A Book of Memories

by Peter Nadas

  They must have thought I'd watched them go into the bathroom for their conference and waited for the right moment to burst in on them. Naturally, I noticed Krisztián first. He was standing in front of the tar-covered wall of the urinal, his legs wide apart, but what a pose, even while urinating!—one hand on his hip, gracefully bending back his wrist, and his other hand holding his penis, but not like children who copy the gentle touch of their mother's hand, holding their weenie at the base with two fingers, a bit clumsily since the last drops can never be properly shaken out that way and pee always gets on your fingers or your pants, but in the grownup way, in fact just like a grownup, in a backhanded sort of way, grasping his tool between his thumb and his other fingers, loosely, the little finger a bit apart from the rest, away from the stream, cupping his penis in his hand as one would a cigarette in windy weather, and this could have been taken as a sign of sensible modesty, if he hadn't at the same time been thrusting out his hips in such an indecently sensuous manner and spreading his legs so wide apart that his posture seemed to indicate—to whom? to himself? to us?—that he could take pleasure even in this act, could urinate shamelessly and, what's more, had turned it into a fashion that others imitated, and not just the boys in his group but everybody in the class, myself included, though his brazen, open enjoyment was his alone, others couldn't duplicate it; when I opened the door, with the dry chalky eraser in my hand, I noticed Krisztián in this familiar pose, which seemed even more casual because he was talking to Szmodits, who was peeing next to him and talking loud enough to be heard by Prém, waiting in line behind him, and even by Kálmán Csúzdi, who was leaning against the doorpost, smoking; what I really felt like doing at that moment was backing out of the bathroom, but I couldn't, because Kálmán Csúzdi had noticed me, so I walked in, and Krisztián, perhaps because he didn't hear the door open or simply ignored it, went on to finish his sentence: "so finally this sonofabitch is gonna croak, too!" just as, after a brief hesitation, I closed the door behind me.

  Prém, a stocky dark-skinned boy, was like an amiable courtier who went everywhere with Krisztián, his wise, all-knowing, and all-forgiving gentle brown eyes seeming always in search of opportunities to be of service to him, and though he was just as nice to me as he was to Krisztián and, as far as I could tell, to everyone else, I felt toward him a deep and implacable hostility bordering on revulsion, and no wonder, considering he had achieved without pain or effort what I didn't have the courage, skill, and, possibly, playfulness to achieve; their bond was refined to the most subtle form of equality, precisely the kind I longed for, like brothers, like twins, even a little indifferent to each other since their relationship was arranged by nature and therefore they had nothing to add to it, also like lovers, since no matter how far apart the two faces moved, they seemed to be able to maintain a link, each always referring in some way to the other, always aware of each other's presence; all the same, Prém, the smaller of the two, was clearly Krisztián's servant (in such relationships the smaller is always the servant)—Prém now let out a full-mouthed guffaw, as if Krisztián had cracked a hilarious joke, even though the sentence had a rather ominous ring, an anxious undertone; I wouldn't have been surprised if Krisztián had smacked him for his too-ready laugh—he sometimes did that, knowing that an underling's exaggerated zeal can detract from rather than increase his superior's authority and therefore deserves punishment; I especially hated Prém's mouth—and those eyes! I hated the soft, alluring submissiveness in those wide-open, slightly bulging dark eyes with their thick lashes—oh that mouth! wild, darkly, savagely red, the lower lips a bit protuberant, in itself not exactly ugly, except that in the smallness of his face it seemed exaggerated and unnatural, and as if he himself were aware of its exceptional size, and of the attractiveness that could not be denied him, he had the habit of licking his lips with the tip of his tongue, taking real pleasure in doing it; his manner of speaking was unusual, too, always leaning over, speaking softly, never looking straight into his listener's eyes but aiming for one of the ears, since he didn't so much speak his words as murmur them, whispered little monologues into one's ears.

