Parallel Stories: A Novel

by Peter Nadas

  What she could least abide was her dark and mighty nipples, forever facing downward, and who knows since when. One irritation increased the next, and she became furious about being furious. Good Lord, how utterly witless I can be. I’m a silly goose, she said to herself half aloud, hoping to calm her agitation.

  A common goose, that’s what I am.

  Agitated or not, the attacks came and went; depending on which branch of the coronary artery they occurred in, their symptoms varied. Now she felt their painful pressure in her chest, now the fingers of her left hand went numb. Sometimes the pressure was great yet an attack did not develop, at other times she barely felt anything yet the attack laid her low. Occasionally she had so much pain in her shoulders she felt as if her accelerated pulse were beating through the marrow of her bones, but occasionally the pain was very much like what she experienced after an eating binge when she indiscriminately stuffed herself. Even her back suffered sometimes, as if it were about to give way, or her shoulder. Nothing, a mere swelling. If in small doses she passed some of the gas in her intestines, she’d feel better immediately. Because the inner pressure felt like pain to her.

  However she disciplined herself, the pain was unbearable; or rather, she endured it but wished to be free of it. But there was no wind in her bowels, there was nothing to release, only this slowly rising, pressing ache, the unmistakable sign of an attack. And then she felt the pressure would burst her sternum asunder from the inside. And breathlessness at the same time. How she longed to breathe, but there was not enough air. Maybe somewhere else, but not here. Above her lips and on her forehead cold sweat broke out in every pore; a clammy film covered her face as if she were wearing an icy mask. Still, she could not cool off. Maybe she should open the window.

  There is no air in the room; there is no air; there is no air in the air.

  Oh, her bones won’t bear this, she’ll simply explode. She can see the air of others; they have what she does not.

  Oh God, how happy they are. They walk on the street and don’t even notice they have air.

  Oh, this is absurd. There is no way to get air from the air. Or maybe there is no oxygen in it.

  She knows, she sees that others have air, only she has none, they’ve taken it away, there wasn’t enough to go around.

  If she is not alert to what’s coming, it might be too late.

  But the idea of lateness always gave her a bit of an extension, which she used to struggle against the panic of being late, so that it should not overwhelm her, because then the too-late might come true.

  But her feet are not carrying her body fast enough, she is too heavy, everything has slowed down, and she cannot tell whether she will reach her goal before total darkness. What eternities pass while one foot manages to catch up with the other. Yet she feels her body to be lighter now, her steps barely touching the ground. And there is a stranger here too, whose breath whistles more loudly in her ear.

  Cannot tell how long she might continue to feel it, hear it, even though she hates it.

  When this happens, she moves blindly, with numb fingers she rifles in bags, drawers, jewelry boxes, phials, so at least at the very last moment, with the very edge of her nails, she can grasp her medicine. Sometimes she succeeds in getting at the lifesaving medicine with her long manicured bright red nails; her fingers do not have the confidence to extract a single pill from the many, but a pill can stick to the underside of a nail; that’s how she brings it to her mouth, tucks it under her tongue, where it has to dissolve. A vessel called the vena lingualis runs across the base of the tongue, and nitroglycerin, the agent that widens blood vessels, is easily dissolved in this intimate location and then seeps through the wall of the vein. After a few long, impatiently awaited seconds, it reaches the heart; in the coronary artery, it widens the passage narrowed by sclerosis and fatty deposits.

  And then the blood begins to circulate. Blood pressure drops, the pulse slows, oxygen reaches the heart’s muscles; the body, tensed with anxiety, relaxes.

  There were times when the medicine took effect immediately. At other times it had no effect at all.

  Sometimes it had a little, or she deceived herself that it did—yes, I’m feeling better—even though she felt worse. Or the medicine began to work but only a few minutes later, when the stranger had stopped panting disgustingly into her ear and the icy mask on her face began to melt, and suddenly she felt the next and stronger attack approaching. And if this were not enough, the medicine caused a collateral hyperemia in the abdominal cavity, loosened the abdominal wall and the sphincter muscles, resulting in an attack of diarrhea; gasping for air, entrusting the weight of her body to empty walls and sliding furniture, invoking God, she fought her way across the entire apartment.

  If in such a state someone tried to help her she would silently refuse to accept it.

  Until now, she always made it to the toilet, if only just in time. Where the shit literally burst out of her rectum. While, of course, the pain, pressure, and tightness below the sternum did not let up. While her mind was racing, writhing with humiliation. While the rotten medicine was back in the room or she couldn’t find it in her dressing-gown pocket. She kept repeating to herself a single sentence, but of course, I’ll keel over right here, I’ll drop dead like this, and her hand was groping after the toilet chain on the wall.

  If she could at least reach the chain, she wouldn’t have to die in this awful stink.

  And a wicked little girl was sitting inside her who has been giggling at everything. Maybe this was her soul, something that people call the very depth of the soul.

  And that reminded her of her little dead daughter.

