Parallel Stories: A Novel

by Peter Nadas

  Yet it did not occur to him that he should get up and go somewhere else; nobody was forcing him to grumble or be upset.

  To soothe his agitated conscience, he told himself that although he was seeing these peculiar beings, and all their terrible doings were clear to him, he was not one of them. He was merely observing them from a respectable distance, did nothing more than peep at them, and therefore his parents had nothing to worry about. He was behaving properly.

  But peeping was also forbidden.

  And suddenly he realized that his conscience was not his own.

  He was enthralled by these naked people who pretended to be indifferent to one another. He was discovering a part of the world he had been familiar with for a long time, yet he did not reckon with its reality and proximity. At last he was being allowed to peek behind a familiar picture that purported to be compulsively innocent and harmless, where every gesture seemed crude, coarse, nay, disgusting; yet for now he had nothing with which to oppose these crude forces except his own pretenses. For the first time in his life, he discovered in himself the eternal, incurable, and hateful deceiver, whom he despised in his parents and because of whom he had harbored so much resentment against them that he could not even talk to them anymore.

  Because of whom he had to escape, no matter how much it hurt not ever to have had a home, and not ever to have hoped to have one. And here he was now, sitting inside the painting, forced to face the dread of nothingness.

  But this dread could not frighten him away from his indecent gaping; on the contrary, inside, he was jumping with joy.

  At last here it was, he had found it, the world does have such an indecent place, and it must be his place too. This is where everybody brings their deceptions and this is where they show them to one another.

  Take the white giant, for example, who whooshed down the slope like a storm, and what Döhring saw and experienced from that moment on contained not one whit of deception or pretense.

  In a way this giant seemed to be a man from whose every pore oozed kindness, cheerfulness, and goodwill. As though he was in a constant state of embarrassment, would toy with anything he came upon, would feel he had to apologize continuously for his strength, yet being aware of all this wanted to play with this trait of his, make it into a plaything too.

  As if he did not take himself quite seriously.

  Not because he was bright or wise enough to fathom his own attributes, but because he was not evil. With his constant playfulness he blunted every unpleasant edge, softened every aggressive rigidity. His skin, covered with ruddy blond down, shone brightly on the green lawn. Döhring saw only his back, his enormous shoulders, thick nape, huge skull with reddish hair shorn to mere stubble, and his childlike profile flashing a few times.

  It was hard to understand how so much innocence and tenderness had grown to this size, and why those bundles of muscles. It would have been easier to believe all sorts of infamy of his friend, who was vain and touchy.

  The way he slapped the soles of his feet on the surface of the water was also like playing a game; he did not wade in, he did something between treading and stamping on the water. And the way he approached his friend from behind, his arms wide open and pouncing on him from behind like a predator, engulfing him and gobbling him up, that too was a game. Döhring would have liked to be the friend of this naked giant so much that he wouldn’t have minded forgetting about the Ethiopian girl. He imagined himself in the place of the brittle dark man as he vanished in his friend’s embrace.

  He suddenly realized that the sportswoman had addressed him and was talking to him.

  A not too loud female voice somehow reached him after a short delay.

  The woman addressed him in a voice filled with empathy, asking him if he had hurt his leg badly.

  He didn’t quite understand her question at first, and why or what she could possibly have to do with his injury.

  It was as if she were exposing his feelings, his passionate longing for a friend, and deliberately taking his mind off them. He thought the intervention was improper, offensive, as if he were being accused of something. In the water, now, under the weight of a huge white animal, the light body of a shiny black animal was thrashing about. The female athlete spoke quickly, her voice was pleasant, and with her voice she moved closer to Döhring. In a way, she spoke forward in time; she knew why she was doing what she was doing and therefore did not have to bother separately with the words.

  Döhring tried to remain courteous; he said it was still bleeding a little. It was all because of his clumsiness.

  And to demonstrate how insignificant the whole matter was, he rolled his pants down to cover his ankle.

  Of course, the movement could be interpreted as a rejection of the other person’s interest.

  In the meantime the enormous arms literally folded, packed up, and tucked in the body of the floundering man, and both men seemed to enjoy their struggle.

  He’s had injuries more serious than this one, Döhring said.

  The rolled-up body flew quite a distance before it splash-landed like a helpless heavy sack, only to surface immediately like a big fish. Stretched to his full length, the enormous white giant hurled himself after the dark one, who dodged him cleverly and skipped about gracefully. Maybe the giant caught one of his feet, because they both sank below the water surface and their tussle continued there; for long seconds one could see only limbs, splashing hands, tops of heads, mouths gasping for air, and hear calls for help, laughter, and the sound of bubbles.

  Then it would probably be better not to go into the water, she replied.

  He thought so too, Döhring said politely. It wouldn’t be very smart.

  They spoke in slightly raised voices; they had to overcome the distance between them and the riotous noises being made by the two men.

  He should be careful, shouted the athlete, the water is not so clean at the end of the summer. A wound like that could easily become infected. Maybe he wasn’t aware of it, but these small lakes did not have proper runoff.

  No, he had no intention of going into the water.

