A Book of Memories

by Peter Nadas

  And you know what you can do with your morality.

  For me, the valet's temperate thighs, and seeing the tarred wall of the pissoir while dreaming of my fiancée's loins, were no frivolous adventures.

  Later, when I walked into the dining room and my eyes were hit by a sudden burst of morning sunshine, flashing and sparkling on the myriad surfaces of glass, mirrors, silverware, and china, not to mention people's eyes, I felt in my limbs this fresh morning brightness, a cozy well-being, the superiority of rebelliousness, and was glad I could immediately share it, look into those eyes with it, and glad that the sea was there, outside the window, still dark and rough from last night's storm, still foamy but gradually subsiding.

  And if anything interested me, it was the filthy immorality of this rotten God.

  And now I was glad that I had to observe some of those detestable rules of civilized conduct, which I looked down on with the awareness of my superiority, in the knowledge that I was once again in possession of my body.

  I found it an infinitely beautiful piece of pious hypocrisy that I, who only two days earlier had made love to my fiancée on the floor of my apartment and a short while ago had felt up the thigh of a valet, was now standing between the open wings of the dining-room door and, blinded a little by the dazzling light, with impunity smiled my most polite smile while listening to the hotelier, a portly, jovial, bald little man, none other than the son of the onetime owner, yes, that's who it was—when we were both children, he would often knock down the sand castles young Count Stollberg and I had built on the beach, and not only that but, being a few years older than we, had also beaten us mercilessly for daring to protest—this same man, in a loud and solemn yet congenially paternal voice, was now introducing me to the other guests, and I kept bowing in every direction, making sure everyone partook of my glance, just as they kept nodding, making certain their glances were polite enough and did not betray curiosity.

  At luncheon and supper everyone could choose from the abundant selection of food and sit at one long table to emphasize the more informal, familial character of these meals, as opposed to dinner, which was served more ceremoniously at five in the afternoon and at which we dined in small groups at separate tables; now there was no need to wait until everyone arrived; with the help of waiters posted around the table, guests could start eating as soon as they sat down, and in this regard nothing had changed in twenty years—I wouldn't have been surprised to find Mother at my table, or Privy Councillor Peter van Frick, or my father and Fräulein Wohlgast—the very same elegant silver flatware made the same clanging sound on the pale-blue, garland-patterned plates, although they must have gone through several sets since then; the heavy silver serving dishes were arranged with the same casual artistry, offering their varied courses in the form of a quaint relief map dedicated to good taste and designed to titillate the palate: firm heads of light-green artichokes dipped in tangy marinade, lobsters red and steaming in their shells, translucent pink salmon, rows and rows of sliced glazed ham and delicately braised veal, caviar-filled eggs, crispy endives, golden strips of smoked eel on dewy lettuce, various pâtés shaped in cones and balls—game terrine with truffles, fish mousse, pâté de foie gras—slender pickled gherkins, slabs of yellow Dutch cheese, bluefish in aspic, tart, sweet, and pungent sauces and creams in cups and dainty pitchers; mounds of fragrant warm toast, fresh fruit in multitiered crystal shells, crayfish of various kinds and sizes, quails baked crispy red, tiny sausages still sizzling in a pan, nut-filled quince jellies (of which I could never have enough as a child), and of course there were the warm fragrances filling the room, the evanescent whiffs of perfumes, colognes, pomades, and powders released with every gesture, and the harmonious music of crackling, swishing, jangling, splashing, and clinking rising above and submerged in the waxing and waning din of chatter, laughter, sighs, giggles, and whispers; had one decided to stand aside for a moment to find a secure spot in this well-ordered confusion, one would feel as though one were about to cast oneself into a turbulent icy river: gaze already cloudlessly vacant, obliging smile already on his lips, occasionally freezing into an unpleasant grin, and in his muscles the stirrings of pompous self-awareness, necessary if one is to abandon cozy solitude and make contact with others in a safely inconsequential maneuver, because one knows that here anything might happen, even though the public setting precludes the possibility of anything meaningful; nowhere do we feel the pleasant and unpleasant theatricality of our existence, the reality of peaks and valleys in our falseness and in the noble obligation of lying, as we do in company, when everyone is as politely vague as we are elusive, the strain of simultaneous attack and retreat making them vague and unreachable, and this, in turn, makes us feel drained, tired, and superfluous when on our own, and at the same time gratefully light-headed, too, for at the secret bidding of our desires things happen which in reality do not.