  Yet I don't think it was only these inane jabberings that amused Krisztián, but also the surprise and befuddlement evoked by Prém's little pranks, which he followed with paternal solicitude, although Prém chose his victims according to his own inscrutable logic: he'd scurry down the hall or saunter alongside the classroom desks, stop abruptly in front of a classmate, lean over with a confident air, and, with a fractured sentence that was but the start of his ingratiating whispering, evoke immediate and intense curiosity or clear consternation; pretending to pay little heed to the response, which he left to Krisztián watching from a distance, he'd just look at his victim very tenderly and begin again: "Sweet little scumbag, have you heard, it's those Hungarian Fascists again, the ones who've been holed up since the war—they broke out of the hole again, it was on the radio last night and again this morning, crazy isn't it, to come out of the hole—" and then he'd stop and fall silent, and the startled query would come: "But what hole?" "Why, your asshole," he'd whisper, and move on as softly and stealthily as he had come; but now, in the bathroom, it was Kálmán Csúzdi who was looking at me, his eyes reddened from the hollow-filtered Russian cigarette dangling from his lips, sizing me up as he would a strange, slightly repulsive object, somewhat sternly, ready to check my every move, sly blue eyes with pale blond lashes in his bright, chubby face, his hands stuck in his pockets; he came to the bathroom only to smoke and be with his friends—his cigarette would soon be passed around, I knew they always shared it—and with his stern attention to me he seemed also to be watching over the others, accentuating their togetherness as if letting me know that any one of them might have said whatever Krisztián had said, they were so completely in agreement; and when the door finally clicked shut, and first Szmodits then Prém turned to me, and Krisztián, without changing his position, looked straight into my eyes, I knew something was going to happen.

  The sentence had been uttered, couldn't be taken back, and there was no doubt to whom it referred, the laughter confirmed that.

  And if Krisztián had not looked into my eyes the way he did, had he not stood there in that inimitably shameless pose, I'd probably have pretended that I didn't see or hear anything, and, protecting myself from him, would have simply wetted the sponge and gone, without so much as looking again at them, but the blatant openness and provocative artlessness of his stare proved to be an emotional rape against which I immediately had to react, though I'd have preferred not to, my self-esteem demanding it, asserting itself independently, it seemed, without regard for my conscious will; "What did you say?" I asked very quietly, staring back at him, and to hear my voice so calm was such a shock that I was immediately gripped by anxious fear, and when I continued I heard my voice, hoarse and much louder, saying, "Who's supposed to croak?"

  He didn't answer, in the uncomfortable silence it was as if I had finally risen above him, and I stepped closer to him, my eyes confidently locked on his, but then something happened that I should and would have anticipated, had not the preceding moment made me so self-assured: completely by surprise, Prém's face appeared between us, one could say that he slipped his most enchanting smile between our two faces, and as I still looked into Krisztián's eyes I was forced to see Prém's bulging eyes, too, and his lips, which he was licking sensuously with the tip of his tongue, and had to hear his voice whispering, "Little snitch, you know how big a horse's prick is? as big as Csúzdi's!" By then Kálmán Csúzdi had already pushed himself away from the door, and his voice was much stronger, huskier: "You can have Prém's dick for lunch!" and at this point, according to the unwritten rules of the game, they should have roared with laughter to lessen the impact of their group performance, but they didn't laugh.

  The silence grew more oppressive, as though a shared common fear lay at the bottom of it, made every clever mediation futile, neutralized their numerical advantage, at once c
onfirming and casting doubt on my own superiority, a silence that Krisztián finally broke as he turned to the wall again to fix his pants; "A little more refinement, boys," he said, which may have surprised them more than me, and created an even more troubled silence.

  Not knowing what to do next, I suddenly felt the sponge in my hand, which was the only thing that could help now, to step up to the faucet and wet the sponge, after all, that's what I had come in here for.

  But when I turned around I couldn't seem to prove to them, not so simply, that that was the only reason I'd come into the bathroom, and all four of them were staring at me, motionless.