  Well, that’s what she meant, that’s why she asked him about his injury, shouted the woman quickly and mysteriously.

  But pardon me, replied Döhring, what exactly was she objecting to.

  If you’ve no intention of going into the water, shouted back the woman cheerfully, what are you planning to do here, that’s what she was asking, nothing else. She would not want to express her personal opinion more directly than that.

  Suddenly the splashing, plashing, flapping, shouting, and laughing came to a halt, and although in the ensuing silence Döhring heard well what the sportswoman was saying to him and in what tones, he felt drawn more to the water. Farther out, where the water was too deep for feet to touch bottom, two heads facing each other were floating on the surface. Moving neither toward nor away from each other, only their shoulders rising a little from time to time. They were treading water and holding each other with clasped arms.

  Slowly, the water around them became smooth as a mirror. The cool water makes skin contract on the bones.

  Their faces grew somber; they paid attention to nothing but each other.

  They concentrated on keeping themselves afloat by treading evenly and looking for a chance to push the other under the water.

  They both waited patiently, undisturbed, motionless, for the right moment.

  Or perhaps this too was nothing more than that eternal pretending. And he still did not understand exactly what this athlete woman wanted from him. Yet he became frightened more by what he sensed and felt at the sight of the heads on the water’s surface; if this is what people do in public, maybe he would not want friends like this.

  Above the floating heads, the sky was a saturated blue.

  At this moment, Döhring indeed sensed his situation more correctly than he could think about it. He had to escape.

  And while time was ticking by, because he could not tear himse
lf away from them and he did not respond to the woman, the two heads moved closer together. With imperceptible slowness, they were approaching along each other’s arms. The two bare bodies would soon touch under the water. They kept treading steadily and evenly, but while earlier they had clasped only wrists, now they were grasping arms, making gradual progress to each other’s body, grabbing elbows and then the muscles of the upper arms, and the closer they moved to each other the harder they had to tread water. Then the dark man grasped the giant’s shoulder, while the giant caught his friend by the waist underwater; they both kept treading.

  The giant said something, just a few words, and his friend answered him probably with the same words.

  Döhring could delay no longer. He had to turn back because the woman was talking to him, somehow pronouncing the words young man very disparagingly.

  The young man probably does not know, she shouted, that whether he goes into the water or not, here he shouldn’t be sitting around all dressed up.

  That’s the kind of place this is. Besides, it’s posted too.

  From the water, evenly receding strokes were heard because the friends must have begun to swim toward the other shore.

  No, he really hadn’t seen the sign, answered Döhring, who made no move either to leave or to undress. He begged her pardon, he said; he was speaking to her but his features remained impassive.

  No problem, the athlete shouted back; she said, as if rushing to his help with placating excuses, how could he have, when he had taken such a fall with his bicycle. It’s a good thing his injury wasn’t serious. But now it’s time to decide whether to stay or go, because he probably wouldn’t want to expose himself to the unpleasantness of being considered an intruding Peeping Tom.

  While the two of them were shouting to each other, the Ethiopian girl awoke with a start.

  If he were accused of something like that, Döhring called back to the woman, almost cheerfully, he would most vigorously protest.

  They were so steeped in their altercation, each of them enjoying the dual militancy, that Döhring could not move from his spot and could not resist stealing stealthy glances at the awakening girl. As if to prove that though he knew he should be leaving, he was handing the sportswoman a touchy defeat. At first it seemed that an electric shock, a current, was coursing through the brown body; the sharp elbows trembled, as did the closed knees pulled up to the breasts, and small spasms traveled along each thin limb.

  She sincerely hoped, shouted the sportswoman, they would not have to go that far.

  From the water, even strokes could be heard; the two friends were swimming side by side in all likelihood.

  He hoped so too, Döhring shouted back, grinning.

  As if he were shouting, I’m through looking at your ugly red cunt, and now one last time, shamelessly, indecently, despite all your warnings, I shall take a good look at this girl’s, I don’t even know what, her everything, so that I won’t ever forget it.

  And this was very important, because he was fond of images. Images followed him or, more correctly, he followed and cherished images within himself. His memory had a large secret archive in which he indiscriminately stored everything that touched him. The waking of the Ethiopian girl: no matter how much he would have liked to conjure up this image, however hard he insisted it reappear, within a few hours the image faded so much that regardless of where he might begin or on what he might concentrate, neither from her thin limbs nor from her sharp features could he make the total image come together again. Even though he could have described her every move individually and in detail. The way she withdrew her clasped hands from under her head, or slowly raised her eyes to take in the world, spread her arms and straightened her long legs, yawned so contentedly that for long seconds her limbs froze into motionlessness within the movement. Like a swelling coxcomb, the pitch-black, curly pubic hair slowly became erect. Her body was like an overstretched shiny bow. Even a natural shout issued from her yawn.

  To which the athlete responded by turning lazily to her side, getting up on her knees, and greeting the girl with a smile. In the sudden movement her breasts collided; she remained in that pose, eyes spellbound, as the awakening body before her trembled with a series of tremors. Following one tremor, the girl raised her arms above her head and, stretching even further, rolled onto her back and then relaxed completely. The athlete woman leaned closer, bent down and covered her, as if to whisper something in her ear, her two pendulous breasts swinging forward and touching the girl’s coffee-brown skin.

