A Book of Memories

by Peter Nadas

  What we should have got started on, what we both wanted to begin, was the search that, once we did begin—our own compulsion making us shake and tremble—was so grave and dark a secret she didn't mention it to anyone, and I'm convinced she's been quiet about it ever since, just as I've never spoken about it to anyone, ever—let this white sheet of paper be my first confidant!—not even to each other did we mention it, we merely alluded to it, dropped hints about it; it remained a silent event in our lives, and in a certain sense we blackmailed each other with the fact that we had a secret so terrible it could not be shared with anyone, binding us together more fatefully than any form of love ever could.

  And what is that mark on your neck, she asked, her whisper no more than a breath.

  This red one, here.

  For a moment I didn't know what she was talking about, thought she was just playing for time, not wanting to get started, but I also needed more time just then.

  Oh, that mark? it's nothing; she bit my neck, that's all, I said, and I didn't have to say who, she knew; and I was very pleased that the teeth marks were still visible and that she'd noticed them.

  From the shade of the apple trees, the hammock swung lazily into the light.

  I've never forgotten that afternoon, either.

  And with her mouth sunk into me, as if her lips had fallen asleep, we stayed that way.

  As the hammock swung into the light and the two tightening ropes tugged the trees, Szidónia's voice grew stronger; the leafy crowns of the apple trees rustled, the branches strained and moaned, and then, as the hammock swung back, she lowered her voice, which not only lent a curious, almost panting rhythm to the story but for no logical reason amplified certain of her sentence fragments, while others became barely audible whispers; her voice swung back and forth, the unripe apples kept shaking on their stems; I was standing behind a round shrub, a boxwood, enveloped by the warm fragrance of the little oily green leaves, listening to Szidónia talking about some streetcar conductor, and the rhythm of her voice, growing alternately loud and soft, seemed to be in direct contact with Maja, because she pushed the hammock as if in immediate response to the story—more vigorously or more gently, speeding up or slowing down the pace, now shoving it furiously, let's get on with it! now barely giving it a tap, anyway rather unpredictably; the conductor was short, with big, bulging, bloodshot eyes, his forehead full of pimples, "big as my fingers," Szidónia was saying, "red and bumpy," which made Maja squeal and give the hammock a good shove, though interestingly enough, the emotional tones of Szidónia's delivery oddly suggested complete detachment—she talked about everything with the cheerful smile of someone for whom details are very important but never very meaningful, let alone decisive, each detail being important simply in and of itself; she took the Number 23 tram, getting on the last car, where she liked to ride because "it jerks and bounces"; the tram was almost empty; of course she sat on the shady side; she was wearing her white blouse with the picot-edged light-blue collar which Maja liked because it hugged her hips so nicely, and the white pleated skirt which at home she was allowed to wear only on holidays like Easter, because it soiled so easily, and whenever she sat down in it she spread a handkerchief under herself; besides, it was hard to iron all those pleats; it was warm in the streetcar, and this conductor— he may have been a Gypsy, Szidónia thought, Gypsies have such bulging eyes—rolled down all the windows, every last one of them, using one of those hand cranks; it took him a long time, because the crank kept slipping out of its slot; then he sat down opposite her, quite a distance away, actually, on the sunny side, put the crank back into his conductor's bag, and began staring at her; but she pretended not to notice him, as if she had to close her eyes because of the wind blowing in her face; what she liked best was when the tram was going really fast, because that scared her, especially around sharp bends; once she got on a roller coaster with her godmother's younger sister and she thought she was going to die right there and then; and there was this other man in her car, watching the conductor watching her, but she kept forgetting about them, because she was really looking out the window, or she closed her eyes and thought of other things; but she did not get off, kept on riding, and the conductor kept changing his seat, moving closer to her; of course she took a look at his hands, he didn't have a wedding band; though she didn't find him attractive she liked his jet-black hair and the hair on his arms, he was a bit dirty-looking; and she was curious to see what would happen, whether he would have the nerve to speak to her, especially while the other man kept looking at them.

