!” she panted in a whisper. “Harder!”

  She’s mad, I thought. She’s gone mad. And now I really was a little afraid of her, and wanted to scream or cry, or jump on her and bite and strangle her, or die right there, on the spot, at her feet.

  “More . . . More! . . .”

  By turns she would almost beg, like a child, in a pitiful voice, out of breath, and then shout, and scream and order:

  “More! . . . More! . . . More!”

  I watched her, horrified and captivated. Pain and ecstasy as phenomena had been as opposed for me until now as fire and water, or birth and death, and now that I saw the two meld into one for the first time in my life, this freak child of the emotions shocked me so much I shivered. Her face was ghostly. It was beastly, hideous, and yet supernaturally beautiful. She reminded me a little of the saints in agony, a little of quiet, deceptive lunatics, and a little of something else, something inexpressible that lives only in the bloodthirsty underworld of dreams and which there are no words to describe.

  I couldn’t bear to watch her agony any more—I turned away. I stared, silent, petrified, into nothingness. Suddenly, she gave a soft cry, almost a scream. I looked at her and my heart skipped a beat. Her skirt had slipped all the way up and . . . she wasn’t wearing underwear! the thought screamed within me. If I went and sat on the other side, opposite her, then . . .

  All at once, I had the feeling she was watching me. I glanced at her furtively, out of the corner of my eye, and her eyes were, indeed, open. She was watching me watch her, but did not adjust her skirt. Our gazes met. Now! I thought, and leant in towards her mouth. Suddenly, she stood up.

  “I’m terribly hot,” she said. “I’m going to take a bath.”

  I’ve gone and ruined it all, I thought angrily, and clambered up myself.

  “Good night,” I spat, bitter and disappointed.

  She turned around.

  “Leaving so soon?” she asked with an air of surprise.

  “N-no,” I mumbled.

  “In that case, wait for me,” she said. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” Suddenly, she grabbed the back of my chair. “I’m so dizzy,” she whispered, and pressed her hand to her forehead.

  She stood like that for a few moments and then made her way unsteadily into the bedroom. She left the door half open, but from where I was standing I could see only the bed—the bathroom was on the other side. I could hear the bathroom door open, but not close. She hadn’t left it open? I thought, excited. I listened for a long time, but the door didn’t close. Then there was a terrifying sound.

  A noise in Exfix’s room.

  I was bathed in cold sweat. What was that? Was Exfix home? Each moment felt like minutes, the minutes felt like hours, and an eternity passed.

  Then I was relieved. A dog whined, that soft, childishly pleading and yet still slightly lascivious whine every dog lover knows. Cesar was dreaming. So Exfix was out of town, I established, because I knew that otherwise, Cesar slept in the entrance hall.

  You could hear the sound of rushing water from the bathroom. She’s undressing, I thought. Or is she naked already?

  There was silence, then a splash, and you could clearly hear her climbing into the bath and settling in. I was now certain that the door was open. How many times I had fantasized about her like this in the bath when I was here alone with Cesar in the afternoons, and now I had but to take a few steps to . . . I stood up and headed to the bathroom. But then there was another noise from Exfix’s room. I stopped, listened. Yes, it was Cesar, no doubt about it, but I still did not go on. I really will end up spoiling it all, I thought, and went quickly back to my seat.

  A few minutes later, I heard her get out of the bath. Soon, she’ll be here, and then . . . what then? I didn’t understand anything any more. First she lets me look at her naked thighs, then she leaves when I try to kiss her, now she’s bathing with the door open. I stared at the billowing curtains in a daze. The wind was picking up outside, the rain was battering the windows. She’s mad, I thought. Maybe she really is mad.

  “András!” I heard her say. />
  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come here.”

  The room was spinning, I went like a sleepwalker. She was sitting in front of her dressing table, her back to me, in a bathrobe.

  “You should bathe too,” she said with no preliminaries or explanation, without even turning round.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied vaguely, and went into the bathroom.

  “Um . . .” she called after me, “András!”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “His Excellency’s bathrobe is up on the hook. Do you see it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Put that on. It’s so hot in here.”

  I thought I was hearing things. Put that on . . . His Excellency’s bathrobe . . . It took me several minutes to comprehend what that meant, or at least until I managed to accept that it really did mean what I thought it meant.

  But why do I need to bathe first? I wondered in the bath, because the water had sobered me up a little. Does she think I’m dirty? I hated her so much at that moment I could have strangled her, but a moment later I had forgotten all about it, and all I could think of was that . . . No, actually, I couldn’t think at all. A crazed director was running amuck in my head, cutting my thoughts into frames like film reel and splicing them together all mixed up and topsy-turvy, then setting fire to the whole thing. As I was towelling, it occurred to me that I ought to be angry, but I couldn’t remember why. Now!—that was the single, the only word thundering, flashing, singing inside me. Now, now, now!

  As I put on Exfix’s robe and placed my hand on the door handle to leave the bathroom, I was seized by a momentary doubt as to whether I really had understood correctly, but then the door was open and I was in the bedroom.

  It was pitch black, I couldn’t see a thing.

  “I’m over here,” she said, as if talking in her sleep, or as if I were dreaming the whole thing.

  I felt my way haltingly towards the voice. I suddenly felt her outstretched hand.

  “Sit here,” she said, and I obeyed dizzily.

  I was sitting on the edge of the bed. There she is, lying next to me, I thought, trembling. Now, now, now! But suddenly I grew flustered. Yes, now, but . . . how do you begin? With a peasant girl, it would be easy, or a maid. But what are you supposed to make of a lady who shows you her naked thighs, then walks off in a huff ? I didn’t dare move; I was scared I would spoil it all. I sat, silent, trembling, on the edge of the bed, and was indescribably ashamed.

