A Book of Memories

by Peter Nadas

  No, no, the events of the last few months had finally restored his senses, Father said without raising his voice or looking at anyone, and this was followed by another silence, hollow yet grating; as a matter of fact, he added, the reason he had asked them to come was that he was still hoping to find a few men in this country who, like him, had managed not to lose their good sense.

  Fully aware of his dignity, returned to him by the men's silence, his professional confidence marked by his smoothly flowing sentences, he remained seated comfortably in his chair, his hands on the armrest; he did not wish to create a scene or to give a lecture, he went on very quietly, it was a simple, sentimental human impulse that made him remind those present of their obligations which all of them had taken on themselves, not here and not now but for a lifetime, and, he smiled before continuing, in the present political situation he couldn't see how anyone could possibly ignore these obligations; he wasn't looking into anyone's eyes, his smile seemed to be meandering among the faces with that inexplicably sharp glance which always terrified me, which I took to be the sign of madness or deliberate cruelty or maniacal paranoia; he had a very simple proposal to make, he said, speaking without a pause now, the words rolling out as if from a recording, after due consideration he had concluded that to prevent a possible counterrevolutionary takeover, they should establish an armed group totally independent of the army, the police, and the security forces that would be accountable only to the highest echelon of the government.

  The last words hovered in the air, then froze between the two potentialities of unqualified endorsement of a self-evident idea and vehement rejection, and only then did pandemonium break out—everything from deliberate and accidental knocking over of chairs, pounding on tables, slapping of knees, bellowing, hissing, yelling, shrieking, hostile whistling, guffaws and laughter of all kinds, although some of the guests remained quiet, and the young woman thrust herself away from the doorpost, seeming to want to say something, her face flushed with indignation, while in the middle of the room the colonel was slowly turning his round, smiling face this way and that; the sad-faced elderly man stopped rocking his chair long enough to silence his daughter with a wave of his hand, and then resumed.

  I must confess, I told Melchior sixteen years later in that Berlin streetcar, that I hadn't found the scene at all painful, on the contrary, rather enjoyed it, it made me happy, and not only because—rational consideration notwithstanding, which I'm sure I wasn't capable of at the time—I was impressed by Father's regained prestige, determination, and reckless resolve, qualities that to an adolescent boy are always attractive and admirable regardless of their motivation (even Prém, whose fascist father beat him with sticks and straps, was proud of how strong that drunken beast was); no, my satisfaction had a quite different source: I knew something about Father those men could not have known; they weighed what was happening in political terms, and I weighed it emotionally, I knew that for all his insistence on not wanting to, he was creating a scene, mad performance being the only possible way to escape his own madness, to externalize his innermost insanity, for he was insane, so why shouldn't I have been happy to see this unexpected, purging release; ever since Mother's death, more precisely since János Hamar's return, he had been struggling with this madness; only a few days earlier we had been sitting in the kitchen having dinner when he suddenly looked at me, and I could tell he was seeing not me but someone or something else, something tormenting him, the compulsion to overcome which grew so powerful that his mouth, though full of food, dropped open and he began screaming at the top of his voice, half-chewed bits of food squirting out of his mouth and spattering all over the table, all over my face, and tears streaming from his petrified eyes: "Why, why, why?" he howled at me as I sat leaning against the white-tiled kitchen wall, "why, why?"—he could not stop himself, and as I struggled along with him in that howl, he fell silent just as abruptly as he had started screaming, and it wasn't my touch or hug that calmed him, not my hand or the proximity of my body, I don't know what made him stop, maybe he just resigned himself to being defeated by that someone or something within him, because my hands and body told me he was feeling nothing, he was hard as stone, was no longer there; his head sank into his plate, into the soggy vegetables, as if part of the humiliation he had to endure was soggy vegetables on his plate.

  Melchior let go of the strap and motioned with his head that it was time to get off.

  We were standing on a square, at the end of the line; the streetcar moved on, making the tracks shriek as it slowly turned, taking its lights with it from behind us; we should have started toward the Festungsgraben, where, among drab little houses, the festively illuminated theater stood, one of the few buildings to have survived the war unscathed, though the lovely little park around it had been completely destroyed.

  Others were headed in the same direction, too—black, spit-shined men's shoes, the hems of cheap evening gowns sweeping the pavement and getting caught on gilded high heels—but we stayed there for a while, as if waiting for everyone to leave so for a few moments we could have the dark square all to ourselves.

  The feeling that we must be alone now was palpably mutual.