  I could actually see her thick brown hair getting dry in the heat of the afternoon; when I'd begun watching them from behind the hedges, it still clung wetly to her bare back and shoulders; she was wearing a white linen undershirt and a lace-trimmed petticoat; the vestee, as she called the little shirt, fastened in front with tiny snaps and held down, almost flattening her aggressively large breasts, but it left bare her back, her broad shoulders, and her strong fleshy arms; as the hammock kept rising into the light and falling back into the shade, the drying strands of hair on her shoulders and back gradually came unstuck, at first only at the edges, fluttering and gliding in the wake of each swing.

  Then finally, she went on, after riding like this for a good long time they got to the last stop, except she didn't know it was the last stop, and the conductor, sitting opposite her but much closer, now stood up, and so did the other man, to get off, though he was still looking at them, wondering what would happen; he seemed a decent sort, wore decent clothes, a white shirt and black hat, and had a small parcel with him, probably food, because the wrapper was greasy, and yet he looked hungry, but not drunk; then the conductor told her that it was the last stop and to his regret they'd have to part company; and she laughed at him, saying there was no need to part, she'd take the return trip with him.

  This made both girls laugh, a brief, dry, I'd say colliding laughter, a meeting and sudden breaking off of two separate laughs; Maja stopped pushing the hammock and with a quick move gathered her skirt between her thighs and, still sitting, leaned stiffly forward; the hammock was slowing down, and in the girls' silence it continued to rock Szidónia's body gently for a little while longer; I felt I had come upon their innermost secret; they looked so familiar and at the same time I was seeing them for the first time; Maja's eyes seemed to be thrusting, retrieving, and rocking Szidónia, while Szidónia's softly swaying glance kept Maja in a charmed immobility; but it was not only that with their looks they held each other in this position, but that their faces also remained fixed in that short, dry, somewhat sarcastic burst of laughter; no matter how different those two sets of silently parted lips, wide-open eyes, and raised eyebrows, the sharing of their secrets made the two girls alike.

  When the hammock was only barely swinging, about to stop, Maja grabbed Szidónia with both hands and gave her a mighty push; there was cruelty and fierceness in the movement, even a touch of wickedness, but not directed against Szidónia so much as sent forth with her, and Szidónia, flying back into the light, resumed her story, her loud voice resonating with the same touch of wickedness.

  On the way back, she said, the conductor went on talking to her, but she wouldn't respond, only listen, look at his bulging eyes, get up suddenly to change her seat, playing this little game for a while, as the conductor would also get up, follow her, not listen, go on talking and talking; no one else got on the streetcar for a long time, and the conductor told her about how he, too, was from the country and lived in a workers' hostel and how much he wanted to find out her name; she didn't tell him, of course; and he said he'd fallen in love with her the moment he saw her, she was the kind of girl he'd always been looking for, and she shouldn't be afraid of him, and wanting to be honest with her, he'd tell her right away that he just got out of jail a week ago, having served a year and a half, and all that time he hadn't been with a woman, but she should hear him out, he was completely innocent; he was an illegitimate child, his mother had a friend
, a boozing good-for-nothing whom his mother had sent packing and never wanted to see again, even though she had another child by him, a little girl, and the conductor loved this little sister of his more than his own life, and since his mother was a very sick woman, with a bad heart, he had to raise the little girl, a sweet child with golden hair; but the man kept coming back, whenever he ran out of money or had no place to sleep, he would come and kick in the door, he even smashed in their window a couple of times, and when he couldn't have his way he would beat the sick woman, call her a whore; and if he, the conductor, tried to stop him, then the big lug would beat him up, too; one night, after they'd bathed the little girl and put her to bed, he was doing the dishes and accidentally left a knife on the table; it wasn't a big knife but very sharp—he used to sharpen all their knives—the man showed up again, and it was the same old story: they wouldn't let him in, but then the neighbors started yelling that they'd had enough of this, and so his mother finally opened the door, he came in and started after her; as she was backing away from him, she reached the table and tried to hold on to it, and as she did she felt the knife; she snatched it up and stabbed the bastard, and then, to make sure his little sister wouldn't lose her mother, he confessed to the crime, but at the trial it came out that he wasn't the one who'd done it, because the door was open and the neighbors saw everything; so he was sentenced to a year for perjury and for being an accessory to a crime; and now he was asking her not to get off the streetcar without giving him her address at least, he wasn't asking for a date, but he didn't want to lose her, and anyway, from now on he wouldn't stop thinking about that pretty face of hers.