  This wicked little girl could not be frightened; she feared nothing; she kept laughing at Lady Erna’s little vanities. Of course, you’ll drop dead like this, craven, the way you have lived. Good Lord, how much crap you still have in your guts. How did you think they would find your body; you think people would be interested in your shit then. But don’t worry, you’re not going yet. And if you stay, you’ll swear you’ll lose at least ten kilos. You wouldn’t have to shit so much if you didn’t gorge yourself all the time, that’s right. The urge to stuff yourself is still stronger than you are, no matter how much you protest. That is how the little girl talked to her and she, of course, swore, I swear, I swear I won’t do it again, knowing her words were worthless.

  Her false swearing sounded like the sniggering of the wicked little girl, and she imagined that if she didn’t make it this time, they would find her in this awful stink.

  That is what she had to go through that morning. And she thought she heard the telephone ring again, for the fourth time.

  No, this cannot be.

  The towel stopped in her hands, she listened, thinking that her anger and her ears were deceiving her.

  And just then, simultaneously, all three of them started for the telephone. One woman jumped up from the tile stove, taking with her the poker with which she had just slammed shut the stove door; the other woman jumped nimbly out of bed and, because her searching foot could not locate either of her slippers and her dressing gown lay too far away on the back of a stuffed chair, went off as she was, barefoot, wearing only a short silk nightie, a so-called baby doll, that clung to her body and left her thighs bare all the way up to the top.

  The young man tore himself away from the windowsill, though only a moment earlier he had noticed a police assault car stopping in front of Café Abbázia. With great alacrity, policemen were jumping out of both sides of the vehicle, which could have deflected his attention from the woman he had been observing for months, whom he kept following secretly, and whom he wanted to see this morning though he knew that from this vantage point he could not.

  The wind howled while the telephone rang.

  Lady Erna lost her patience completely; slamming her towel on the laundry hamper, she slipped, still wet, into her pink bathrobe which, despite its garishness, became her. Her movements were nervous, uncoordinated and ha
sty; her fury egged her on and at the same time hindered her. What a bunch, she mumbled to herself, what a rotten, inconsiderate bunch. Her reproach was directed not only at the three people in the apartment but, mainly, at her son, who at the moment was not at home.

  He was shooting the breeze with his friends, two men of his age, in a heated glass-covered corridor at the Lukács Baths, but Lady Erna could not have known this.

  At last, it was the maid who picked up the receiver; she’d barely said who she was when at the other end someone began to speak, very firmly and to the point.

  It was like a report from the battlefield.

  Which caused the maid’s jaw to drop and her features to freeze. With one hand she grasped the receiver tight, she had to listen carefully, understand every word, but concentration made her forget her other hand, from which the poker slipped free.

  It hit the rug with a thud.

  At the sight, the other two people stopped in their tracks; aghast, they remained motionless.

  The person on the line spoke continuously and at an ample volume. Ilona Bondor would have been glad to stem the flow and hand the receiver to someone more authorized than herself, to a family member, to Kristóf, who understood the hesitant little movements of her hand and seemed ready to take over at any moment. But it was impossible to interrupt the seamless speech. Twice she responded helpfully by saying, yes, yes. After that, she could only utter yes, yes, thank you very much. Lady Erna also heard these last words and saw her employee’s telltale, in fact ridiculous, features.

  But mainly she saw their motionlessness, their posture, the way all three of them leaned stiffly forward.

  She stood in the doorway of the sitting room, a little wet, the fluffy pink terry-cloth bathrobe barely gathered around her ample body, in her high-heel slippers, her bleached, tousled hair still dripping.

  Oddly, at such moments, everything else ceases to exist. Still, she cast half a glance at Gyöngyvér’s sinewy, slender brown body, which had always impressed her, as if she were hearing a sudden snap, a sound that for a thoughtless moment brought everything to a halt in her mind. It was rare that she saw her so scantily dressed. She had to take advantage of the opportunity.

  She loathed this woman, did not believe anything she said, though she understood her own son: after all, the woman’s body had an effect on her too.

  Ultimately, it was the sight of this body that restored her calm.

  She stopped fuming.

  As if she knew what had happened and as if she were reinforcing her realization with a clumsy nodding approval.

  The maid replaced the receiver and remained where she stood, facing the wall. She had to turn away, not to see anyone, for at least a second. Not to let them see her face. Everything that had happened between her and the professor during the past year was way beyond anything that conventional human relationship recognizes or allows.

  For a long time, this little transition into silence, this click of the receiver, lingered as the last noise in the room, or rather, they all felt that a very long time was going by. Outside, it was a moment when the sky became lighter, even though rain was whipping the two windows. All three of them were watching Ilona, watching her thin, unnaturally raised shoulders.

  They waited for her to speak. And they wanted her to remain silent for a while longer. Gyöngyvér Mózes’s teeth knocked together several times but luckily no one heard that. She had no idea what she was doing, and her movements were uncontrolled; she pressed her thighs together, grasped her short nightie, kept tugging it as if afraid for her loins.

  The rich darkness of her pubic hair glimmered through the light material.

  Is he dead, Lady Erna asked cautiously after a time.

