by Miklós Vámos
He detected only darkness under his eyelids, and sparkling circles of light.
It’s not working. It’s no longer working. I’m too rusty.
“Hello, Balázs my dearest! How are you?” came Marchi’s voice, affecting cheerfulness. “I’ve brought you lemons, fresh rolls, lemonade, and your puzzle magazines!”
“Thank you,” said Balázs Csillag without opening his eyes. In this new hospital, the presence of his wife was even more burdensome than before. Man is an ill-starred creature, expected to be loving even when he feels least like it. Marchi threw herself with military force into the care of her husband, and her overattentive ministrations Dr. Balázs Csillag found noisy and aggressive. In vain did he insist that two oranges would suffice; Marchi would pile six on his bedside table. There were even some leftover rolls from last time, and now here is the latest delivery, highlighting the distressing fact that he is unable to eat. I would be extremely grateful if you would kindly leave me alone, he thought.
In a short while his little boy ran in, covered in sweat-he was just as perspiration-prone as his father-and asked: “How are you, Papa?”
“So-so,” he replied, unwilling to alarm him.
“And what does Dr. Salgó say?”
“Slight improvement.”
This dialogue between them was repeated almost every time they met. There would then be a silence. Dr. Balázs Csillag knew that his son would much prefer to get the hell out of there; it must pain him to see his father like this. He should tell him to buzz off. But he lacked the strength even for that. Never mind. You have to bear it when your father…
His life had not been a long one, and it had been filled with little joy and even less meaning. Once, he thought to himself, just once he should have taken the trouble to tell this to his son. He wondered if he was able to see anything of the past. He had never asked him.
Perhaps it was a mistake to remain silent about your parents and the others. Once you are better, you must certainly have a talk. You squeezed the past out of you but somehow it took the present with it… You didn’t notice how you wasted the days and the years. Perhaps fate, heaven, God, or sod-all, will make sure your son fares better.
The next time he comes I really will make a start. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
That was the night death came knocking. The second day of January was two and a half hours old, so at least her husband did not pass away on New Year’s Day, when they had celebrated his birthday on the ward. He was able to receive the cake, blow out the candles, drink a drop of champagne, and open his presents, including the Don Quixote puzzle magazine’s annual. He had made a start on the Giant Crossword. MOZART. BILLYGOAT. WAR AND PEACE. VOLGA. LIFE IS A DREAM. AMETHYST. BAKTAY ERVIN. PORRIDGE. INDIA. HEARTSEASE-this was as far as he had got.
In his final moments he saw himself standing in front of the Taj Mahal, as pictured on a black-and-white postcard he had been sent as a child. All his life he had longed to see it, though he knew he had no hope of doing so. According to the pathologist’s notes his heart had swollen to twice the normal size because of the trials and tribulations of the life he had lived, and had encroached on the right side of the chest, pressing on the nearby organs, the lungs in particular. When the former colleague who gave the eulogy happened innocently to say, “He had a great heart!,” Marchi burst into tears.
XI
AN EXHAUSTED LANDSCAPE BIDS WELCOME AS THE morning sunlight’s shimmer tumbles down like corn into the dust from a ripped-open sack. The very slight rise in the temperature ruffles the shrunken torsos of the wayside acacias. The glass panes in the windows, left to their fate for months, reveal their need for a proper wash-down. Slushy humps of snow solidified on the pavement gradually begin to shrink. Ice weeps in the water butts, but the cold of the night brings frost to overeager plants. The vortices of February’s freezing air disperse the last traces of any mildness in the morning.
He was six when he had his tonsils removed. Until then Vilmos Csillag was so scrawny that the kindergarten nurse called him “Thinbilly.” When he put on some weight, he was mocked as “Tumbilly.” Only when he reached secondary school did he shoot up. He was slow to acknowledge the improvement in his looks.
He was in his first year at the secondary school when he heard two of the girls in his class talking in the ladies, which shared a ventilation shaft with the gents. Ági and Márti were smoking, despite a strict ban, as they discussed the boys in the class, where the girls were in the majority by twenty-eight to thirteen. Only one of the boys passed muster, the gangling French-born Belmondo (real name: Claude Préfaut), who was a recent arrival and loath to divulge the complicated international history of his family.
“And what about Vili Csillag?” asked Márti.
“He’s kind of…” Ági’s voice became uncertain. “A nice little boy.”
They giggled.
“Nice little boy, yes, you’re right. A nice little boy!” Márti repeated the phrase like some new slogan.
“It’s his eyes that are a knockout.”
“Right! You’ve noticed, like a kaleidoscope?”
“Yes. Sometimes gray, sometimes green.”
“Even light brown, sometimes.”
The bell rang. Vilmos Csillag did not stir. He would never have dreamed that he would get the silver medal in class. He examined himself in the mirror. Just then, his eyes were river-green.
Almost a year later they were revising French in the flat of Ági’s parents and exchanged a fleeting kiss over the kitchen table.
“You’re not doing it right!” Ági protested.