  And as faultless as our entrance may seem, it's always accompanied by something unpleasant which at such moments looms as an insurmountable obstacle or an acute embarrassment: sometimes the form and surface of our body, because no matter how carefully we draped it in the folds of our clothing, when terrified at being unable to find the place we had hoped to find in the gathering, we suddenly begin to feel awkward and ugly, our limbs too short or too long, perhaps because we want to be light, graceful, and attractive, really perfect; and then it may seem not the body but our ill-chosen, old-fashioned, or perhaps too fashionable suit that's embarrassing, a collar tight to the point of choking, a garish cravat, a sleeve too small at the shoulders, the seat of our pants stuck in the crack of our buttocks, not to mention the inner sensations that come on so strongly at just such moments: fine perspiration on the forehead, above the lips, on the back and in the armpits, or a parched throat, moist palms, a stomach that begins to rumble, rebelling against the contrived little social games, and bowels which seem always to choose these occasions to release malodorous winds caused by nervous digestion; and of course there is always somebody in such company whose mere presence is irritating, and we are ready to dispense with every reasonable consideration to give vent to antagonistic or perhaps amorous but in any case raw emotions, which must be restrained, of course, just as the sound of those foul winds from our lower body must be held in, because that is what the game is all about: to conceal everything that might be real, while making everything appear as convincingly and charmingly real as possible.

  Perhaps it's a boon in such situations that one has no time to dwell on their unpleasantness and must let the fixed smile immediately give way to polite words.

  It's as if a large pear had been shoved up our rectum and with the help of clever sphincters we must keep it in balance, neither sucking it in nor expelling it, which I must confess is how I feel in company, as I'm sure many other people do, as though we sense each other's presence in our constricted rumps—an unseemly matter, however shameless we may be.

  As the waiter (wearing the same kind of green tailcoat as the valet) led me to my place, I was shocked, nearly rooted to the floor, to see at the table the two ladies who had been on the train with me.

  But there was no time to deal with this, because as I took my place between my two immediate table companions, who were already conversing, I also had to glance at the others, which meant that even before the meal began, and because it was communal, I had to offer my face and eyes for their close inspection, which is always a very critical moment.

  The man on my right was striking, with almost completely gray-white hair, sleek youthful skin, luxuriant bushy black brows, a thick mustache, a full mouth, and darkly flashing eyes framed in an aggressive smile, and he immediately captivated me: I wished I'd sat across from him instead of next to him; in a slightly strange accent, he asked me if I had arrived yesterday during that awful storm; at first I thought he spoke in a dialect I was unfamiliar with, but as he went on—telling me that after three days of the furious storm everybody complained of sleeplessness, naturally enough,
because a storm, especially near water (in the mountains it is quite different, he knew from experience), plays havoc with one's nervous system, causing irritability and flaring tempers—I slowly realized he wasn't speaking in his native language, since he had a problem matching the tenses of the verbs in various parts of his sentences.

  "It's all the more pleasant to see the morning sun again in all its splendor! isn't it glorious?" chimed in the man on my left, loudly, his mouth full, waving before my face a bite-size prawn on the tip of his fork, and he went on to explain that I shouldn't misunderstand him, he had nothing against the hotel's cuisine, it was splendid, glorious! but his taste ran to simpler fare, no sauces and spices for him! and if I wanted to taste something truly glorious, I should follow his example, the seafood here was fresh, crisp, tasty, and as you bite down it's glorious! you can feel the sea on your tongue.