  Maja sprang up from the ground because she could push more easily when standing, took two steps back, spread her legs, dug in her heels, and pushed Szidónia so hard that it looked as if she'd meant to turn her over completely, which was of course impossible; the apple trees groaned and creaked, their crowns trembled, but up there, in the light, the hammock always came to a halt and, pulled back by the weight it carried, came swinging back with equal force; and Szidónia, catching her breath and shouting from the speeding hammock, continued her story.

  Well, if he really wanted to see her again, she told him, he should take this tram on Saturday afternoon to Boráros Square, change to Number 6; yes, but he was on duty Saturday afternoon; well, change shifts with somebody, take the Number 6 to Moszkva Square, change to Number 56, and then get off at the cog-railway station, walk up Adonisz Road, and at the end of the stone fence around the first house he'd find a trail leading to the forest, he couldn't miss it, he'd see three tall pine trees, he should walk right into the forest and keep walking until he came to a large clearing and she'd be waiting for him there.

  The only thing was, she'd already made a date for the same time with Pista, Szidónia was now shouting.

  I, too, knew this Pista.

  But she said she was curious to see what these two would do with one another.

  Maja could contain herself no longer; her whole body tautened with excitement, and I could sense that the tension would soon reach a point where she'd have to tear herself away from Szidónia's story; she was still pushing the hammock, then suddenly covered her face with both hands, as if she had to laugh as hard as Szidónia was shouting, but no sound came from her, she was only shamming this laughter, for her own benefit, and for Szidónia's; the hammock kept flying of its own momentum, and Maja seemed determined to continue the game, false or true: once she started it, she had to go on; pressing her hand to her stomach, she nearly doubled over with this silent laughter; convulsing, she sank to the ground, slipped her hands between her thighs, which she kept pressing together, and looked up at Szidónia as if she were about to pee in her pants.

  In patches, the skin on her neck and face turned white, her body seemed glued to the ground, and I knew she was ashamed of herself, but her curiosity must have been equally deep and eager, because her mouth was open and because, begging all at once for mercy and for more of the story, her eyes were flashing wildly among the tall blades of yellowing grass.

  But Szidónia did not wait for the hammock to stop; she sat up, grabbed the taut ropes on both sides, and, thrusting out and pulling in her bare feet, she began to pump herself forward and backward, as on a swing, the effort making even her wrinkling forehead turn red though her voice remained soft and steady, and the smile, with her teeth continually exposed, did not leave her face for a moment, which must have been painful for Maja to bear.

  By the time she got there, Pista was waiting; she hid in the thicket where the trail dipped, on that flat rock among the bushes where they often found discarded condoms—yes, Maja knew where that was—a very good spot from which you can see everything, but from below no one can see you; she was squatting on this flat rock, didn't dare sit down, ready to run away should something unexpected happen; Pista was not in uniform that day, he wore a blue suit and a white shirt—the reason she'd not told Maja about all this before was that she was afraid of the possible consequences; anyway, Pista was lying in the grass, on his back, smoking, his neatly folded jacket next to him on the ground, he was such a neat fellow; he was planning to take her dancing later on; for a long time nothing happened; Pista wasn't getting impatient, and there was no noise of any kind, nothing to make him think she was coming, only the sun shining very brightly, and once in a while he shook himself, a fly must have landed on him; this made her want to laugh up there on the rock, but she wouldn't; she began to think that the conductor might not show at all, because she heard the cogwheel train stop, move on, and still he didn't come; anyway, a whole hour went by, because he came with the next train; Pista kept smoking and twisting and shooing away the flies, and once in a while she did sit down on the rock.