  It was also strange, I continued after we started walking down the dark street toward the theater, that Father always made the mistake of calling Marx Square by its old name, Berlin Square—meet me at Berlin Square at such and such time, though as soon as he said it he'd correct himself, I mean Marx Square, under the clock; the only reason I thought of this now, I explained, was because that Sunday they couldn't agree on anything, they kept on shouting and arguing for hours without making any sense, until the young woman in the silk dress began to speak despite her father's warning signal; they seemed unable to decide what they really thought of Father's proposal: on the one hand, they accused him of factionalism, sowing discord, some even yelling conspiracy and calling him a provocateur, demanding to know whose agent he really was, telling him they had no choice but to report him; and on the other hand, they admitted the situation had indeed gotten out of hand. State Security had been forced into a corner, the police were unreliable to begin with, the army officer corps was visibly disintegrating under constant, intolerable political pressure, something had to be done before it was too late, before even ordinary criminals were let out of the jails; if yesterday everybody had been an enemy, today everybody was everybody's brother; the most trustworthy Communists were being vilified, people were looking for scapegoats and finding them, directives went unheeded or never reached their destination, everyone was raking up the past, fishing in troubled waters, even the glorious Communist past, even the Spanish Civil War, was open to scrutiny, the whole Party apparatus was full of opportunists and obstructionists, miserable hacks and pen pushers were demanding freedom of the press, nobody worked anymore, public order had virtually collapsed, people were wrapped up in their private affairs, cynically serving two masters, and on top of all that were the enemy's subversive activities; in a word, the country was becoming ungovernable, and for this very reason every firm measure seemed a provocation, unity should not be destroyed by new factional strife, yet who had the right to talk of unity if they themselves could not agree on a proper course of action, it would be irresponsible to incite the various organs of the state against each other, not dissent but confidence had to be strengthened, which all depended on the right kind of propaganda, radical measures only added oil to the fire, the press had to be curbed, anyone with plans like Father's was playing into the hands of the enemy, after all, you can't piss against the wind, when a house is on fire you don't put it out by pouring oil on it; throughout all this, Father sat motionless, saying not a word; but now he was not looking at his friends as from afar, his glance wandering among the faces, but with a vaguely satisfied, friendly smile he gazed at them like one who has finally reached his goal, come home, behavior which made the situation much more complicated: those who were hostile neither to him nor to his proposal might wonder whether he w
asn't a provocateur, after all, sitting there so calmly, having used the pistol trick to make people come clean; and his most vociferous accusers might ask themselves how he could stay so calm, so impervious, unless he was indeed backed by people in the highest places, and what did he know that they didn't, while they had unthinkingly revealed their most guarded cards?

  And he spoke again, very quietly, but only after rising suspicion had overtaken the group and the shouting had died down, the angry gestures became hesitant; no, the reason he had asked them here, he said, his voice measured and self-assured, was not to debate whether his proposal was necessary or not but to discuss how to execute it.

  The unheard-of audacity of this statement immediately dispelled their suspicion, for only someone speaking with the force of his own convictions could be so outrageously imperious; his words again required silence.

  Thinking only in political and ideological terms, busy looking for tactics and strategies they believed to be consistent, these people failed to realize that Father had silenced their suspicion not with brilliant reasoning, convinced them not with bold strokes of logic but with the insanity of his argument; an insane man was seizing the reins.

  He was about to say something else when the young woman next to me suddenly spoke up, throwing out her arms in a warning and imploring gesture, her fingers trembling in the air as she begged the men's pardon— I was surprised at the strong, resonant voice that came out of her fragile, emotion-filled body; listening to the arguments, she said, she had the impression that she had dropped in not from another country but from another planet; frankly, she didn't know or much care where the members of this esteemed company lived, but in the country where she lived the restoration of a free and democratic government, elected by secret ballot, would be a more appropriate response to the crisis than the deployment of a provocative armed force, and they should not forget that she was not the only person in the country who held this view.

  While she was speaking, trembling with emotion, her father stopped rocking in his chair, planted his feet firmly on the floor, and stared ahead with impassive approval as if he knew exactly what his daughter was going to say, even when the period would come at the end of her last sentence.

  Unheard-of, this was simply unheard-of, as if an outrageous impropriety had taken place, one that must not be answered or acknowledged, seen or heard, it was beyond anything debatable, it had to be dismissed immediately, except the proper action to do so was lacking; they all sat there stunned.

  The woman's father let his chair rock back now, and it swung down with what sounded like a deliberate thud, a reply of sorts, as if to say enough is enough! then he rose ceremoniously, suggesting that he might be able to defuse the situation, walked over to Father, placed his hand on his arm, and addressed him, not too loudly or too quietly, making sure everyone heard him: he thought Father's idea was well worth considering, he said, certainly worth detailed discussion, but perhaps later, as part of a larger debate, or better yet, in a smaller, more intimate setting; so many arguments and counter-arguments had been heard just now, he believed it would be premature, indeed impossible, to form a definite opinion; when he got to this point, many of the others started talking again, too, involuntarily assuming his reasonable, delaying, wait-and-see tone, and speaking as if nothing untoward had happened, everyone anxious to move on to other subjects or, if they had to stay with the one at hand, ready to switch to different, less confrontational attitudes.

  Some of them got up, cleared their throats, began to gather their things, lit up last cigarettes, went out onto the balcony, exchanged furtive little glances in allusion to what had been said, here and there giggled, acted precisely as people of varied opinions would act at a not very exciting official reception.