  Although he muttered "splendid, glorious," several more times later on, too, he seemed to be talking not so much to me as to the food he put in his mouth, because no matter how quickly and eagerly he made his food disappear, however pleasurably he crunched and chewed and ground and masticated the tasty morsels, it seemed it wasn't enough merely to satisfy his taste buds and he had to resort to voluble commentary to feel the certainty of total eating pleasure; around his plate lay little mounds of skin, bones, shells, and gristle, and later I saw that in spite of the waiters' efforts, carried out with a bemused, nearly devotional zeal, the greatest possible disorder surrounded his place setting, because he was always spilling, splashing, knocking over, or dripping something; his abrupt movements made his napkin slide off his lap, sometimes he had to retrieve it from under the table, there were crumbs everywhere, not just on the tablecloth but on his black and no doubt dyed goatee, on the wide lapels of his morning coat, on his less than spotless necktie; but all this did not seem to bother him at all, for only some minor accidents, say a piece of meat sliding out from under his knife, elicited apologetic gestures, and through it all he kept on chattering, with great gusto letting his sentences blend into his chewing and chomping, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed, while his face remained strangely motionless, unsmiling and tense, his wrinkled skin sallow and unhealthy-looking, his alarmed, deep-set eyes darting nervously in their shadowy sockets.

  There must have been twenty guests sitting at the long table; only one setting, right across from me, remained untouched.

  The younger of the two ladies was eating with her gloves on, which of course one couldn't help noticing, and as I looked at those unnaturally tight white gloves, I felt faint with the same weakness I'd felt the day before when, in our compartment on the train, she had so mercilessly revealed to me the secret of her hands.

  I took my time unfolding my napkin—I knew I wasn't going to eat much at this meal—and sensed the furtive glances at my face, eyes, suit, and necktie.

  I turned to the gray-haired gentleman on my right, who, incidentally, couldn't have been much older than I; he had broad shoulders, a thick neck, and a compact body; he wore a loose-fitting tan suit that went very well with his swarthy complexion, a somewhat lighter vest, and a lightly striped shirt, the sort of ensemble that was just becoming fashionable for daytime wear; in response to his earlier comment, I told him that I, too, had experienced some of the storm-related stress he spoke of, because, oddly enough, I was awakened by someone's shouts or screams, though it was conceivable, I continued with a candor surprising even for myself— most likely attributable to his confidence-inspiring looks—that no one was actually screaming and the sound was part of my unpleasant dream; in any case, I joined the ranks of those who complained of sleeplessness, although the first night at a new place, as we all knew, was never a reliable measure of one's true state; but by then he wasn't looking at me, seemed not to be hearing me anymore, a studied inattention in which there was something unpleasantly professorial, reminiscent of people who dole out their gestures, comments, and even silences with an air of all-knowing superiority and infallibility, thereby requiring us to be ingratiating, open, and sincere, using our own weakness to bolster their fragile egos; in the meantime, the man on my left was holding forth with what seemed like great expertise on methods of smoking and curing ham, a topic to which I had nothing to contribute, but so as not to appear indifferent, and to please him a little, I asked for a helping of prawns.

  The older of the two ladies—whom I'd recognized on the train only after several hours of being together, when she fell asleep with her mouth open and her head kept drooping sideways—was not eating at all but watching her daughter do so, sipping her hot chocolate for the sake of appearances, I suppose, so she wouldn't seem completely idle.

  And then I also started on my food.

  "We can count on you, can we not, Councillor, to accompany us as soon as possible after breakfast?"

  The old lady's voice was deep, husky, masculine, matching her large, bony frame, which made her dainty, lace-trimmed dress look rather like a stage costume.

  "I confess I am getting impatient."

  The two women sat inseparably close, closer perhaps than one might have deemed proper, and I had the impression it was the mother who needed this physical closeness, just as on the train when she almost fell on her daughter's shoulder though their bodies never actually touched.