  I knew I had to get out, this had to end somehow.

  An awfully long time seemed to pass before my feet managed to get me to the door, which I opened, but before I could close it, Szmodits growled after me, not much conviction in his voice, "Better watch your step there or somebody'll beat the living shit out of you!" which I couldn't be angry at him for, and which didn't frighten me either, since I knew that this sentence, too, had to be said.

  Of course I can't claim that later as I stood silent and more or less motionless in the gym I thought only about this episode and recalled every detail exactly as it had happened, but it did preoccupy me, though there were plenty of other distractions, like the fantasies about the funeral, the discomfort of standing in place, and spring, already present in the blueness of the wintry sky, making itself felt through the tall, heavily barred windows; I thought about the famous corpse, too, with its stomach and chest split open with a single incision and the inner organs removed, ready to be stuffed, but with what? they couldn't very well use straw; I saw the body lying on the dissecting table with the exposed heart, the soft lung, the purple kidneys and intestines next to it, and although I didn't like thinking about it, this still made me happy and I derived some dark satisfaction from having thoughts I knew I shouldn't have, since violating the spirit of the solemn ceremony got my mind off my fears better than anything else might have, for naturally the boys' threat had had its effect, and just when I thought I had nicely forgotten the incident, a totally insignificant detail would suddenly flash before my eyes, the green wall of the toilet or the cigarette smoke, and revive my fear, and when you are gripped by fear and trembling you want to find a clearly identifiable object to go with it: what I most feared was that they'd sneak up on me and jump me, yes, I was afraid of being overwhelmed and beaten to a pulp, though given their numbers my defeat and humiliation was a foregone conclusion, and for days I'd been thinking of ways to protect myself; in the gym, Prém was standing right in front of me, Kálmán Csúzdi behind me and a little to the right, and I could feel the presence of the other two, who stood next to each other way in the back—in short, I was surrounded, though at the moment they couldn't move any more than I could; considering my total helplessness, this enforced immobility was a shield offering a temporary reprieve, though I couldn't help staring at Prém's neck, fearing he might suddenly turn around and slap me across the face, as a signal for the others to pounce.

  This was the reason I couldn't forget the moment when I felt someone looking at me; fear made the moment memorable.

  But I'm not even sure just how it happened; it's surely one of the most mysterious and baffling sensations when someone is watching us or talking or just thinking about us and we turn, without anything consciously registering, toward the source of attention and only afterward realize why we looked in that direction—we felt it, we say, but can't say just what, as if our senses functioned more subtly and naturally than our minds or, to be more precise, as if our minds can work only with the materials and energies our senses provide and usually the processing is delayed, which makes for constant dissonance and uncertainty, and the question remains: What sort of force, energy, or material is able to span great distances and signal to our senses that that of others is present, what kinds of signals can we receive or broadcast without conscious intention? when all we seem to do is look at the other person, think about him, or make a casual comment very quietly, and suddenly the air is charged, loses its neutrality, and relays clear messages, whether friendly or hostile, and then the most complex form of communication follows; and I don't even think she wanted to attract my attention, which at that point would have been unthinkable for many reasons, so her glance was as unconscious as my turning toward her, two beings staring at each other unconsciously, baring themselves to each other eagerly, shamelessly; needless to say, we had to take care, our teachers were up on the stage, watching, and because of the special nature of the proceedings, they couldn't move either and couldn't yell at us as they usually did, so we were spared "Stop moving back there!" or "Keep still, snotnose, or I'll kick you out on your butt!"— warnings that now had to be communicated with looks only: a twitch of an eyebrow or an almost imperceptible nod warning that unruliness, conspicuous fidgeting, and audible giggles were duly noted and would not go unpunished, all of which made the silence heavier and more ominous than it would have been if they could freely shout at us; but she was one of those who lived inconspicuously among us, never calling attention to herself, much too timid and bashful to risk violating the rules, and it was inconceivable that she'd start flirting with me out of boredom just to amuse herself; I simply didn't know what to make of her look.