  Although it may appear that all this did not amount to much, I told Melchior while we were still walking, very soon afterward I had a definite indication that the debate that Sunday was not a total fiasco and, what's more, that the young woman's words might have helped the debaters clarify their own views; a few days later Father and I made a date to meet at Marx Square, to buy a pair of shoes, I think; I waited in vain for an hour and a half; when he finally got home late that night, his clothes and hair reeking of cigarette smoke, he told me he had had to attend a meeting of historic importance and could not leave it; he sounded anxious but also hopeful as he begged my pardon; this unusual, talkative politeness led me to believe that while he might not have prevailed at the meeting, at least he had not suffered another defeat—we got an additional respite from his madness.

  I stopped talking, abruptly, as if I had something more to say but had no idea what I could add or how I had got entangled in the story, which suddenly seemed false, alien, and far removed from me; we kept walking, listening to the even sound of our footsteps, Melchior asked no questions and I was glad I didn't have to say another word.

  And in this silence punctuated by our footsteps which was not really silence but the absence of appropriate words, I felt that everything I'd said until then was nothing but idle talk, just words, an impenetrable and superfluous heap of empty words, foreign to me, not bending to my tongue; it was senseless to talk without the proper words, and there were none, not even in my native vocabulary, that would lead somewhere in this story, nowhere to go in the story, for there is no story when compulsive memory continually bogs down in insignificant details or details imagined to be meaningless; at that moment, for example, in my mind I was wandering about the old Marx Square in Budapest waiting for Father, and of course he didn't show up, and still I couldn't tear myself away from there—but why would I tell Melchior about that?

  One can only tell the story of something, and I wanted to tell him everything, the whole of the story all at once, to transfer it, place it in his body, vomit it into this great love of mine, but where did that elusive whole begin and end? how could it be created in a language that had nothing to do with my body and weighed so heavily on my tongue?

  I had never talked about these events before, not ever, not to anyone, because I had not wanted them to turn into an adventure story, what was not a story should not be turned into one, it would be better to bury it alive in the crypt of memory, the only fitting and undisturbed resting place for it.

  In that dark Berlin street I felt I was desecrating the dead.

  And isn't silence the only perfect whole?

  We were walking side by side, shoulder to shoulder, head alongside head, and in my distracted state I failed to realize that talking to him had become difficult because I had been talking to his eyes, and now the eyes were no longer there.

  And at the same time I also felt that our echoing footsteps, our well-matched leg movements, taking us closer and closer to the theater, were also curbing my storytelling urge; no problem, then, the story would end, remain unfinished anyway, and just as well: we'd go to the theater, enjoy the performance, and whatever was still left of the story I would simply swallow, and at least the shame of talking about these events would also remain incomplete.

  Thick shafts of floodlights, misty around the huge reflectors, ripped the building out of the autumn evening, and the theater stood before us in the cold blinding blaze like an ungraceful cardboard box; when we stepped into the naked light where people, slightly blinded, hastened to partake of an evening fare that promised release and oblivion, I still wanted to tell Melchior something, something interesting, something funny, anything that would bring a closure to this frustrating walk.

  You know, I said without thinking too much, for I was still wandering about that old square, this Marx Square, which Father always called Berlin Square, which was memorable for another reason, because while I was waiting for Father, a group of drunks staggered out of Ilkovits, a notorious dive known all over the city, and among them was a sorry-looking old whore who came reeling over to me, I thought she wanted to ask me something so I turned toward her; she took my arm, bit my ear, and panted seductively that I should go with her, she'd love to
blow me, free of charge, and she was sure I had a sweet little cock.

  She was right about that, I added, laughing, trying to be funny.

  Melchior stopped, turned to me, and he not only did not smile but gave me his gravest, most motionless look.

  In embarrassment I continued: she was no fancy lady, only a two-bit whore, she said, but I had nothing to fear, she knew better than anybody what adorable little gentlemen like me liked to have done to them.

  With his impassive face Melchior indicated displeasure, but then took both my arms by the elbows, and as his face drew close to mine a tiny smile appeared, not around his mouth but in his eyes, but this had to do not with my evasive little joke but with his determination that right there, in the middle of this floodlit square, in plain sight of people hurrying to the theater, he was going to kiss me, quite passionately, on the mouth.

  This soft, warm kiss gave birth to many more tiny kisses, enough of them to cover my closed eyelids, my forehead, and my neck; his lips, with their rapid slides and thrusts, seemed to be groping for something; I don't think anybody noticed, or, having noticed, paid any attention, though I must say they missed a great moment; but then our arms, protectively thrusting us apart, fell to our sides and we stood there looking at each other.

  Then I got back that one, single eye.

  He laughed, or rather his strong, wild, white teeth flashed from his soft mouth, he motioned to the entrance and said, We don't really have to go in.

  No, we don't.

  The show could go on without us.

  It sure could.

  But that single eye, at that moment, in the midst of the crowd, was telling me something very different.

  Well, that's the end of the story, I said.

  He smiled back at me, mysteriously, calmly, beautifully; I did not fully understand that smile then, for it was not his usual, steady, inescapable smile, the one I at once loved and hated; but I had to obey it, I had no choice; perhaps for the first time in our relationship he fully possessed me.