“But that’s how I usually do it,” Vilmos Csillag lied. In fact, it was his first time. The girl showed him how. Vilmos Csillag proved to be a quick learner. Of the girls in his class, Ági was fairly far down on the attractiveness scale as far as Vilmos Csillag was concerned, but she certainly rose a rung or two for finding him attractive. It was not the girl he wanted; it was the love.
Once it happened that only her older sister, Vera, was at home. She resembled her sister, but she was a fully grown woman, with substantial breasts, the mere sight of which made him break out in a sweat.
“Looking for Ági?”
“Isn’t she in?”
“You can wait for her if you like.”
Vera attended the same school and was just taking her final exams. She complained that she had no chance of getting through maths. “I just can’t remember all these stupid formulae!”
“Make yourself a crib sheet. And hide it in your…” He ground to a halt. He blinked unsteadily at the hem of the girl’s tight skirt, where the darker band of her black stockings could be seen.
“All right, Willie dear, I’ll make one,” she said, stroking his face; the red-painted nails traveled across the boy’s field of vision like five burning aircraft. “Listen… have you been with my sister?”
“You mean…”
“Yeah. Well?”
He blushed and made an uncertain gesture. “I can’t really… I don’t want to.”
“So you haven’t. I thought as much. She’s just blabbing.”
“Is that… what she said?”
“Yeah.”
Vilmos Csillag had no idea how to behave in such an awkward situation, to maintain the self-respect of the male. He began to chew the corner of his mouth relentlessly. Vera’s quick fingers hurried to the spot and separated mouth from teeth. “Don’t… Hey, your eyes have gone green.”
On another visit, he again found only Vera at home. They talked for a long time, about school, the summer vacation, teachers. Vera suddenly changed topic: “You should grow your hair, Willie. It would suit you better.” She brought a brush, ruffled up the boy’s somewhat curly hair and fashioned a Beatles cut for him. They took a look in the mirror in the hall. Vilmos Csillag knew that in the next few months he would not visit the barber’s even on the headmaster’s orders they were not allowed to wear the Beatles’ mushroom-mop.
As Ági grew increasingly unreliable, so Vera became more willing to be a companion. Vilmos Csillag would never dare think of this tight-skirted, slickly made-up woman as one of the “girls” at the school.
“What have you done to your hair, Willie?”
“I’ve combed it. And… I wet it!”
“You’re such a sweetie!” Vera ruffled his hair. “You arouse the animal in me!”
“What sort of animal?”
“A shark!” and she clacked her teeth as if to swallow him up.
Next time she came to the door she said: “No Ági again, sorry.”
“Where is she?”
“Dunno. School play, I guess.”
“Ah.”
“Oh, OK, I’ll tell you the truth. She’s hanging out with Mishi. You get me?”
“What do you mean hanging out?”
“Going out with.”
“Going out?”
“Yeah. With.”
“But… I thought she was going out with me!”
“Typical. Can’t spare the time to let you know that she isn’t any longer.”
“I see.” He had to sit down on the laundry basket in the hall. He tried to summon all his strength not to burst into tears, but one tear got away.
“Oh, my dear Willie…” Vera embraced him, her thumb wiping the tear from his eye. “Come on!” and led him into her room. There she whispered: “Party time!”
“Pardon?” The expression was new to him.
“My parents are away, in Parádsasvárad. Get it?”
When she began to take her clothes off, Vilmos Csillag was embarrassed and at first pretended not to see.
“You too!” Vera gave him a hand. Elsewhere, too.
Vilmos Csillag had imagined the scene a thousand, a million times, but always thought it would last a bit longer.
The girl gave a wry little smile as she rolled off and lay beside him. “More practice needed.” She examined the refractory member, now shrunken and sleeping the sleep of a two-year-old. “Hey, aren’t you…?”
Vilmos Csillag, after a long pause: “Aren’t I what?”
“Circumcised.”
“Why should I be?”
“Because that’s the custom with your lot.”
“What do you mean, our lot?”
“Well, with Jews, OK?”
“I’m not Jewish!”
“I thought you were.”
“Where did you get that from?”
“Ági said. And you look it.”
“Come, come…” and he bit his lip as his father’s turn of phrase slipped out.
Vera explained that on the basis of his looks, only someone who had never seen a Jew would not think him one. Soft lines, dark, wavy hair…
“My lines are soft?”
“Yeah.”
“Pity.”
“No worries, eh! We’re Jews as well, it’s no big deal!” She waited with a mischievous smile for the boy to laugh, but in vain.
“What makes Ági think I’m Jewish?”
“Oh come on, it’s not cool. Perhaps you aren’t after all… Those eyes, sea-green, they’re suspect.”
“You suspect that I am or that I’m not?”
“Yeah, that you’re not.”
Vilmos Csillag could hardly wait for his father to come home that evening. Papa just then was spending more time in the hospital than at home, as the heart trouble that had been bothering him since the war had taken a turn for the worse. He rarely spoke to members of his family, so Vilmos Csillag, too, had lost the habit of sharing his thoughts with him.
The moment his father came through the door he gave a grunt and flung himself on the couch. Vilmos Csillag sighed. “Could I have a word?”
His father was sweating profusely and kept wiping his brow. “Sit down. What’s up?”
“Just between the two of us.”