  That's what he always did, that Pisti, pretend not to hear her; he'd always do that, and then she'd sneak up on him and kiss him, but even then he wouldn't pull his hand out from under his head and wouldn't throw away his cigarette; with his eyes open he'd pretend he didn't see her, and then she had to go on kissing him on his mouth, his face, and his neck until he couldn't stand it anymore, and then he'd kiss her back, and pull her down, and by then she couldn't get away no matter how hard she tried, he wouldn't let her, he was very strong: now the conductor was there, and he stopped; he was still in uniform, with his conductor's bag slung over his shoulder, who knows, maybe he just simply left his tram for her; he looked around to make sure he was at the right place and then, very quietly so Pisti wouldn't hear him, he backed away, back among the trees; she couldn't see him anymore, though Pisti sat up.

  From her place she saw that Pisti couldn't see the conductor but the conductor could see Pisti, and Pisti must have sensed that.

  Because Pisti acted as if he was just getting up, having rested there for a while, and was now ready to go on; picking up his jacket, he was on his way; but as soon as he got as far as the trees, he suddenly turned around and kept staring at the spot where he thought the conductor must be hiding.

  And then she, squatting up there in the stifling heat, felt that she had suddenly got her period, and she had no panties on.

  You're an idiot, you're a complete idiot, Maja said.

  Slowly the conductor ventured out of his hiding place, not completely, for a while he just stood there, under the trees, listening for noise, adjusting his leather bag and rubbing his forehead, all those pimples, and he was very nervous, thinking maybe he was at the wrong place after all; and then he started walking, not noticing that Pisti was watching him.

  In the meantime, she had such cramps she thought she was going to burst; she reached under her skirt and felt that everything was bloody, it was gushing out of her and, since she was crouching, trickling down her behind and dripping onto the rock; she didn't know what to do, she couldn't very well stand up; when the conductor reached the middle of the clearing, suddenly Pisti also stepped out into the open and started toward him to cut him off; luckily she had a handkerchief with her; she folded it, twisted its e
dges, and then stuffed it in; but she still couldn't wipe the blood off or budge from her place; and she was sure Pisti had figured out she had a hand in all this, she was still pretty sure even though he never said anything about it to her; and now he was headed straight for the conductor as if he didn't even see he was there; whenever it was hot, Pisti would hook a finger into the loop of his jacket and sling it over his back; anyway, the conductor could no longer turn back, even if he wanted to; he stopped, and so did Pisti; all she could see was that he yanked the jacket off his back and smacked the conductor across the face with it, and when the conductor doubled over and put up his hands to protect himself, Pisti hit him on the back of his head with the hand he had the jacket in, hit him hard, so hard that the conductor just crumpled up, tripped over his bag so stupidly the change spilled out all over the grass.

  She thrust out her beautiful bare feet and pulled them under herself, but she was sitting too deep inside the hammock to pump; the hammock barely swayed to and fro.

  And then Pisti left, just like that, without even looking around; and she never told him she'd seen the whole thing, but she's pretty sure that if she ever ran into that conductor again he would probably beat her.

  Maja sat up, the mysterious dignity of her face and bearing somehow reflecting Szidónia's calm and infinite satisfaction; for a long time they did nothing but look at each other, silently and a bit dreamily staring straight into each other's eyes, and to me this silence was far more telling than the story I'd just heard; each time Szidónia thrust out her feet she almost brushed Maja's face, but Maja did not bat an eye; it was as if now, in this silence, something more important than the story was happening, or assuming a recognizable shape, something that moments earlier I'd felt to be a secret, their secret, and it may have been nothing more than Szidónia's urge to tell all this to Maja and Maja's urge to listen.