  And I recalled the contempt and considerable disgust with which the daughter had watched her sleeping and fitfully snoring mother.

  Or could her contempt have been directed at me?

  "By all means, madam, that's exactly what I've had in mind," replied the prematurely gray gentleman on my right, "of course, as soon as possible, though I must say that in the given situation anything is possible."

  And again I had the feeling that the daughter was actually watching me, performing for me, avoiding my glance, of course, as I was avoiding hers.

  "And may I be so bold as to inquire if you still remember the dream which you considered so unpleasant?" asked the gray-haired gentleman in his sleepy voice, turning to me suddenly.

  "Indeed I do."

  "And may I ask you to tell it to me?"

  "My dream?"

  "Yes, your dream."

  For a moment we were both quiet, just looking at each other.

  "I'm a sort of dream collector, you see, with a butterfly net, running after other people's dreams," he said, flashing his attractive teeth in a broad smile that was withdrawn the very next instant, as though his sullen black eyes had penetrated inside me and found something deeply suspicious; there was a glint of discovery in the dark of those eyes.

  "But you mustn't think for a moment, Councillor, that I am rushing you!" said the old lady now, whereupon he turned to her as abruptly as he had to me a moment earlier—he seemed to enjoy making these sudden, unpredictable moves.

  "It's also possible, of course," he said in the same sleepy, absentminded tone, "that the crisis was brought on only by the stormy weather, and just as the elements have subsided, the distraught organism will also come to rest, and do not consider this merely as vain reassurance, my lady, for there is good reason to hope that that is just what will happen."

  I was only picking at my food, I didn't want to overburden my already constipated bowels.

  I had missed my morning ritual, which I forgo only in extreme circumstances, and now it was for the third time; first there was my fiancée's unexpected visit, then the journey, and that morning the pleasant appearance of the valet, so for three days I had had no normal bowel movement.

  "Well, how is it?" the man on my left asked.

  "Oh, really splendid!"

  And I couldn't tell which one of my two needs was more important, literary activity or the common daily evacuation, but with the passing years, I had to realize that in me the most abstract intellectual and the coarsest physical needs were so hopelessly intermingled that I could satisfy one only by satisfying the other.

  Giving me his undivided attention now, the black-goateed gentleman watched me chew and s
wallow my food, opening his mouth and pursing his lips, a little as mothers do, moving their own lips to help their little tots gum their food, and then he looked around triumphantly as if to say that, as we can see, he was again right about something.

  Usually, after getting out of bed in the morning, still unwashed and unshaven and with only a robe on, I head straight for my desk; if memory serves, I acquired this habit back in my parents' house after my father's terrible deed and even more dreadful suicide, when hours had to pass before I could start the day, since, without being aware of it, for years afterward I lived in the torpor of his story: I often found myself on the banks of an immense, majestic river, and if I didn't want to be swept away in the powerful current I had to grasp at brittle, dried-out branches of willows on the shore and pull myself from the silt, and as I did, I saw the gray, gurgling current twist and cradle and rush away with uprooted trees and dead bodies.

  Sitting at my desk, staring out my window at the rooftops across the way and sipping my chamomile tea, I'd pull over a sheet of paper absently and jot down a sentence or two, casually, without much thought.

  Hilde and I no longer had any secrets from each other; there were only the two of us left in the house; we rarely went out; the neglected summer garden was growing wild around us; sometimes we fell asleep in each other's arms, but without this closeness causing any sexual excitement; she was in her fortieth year then, I was nineteen; I knew that my father had violated the innocence of her warmly yielding body and then for years afterward used her, like an object, for his pleasure; and she knew she was holding in her arms the grown son of that beloved man who a few months earlier had raped, mutilated, and killed her niece, a rare beauty, a delicate girl-child whom she had brought into the house to help with the domestic chores.

  Stories, curious little tales composed with no lofty intention, emerged from the sentences, while I waited for the slowly cooling bittersweet tea to loosen my bowels, sentences with which I could make myself forget the night that had just passed.