“It is just the two of us, son. Your mother is in the kitchen.”
“But she might come in any moment.”
“Come, come.” There appeared on his father’s face a look that was partly abstracted and partly blank: the look with which he shut out the outside world.
Vilmos Csillag knew he had only a small chance, but cut to the chase. “How come I know nothing of your past or how things were with your parents?”
“No. Not that.”
“Why?”
“It was a long time ago. It’s of no interest.”
“But it is of interest.”
“End of story.”
Vilmos Csillag flew into a rage. “And what about… is it true that you are Jewish?”
His father jumped up and hit him across the face with the back of his hand. Vilmos Csillag staggered to the bookshelf, for an instant unsure where he was. His lower lip started bleeding and the blood trailed onto his shirt collar. He heard the door squeak open and his mother scream: “Jesus!”
“Leave Jesus out of it,” said his father, offering him a handkerchief.
Csillag Vilmos had never been beaten by his father-not that he ever gave much cause. At school he always managed to get marks that, if not the highest, were always good enough to put him into the bracket of “good” students. But for his poor memory, he would be academically quite outstanding. Alas, often a day or two later he could not remember something he had learned word for word. On the rare occasions that his mother gave him household chores, he washed up obediently, dried the dishes, and went to the corner shop. He could recall only one big slap across the face and that had not been from his father. At the age of six he had got it into his head that he wanted a younger brother or sister and began to pester his parents about it relentlessly. His mother quickly disposed of him: “Ask your father.”
Father had said: “Don’t stick your nose into grown-ups’ business.”
But he was not to be shaken off like this and showered his parents with questions: why, when, how, and why not. On one occasion during a three-hander he got so worked up that his voice began to sound like a dog howling and he yelled: “And if you don’t make me a little brother or sister, may you rot in hell!”
“Fine,” said his father.
“Now Willie, dear, that’s going too far!” exclaimed his mother, and let rip with a stinging slap across the face.
On that occasion there was no blood; now it would not stop. Sniffing, his mother brought the first-aid box and took out a little pillow of gauze to place on the split lip-she had done a first-aid course at her workplace. She wanted to know what had happened between the two men, but neither seemed inclined to tell her.
Hours later his father drew him to one side: “Come out onto the balcony!”
Outside he lit a cigarette and offered his packet of Mátra cigarettes to his son: “Want one?”
“Papa, I don’t smoke, and anyway… you’ve forbidden me to!”
“Come, come… you really don’t smoke?”
“No.”
“Clever lad.” For a while he puffed away without saying anything. “My boy. Now listen carefully to what I’m going to say. This topic is taboo. Do you know what taboo means? Right. One hundred percent taboo. One thousand percent. There is no such thing as a Jew. There are only people. There are people who are shits, there are people who are good, there are people who are so-so. There are no Jews, no Gypsies, no nothing. Do you understand me?” and he grabbed his son by his shirt, so roughly that the top button popped out of its hole.
“Yes.” He was scared.
“So that’s that cleared up.”
“But you haven’t yet… you didn’t…”
His father butted in: “You are dismissed.”
For years Vilmos Csillag wondered why his father had used this military expression. He was constantly preparing to bring up the subject again. He was just waiting for a suitable opportunity. But his father communicated with him less and less, and with others, too.
Once he had the idea of writing him a letter. He spent weeks trying to find the best way of putting things, sketching his ideas in
the big spiral-bound notebook. Here and there he decorated the draft. He planned to transfer, when he was ready, the text onto the magnolia-colored writing paper he had received for his fourteenth birthday, but had not used a single sheet of the hundred in the set of stationery.
Dear Papa
Pap
My Dear Father
Dear Father
Father,
I am writing to you addressing you my Father I am writing because I feel in conversation to have a conversation I cannot you do not want you cannot we cannot.
It would be so good I would so much like to talk, if we did not live like complete strangers two English gentlemen, with little in common or to say to one another. Why do you not want with me a normal ordinary proper relationship human connection? When I was small I seriously thought that every family behaved as we did, that is, everyone did his own thing and does not care about the others. I thought it was like this everywhere they behaved like this. I was open-mouthed when I saw at Gidus’s at János Buda’s they always have their evening meal together and tell each other in turn what sort of day they’ve had what their day was like, so they share the good and the bad, like in the fairy tales, do you understand?!
X Y X Y X Y X Y X Y X Y X Y X Y X Y X Y X
As long as
Since
Ever since I’ve been aware of things you have always been more or less ill, and our life consists of leaving you alone dangling in peace, because any excitement is bad for you. But why does it count as excitement if start talking we have a conversation? If a father and a son If a father thinks of his son as If there is mutual trust between father and son? If they make each other feel If they express If they indicate their love for one another?
Where did we go wrong, Father?
When did it go wrong
What made it
Why
I don’t understand why this is it has to be like this. I would like to ask something. Tell me, are you really totally not even a little interested in me? Never Nothing do you know about me and I know nothing about you. Perhaps you would not care you would not be worried if I just skipped school. Do you know how well I’m doing? What my favorite subjects are? (history, Hungarian literature). Do you even know what year I’m in?