  For hours after her attacks, her voice was usually colorless, and now she sounded hoarse from the first syllable. Of her listeners, only the young man discerned the sober calculation in her question. More precisely, the dread that her plans would crumble. He could see it on his aunt’s face, which without makeup always seemed offensively bare. Her boldness frightened him so much that he tore his gaze from her. In fact, this was his greatest concern: the boldness of human emotions. He did not want to hear Ilona’s response. And to see the effect of the response.

  Not a word, nothing.

  No, please don’t be afraid, cried the maid, choking and stammering. He recovered half an hour ago. The doctor told me to tell you they won’t be able to keep him conscious for long. He said he felt he had to say that unfortunately it won’t last long, he could not give any reason for hope. As far as it was humanly possible to make a prediction, they said. But he is exceptionally lucid now. He wishes to see Ágost, he wishes to see Nínó.

  And please hurry.

  But whom did you talk to, for God’s sake.

  In response Ilona gave her shoulders a little shrug. She didn’t know, did not understand why suddenly this would be important or interesting. Actually, her next sentence would have been a request to accompany her mistress.

  Some man, she answered, and her voice trembled with the effort, he said he was speaking for the head physician, because Lady Erna had discussed something with him that now would be absolutely necessary.

  And with this she turned away, she could not continue, and because of the frustration at not having voiced her request—I’d like to say good-bye to him, and she was losing her courage to say it now, I’d like to see him once more—her shoulders trembled silently.

  Even though she did not want to cry at all. What had she to do with all this. I don’t want to cry, she shouted within herself.

  Where is Ágost?

  I don’t know, I’m very sorry but I don’t know, Gyöngyvér replied too loudly to the threateningly quiet question. I can’t help it, she added as one caught and accused of gross negligence who must make excuses. He jumped out of bed at dawn, she muttered, got dressed without a word, wouldn’t tell me where he was going, and ran out.

  You were probably fighting all night again.

  We were. Unfortunately, that’s true.

  Ilona, please bring me my dark gray suit. Kristóf, you’re coming with me. Somebody order a cab.

  Her recent fury was replaced by this cool, patronizing voice used to giving orders, which the three people before her could not easily oppose.

  It was difficult for her to master not her emotions but her lack of strength. She really had no time to lose, and she had an aversion to unpleasant scenes. Luckily no one noticed the corner of her mouth quivering, her knees shaking and her long fine fingers trembling. Not so much from her own shock, because for her this matter had long been considered closed, but from what she had not counted on: that now it would indeed come to pass, what until now seemed to be impossible to finish.

  Her breath was accelerating; she had to slow it down.

  Otherwise, everything had been properly prepared for the moment that now managed to surprise her after all. She only had to take out of her desk drawer the sales contract requiring the dying man’s signature. She knew where to find it. And luck would shine on her after all; her little good fairies would be with her. A heart attack must not interfere now. She turned to leave for her room.

  And it was not the five words that Kristóf called after her that stopped her, but the shock and indignation that anyone here might have an objection or hold a different view about something.

  I am not going anywhere.

  What are you talking about.

  I am telling you, I’m not going to escort you anywhere.

  You’re out of your mind.

  This was an attack she would never have thought possible.

  She had no illusions about her own son. But this boy, in whom she daily saw her murdered younger brother, which she considered a precious gift of life, was the most gentle and attentive human being she had ever known. During the past six years, she had never for a moment regretted taking him into her house instead of putting him back into some filthy orphanage. Involuntarily, every person makes such sel
fish calculations. Whom can I trust when in trouble. What benefit will I have by doing this. Him I can truly trust. Neither her body nor her soul had any appropriate sense organs with which to comprehend what she was failing to comprehend with her mind.

  She did not understand what was happening.

  Not going anywhere, no, repeated the young man almost impassively, and softly rather than loudly.

  But why not, for heaven’s sake, why are you telling me this, or what is this supposed to mean.

  She could not conceive where this voice could be coming from. And then there was one long moment from which the two other people present were excluded. A peculiar situation. If objects had eyes, they’d be looking at one another as neutrally as Nínó and Kristóf were looking at each other now, and that made them similar, turned them into almost identical beings, or more precisely, brought into daylight their common familial features.

  Their egomania grappled with their sense of justice, only to force both of them to retreat, defeated, into the protection of illusions.

  Kristóf found no appropriate moment to explain. He didn’t even know what signals he should be sending to make others understand his intentions. It was not possible to understand; he himself did not understand it. When in January, in the business district near Café Abbázia a few old stores were reopened on the boulevard, there also appeared a saleswoman with whom he unaccountably and senselessly fell head over heels in love. So much so, that he never dared to speak to her. He wouldn’t have known what to say. Of course, things like this happen to young people almost on schedule; the adventures of their instincts, however, are not without dangers. Although no one noticed, and he did nothing to attract attention, for some months now he’d been teetering at the edge of the steep slope of clinical madness with his helpless and ever darkening passion. His aunt was close to the truth. What in January had promised to be nothing but a playful little adventure by now paralyzed him, and his conscience did not have a sober spot or a sane corner left.

  What whimsy, what a weird idea, my dear, what a disgusting recklessness.