  “Drink,” she said. “There’s cognac on the nightstand.”

  I started feeling around for it. I found the bottle, but not the glass.

  “Can I put the light on?” I asked awkwardly.

  “No,” she replied, as if it amused her terribly.

  I gathered all my courage.

  “Why not?”

  She laughed silently.

  “Drink from the bottle.”

  I drank.

  “More,” she said.

  And then, again:

  “More.”

  Here, in the bedroom, with its windows and doors all closed, the heat was even more unbearable. The strong spirit caught fire within me. I burned, burned and shook with cold.

  “Why can’t I put the light on?” I repeated dimly. My voice trembled.

  She stroked my head.

  “Are you a virgin?” she asked softly.

  “No.”

  “You have a girl?”

  “Yes.”

  She was silent for a space.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Manci.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you with her?”

  “I don’t know. There isn’t anyone else.”

  “How long have you been together?”

  “Few months.”

  “Was she the first?”

  “Yes.”

  “And before that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You didn’t think about women?”

  “I did.”

  “A lot?”

  “Oh, boy!”

  “Was it bad?”

  “Very.”

  “And now? Is it better now?”

  “No.”

  She reached for the bottle and took a swig.

  “I was the same,” she said pensively. “I’m often still the same. Real life is mostly made up of Mancis. You’ll learn that. Are you still thinking of other women?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even when you’re with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think about?”

  “All sorts of things.”

  “Like what? . . . Go on, tell me!”

  I couldn’t. My teeth began to chatter; I gritted them together hard so she wouldn’t hear.

  “Drink,” she told me, and I drank.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I felt as if I were asleep, awake and dreaming at the same time. I could hear myself talking, but my voice sounded completely alien.

  “I always think of you.”

  She drew closer, her voice aflame.

  “Of me?”

  “Of you.”

  “And what do you fantasize about me?”

  “Everything. Absolutely everything. I’ve even lain in your bed.”

  “In my bed? . . . Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I thought of you.”

  “You’ve said that already,” she whispered impatiently. “What else?”

  “I felt your gown.”

  “And?”

  “I pictured you in it.”

  “And?” she squeezed my hand hard. “Tell me everything!”

  “I can’t,” I moaned.

  She was right up close now, I could feel her breath. Her breathing was heavy, staccato, her voice stifled with excitement.

  “Will you tell me if I let you come over here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, then.”

  I finally touched her, but she pulled away, almost in disgust. I reached after her, but she jumped out of bed.

  “You want me to call the manager?” she yelled, and I heard her pick up the phone.

  I sat there, petrified, saying nothing. She didn’t move either, and a frightened silence fell. It’s all over now, I thought.

  “Shall I come back?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I pleaded.

  “You promise not to touch me?”

  “ . . .”

  “Say it.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “And you’ll do exactly as I say?”

  “Yes.”

  “And nothing else?”

  “Yes.”

  She got back into bed, as far away from me as possible.

  “Then talk.”

  “What about?”

  “You know.”

  There she was, lying next to me, as far from me as the stars. My teeth once more began to chatter; I held my mouth shut.

  “Why won’t you say anything?” she asked, her voice gentle now, almost tender. “Are you embarrassed?”

  “No.”

  “You want another drink?”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong, then?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why won’t you say anything?”

  “Because you drew away from me like I was a toad.”

  She was silent for a moment.

  “You promise not to touch me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Swear?”

  “I swear! Stop torturing me.”

  “All right,” she whispered, and I felt her hand on me.

  She no longer had to ask. I talked and talked; the words poured out of me. I told her everything, but nothing was enough for her. She wouldn’t tolerate allusions or half-sentences, I had to say everything just as it was, and the filthiest words were not filthy enough for her. Even now, by turns like before, when I was squeezing her hand, she begged li
ke a child, and then yelled and demanded:

  “More! . . . More! . . . More!”

  Suddenly, she withdrew her hand.

  “No!” I begged. “Your hand.”

  She leant over me, and for a moment I felt her breast.

  “Now imagine I’m not here . . . Imagine you’re alone again in my bed . . . Yes . . . That’s it, yes . . . Yes!!”

  She put the light on and looked at me.

  “Good . . .” she panted feverishly. “Good! . . .”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Can’t you see?”

  I put my arms around her, but she pushed me away even harder and when I reached after her, jumped out of bed. This time, though, she didn’t get a chance to lift the receiver, or even shout. I caught her, put my hand over her mouth and threw her on the bed. She kicked, bit and scratched, but I didn’t care. I was an animal in heat—I pushed her down and threw myself upon her. The whole world seemed to explode, and then there was the silence of Judgement Day.

  She fell asleep. She was breathing deep and steady in my arms. Outside, the wind seemed to have stopped and dawn crept in through the cracks in the blinds. Half asleep, I could still hear Cesar whining, but so softly it seemed like it was coming from a distant star.

  Her Ladyship’s dog was dreaming.

  THREE

  Me and the Smiling Machinist

  1

  SOMEONE WAS SHAKING ME by the shoulder.

  “Get up!” I heard from somewhere very far away.

  The voice seemed incredibly familiar. Could it be her? I wondered vaguely. Strange. I must be dreaming about her, people often dream they’re dreaming. Or rather . . . wait a bit. No. Right now, I’m dreaming that I’m awake, or rather, I am awake and I’m dreaming that . . . Hey! Stop shaking me. Is it really that late?

  “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. Make sure they don’t see you in the corridor.”

  I finally managed to open my eyes.

  She was lying beside me so still that at first I thought she was asleep and had been talking in her sleep. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the blinds—thin, lopsided golden shafts shimmering in the half-light. My mind was full of fog, my stomach of nausea, and I could barely keep my eyes open. I was dizzy. Horribly dizzy. I had to make sure they didn’t see me in the corridor.