  For this look, I realized later when I had time to reflect on it, called attention to itself precisely because it didn't seem the result of some childish whim, which became clear to me when, in response to my uncomprehending, questioning glance, her face did not dissolve into a defensive or apologetic smile but remained motionless, her gaze unwavering, with nothing awkwardly solemn about it either, simply serious, and I asked myself, Why is that dumb girl giving me the eye? and my own eyes must have asked the same question, as I thought of the silly line we used to blurt out in similarly ambiguous situations, as a form of defense against embarrassment—"Just keep lookin' if you so smart, come on closer 'n' smell my fart"—and she didn't respond to this either, didn't change, even though my grin must have indicated what I was thinking about, and I almost laughed out loud; in the end, I did notice a change, but in myself, because I couldn't turn away and in fact also became serious, as if, from the slippery slopes of my earlier fear and anxiety and of my lopsided grin, I now had to plunge into an infinitely soft body of gray water where nothing palpably familiar remained except this extraordinarily open gaze, seeking no effect, therefore most effective, meaning to achieve nothing, with no recognizable purpose or wish to communicate, using the eye simply and naturally for what it was meant for—to see, to look—reducing the organ to its basic biological function, a nearly uninvolved possessor of objects in its sight; and this was so unusual yet so similar to everything I had vainly longed for in my relation to Krisztián, because he always found ways to evade me, to stay aloof—oh, how familiar it all seemed—yet I had to be suspicious of her, because the open look of natural possession is separated by only a thin line from the other kind of look that appears when, concentrating on what is happening within us, we do not notice what our eyes are looking at and, the inner occurrence seeming more important, the lens itself cannot decide whether to focus on the inner or outer subject and the face we involuntarily present to the person we are observing becomes impassive and inert; but no, I could detect not a single trace of this self-absorbed blankness; her face remained discreetly closed and inaccessible, but the look in her eyes was like an animal's! no mistake, she was looking at me, nobody else, she saw me, her attention was directed at no one but me.

  I saw her through heads and shoulders, standing in the first row, being one of the shortest pupils, while I, not much taller, was in the third row; the distance between us was considerable because boys and girls were separated in the gym, so not only did her gaze have to traverse the wide no-man's-land which, in compliance with school regulations, divided the sexes and where on other occasions the beribboned flag of our Young Pioneer troop was raised with solemn ceremony and the accompaniment of ann
oying loud drumrolls, but she also had to twist her head and look backward to see me, yet she seemed to be standing very close to me, right in front of me; I don't know how long it took for all my suspicions to dissipate, but after a while her closeness was almost palpable; she was practically inside me, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the wintry pallor of her brown skin, the almost sickly dark circles around her eyes where the veins were so prominent that the brown of her skin seemed to fade into blue; the tiny mouth under the pointed narrow nose, the impertinent little bulges of her upper lip, and her forehead that later was to have a special fascination for me; I grew to love its clear, even brown hue in summer, its delicate spots in winter, when the bone structure appeared in faint outline, softening the shadows in the delicate hollow of her temples and making her hair, pulled back with white clips, even darker, her wild, thick, strong hair, like her eyebrows, arching delicately but asymmetrically, almost comically, above her eyes; that's how she looked then, or rather, that's how I saw her, that's what I saw of her, that and her neck as it rose out of the open collar of her white blouse, the muscles hardening with almost boyish toughness as she turned around, keeping her head low; only later did I begin to notice her body; her eyes were what was important now, and perhaps their immediate setting—her face, but that, too, was soon lost, to be replaced by a warm, hazy sensation, not unlike fainting, a mere feeling, a state of being, a certainty that at this moment she and I were experiencing the same feeling, sharing an identical, most intense state of being which never became conscious and in which there were no thoughts, glances, or bodies but all these fading into blurred outlines and replaced by something that cannot be talked about.