  Döhring even thought of quickly undressing.

  She may have actually whispered something, but she definitely planted a kiss right on the girl’s ear which made the long, thin, bony body grow taut. That very evening, Döhring was already unable to conjure up these images. He heard the girl’s yawning shout, but no matter how he tortured his memory, he could not see her. He would have liked to see the girl, the coxcomb-like hair on her mound of Venus; instead, he saw the other woman’s muscles, abused by much training, her squashed, swinging breasts and fire-red pubic hair.

  That evening, as he was trying to fall asleep, he had to be satisfied with these images.

  The next day, however, during his morning run he decided to go back there and take off his clothes. He figured he should arrive a bit earlier to be sure to find them. He did not notice that he wasn’t thinking of the two women but had the two men in mind. When, on that first day, he had finally left on his bike and looked back toward the lake one last time, he’d seen that the two figures were engaged in intimate conversation on the far shore. He looked toward the far shore to avoid looking at the solitary man who was still working on himself on the near side of the lake and who followed the bicycle with his eyes until it disappeared among the trees. And if Döhring was curious to know what bound people together and how lasting this bond might be, or whether this bond saved them from a howling loneliness to which others fall prey because of their nature, then he would rather identify with the Ethiopian girl or the dark-skinned man than with the red-haired athlete woman or the white giant. Döhring was shy, reticent, but by no means bashful or especially prudish. If he noticed someone watching him, he did not dare return the look, because he dreaded the contact, though he liked to expose his body to the eyes of others.

  That in itself would not oblige him to do anything.

  But he rode his bike into the woods in vain, because he did not find the fabulous little lake.

  He didn’t even find the wider promenade from which he had strayed and which could have led him back to the lake. He rode across unfamiliar clearings, wound up in unfamiliar woods. It was a bright clear day, sharp breezes vibrated in the air; it was a pleasure to pedal hard. As if he had narrowly escaped a life-threatening situation. As if he were missing out on something, but compensating himself with the relief of an escape. Finally, as a substitute, he found a large body of water, a lake or river, he couldn’t tell, whose sunny banks were filled with people lying about. He didn’t have his swimming trunks with him, and he did not really feel like mingling.

  It seemed to him that the large water had some movement to it.

  He parked his bicycle, sat down at a respectable distance from the bathers and watched them, not so much the children squealing in the water or the adults playing ball among large beach baskets, but the water, the strange mass of air, the slow-moving sailboats, and the entire faraway high sky. This was the public world; he, however, was already familiar with the secret one. He had no doubt as to which one he should belong. The air was not free of vapors near the water, it was late afternoon, but above the greenish-blue woods on the opposite shore the disk of the sun was still very much present in its glowing yellow dazzle. And in the sky, very slowly, three tiny clouds were making their way toward the sun. Much time went by before one little cloud slid into the sun; everybody waited for it to move on.

  But it would not go away.

  Rather, the other two clouds slid into it. First, only the people
who wanted to sunbathe sat up, looking about and asking what would happen now. A little later parents fished their children out of the water because a wind came up and it was no longer pleasant.

  People had not realized that summer was over, but they began to gather their belongings.

  Döhring’s Continuous Dream

  Slowly, silence reigned and whiteness; and everything was sweet weightlessness.

  First, they sat him on a bench, and then they helped him stand up. They argued a little as to what to do. He let them, did not care about anything, though he found it a bit embarrassing that it took two people to take care of him. They took off his coat. If he could have spoken, he would certainly have protested, because he feared for his coat. It wasn’t that good a coat, but without it he wouldn’t have gotten this far. They threw it aside. Freed his long arms from his shirt, loosened his pants around the waist. The priest who said it would be easier sitting up was right.

  I told you we couldn’t take it off like this.

  They could probably pull his pants over his shoes but not the long underpants. They quickly made him sit back on the bench. Familiar smells were mixing in the thick steam, most of them overwhelmed by that of chamomile, but this did not keep him from seeing himself, wearing these awful clothes, standing in a familiar summer meadow where chamomile was flowering.

  He wanted to warn them there would be big trouble, but did not dare.

  He fainted when they tried to take off his shoes the first time; it was clear that afterward, along with his tattered underpants they might pull off his striped pants, which were completely soiled on the inside. Then this would be discovered. He could already hear them starting to shout and then beating him up but good. He felt a bit of joy when his shoes wouldn’t let go of his feet. He’d gain some time. He was so weak; his flesh would not survive another beating. And these men are well fed; no longer young but fit as a fiddle, their blows must be really hard. He had learned well what a pleasure it was when death grants a small reprieve. The shabby, three-buttoned, wooden-soled prisoner’s shoes in which his bloody, pus-encrusted feet were embedded swelled up and absorbed his toe rags. He would have liked to warn the priests not to experiment, accept that this was how things were, but could not put together a proper sentence because he had no idea what language he should use. Not German. It was easier to imagine an entire remaining lifetime without ever taking off his shoes.