Parallel Stories: A Novel

by Peter Nadas

  I wanted to say something to him, something encouraging that would also help me extricate myself from the situation, but I couldn’t think of anything. According to social conventions, I needed to respond, so as to remain the master of my predicament. I felt my entire upbringing had been nothing but a framework that, although it specified the character of verbal responses to various events, hadn’t given specific instructions as to their true and genuine content. My grandmother was whispering to me even now, as she had until the last minute of her life, passing on to me and doing for me everything she could, though her words had made no sense when she uttered them. Not the least sense in the world. Neither her son nor her daughter took her seriously, though the pattern and structure of what she had to say enthralled me and never left me.

  So I set off again on the creaky promenade; I had no idea what to do with such a strange human life as this boy’s.

  For lack of direction I headed toward the Árpád Bridge, as if one could begin again at the beginning. Which the boy of course interpreted according to the rules of the secret language.

  If you haven’t got a place, he said flatly, as he came along, keeping up with me like a sweet child, we can go to the water tower. Really. I know a nice little spot there.

  He wanted to take my hand.

  Whenever he has no other place to go to, because nobody has a rotten pad to himself, he holes up there with anyone until dawn.

  Much as I wanted to, I didn’t give him my hand. He responded to this by putting his arms around my waist and coiling around me, holding back my hurrying steps a bit, steps that turned out to be very long, so we’d be like lovers strolling on clouds, so he could kiss me.

  I felt an instant disgust when he looked up at me, his lips open in a circle, like one film star staring at another. He not only did something but overdid it, as if he wanted to announce, loud and clear, that he was doing this or that and doing it according to this or that model. I didn’t let him lean his head on my shoulder and I brushed off his arms too. My own cruelty hurt me. I didn’t want to see his falsities. He wanted to withdraw some emotional capital from me until we reached the place where he hoped we could really run wild, but I kept walking steadily, I’d had enough of this playacting, and how would he guess that I wasn’t letting myself be led anywhere.

  He has to be back by six in the morning, that’s when his leave is over.

  But what kind of leave, I asked in an unreasonably irritated tone, for God’s sake, from what place are you on leave.

  He was quiet for a moment, looked at me, seriously wondering what I hadn’t understood or to what I was objecting so strongly.

  Well, this is where they dock, he answered eagerly, his head motioning to the very spot.

  He serves in the river forces branch of the army, stationed in Mohács, he’s reenlisted. Once a week they come up with their ships, sometimes twice, but instead of tying up at the flotilla docks in Újpest they tie up at that something-or-other square.

  In other words they dock at some square.

  He can find it from anywhere, but damn it, he always forgets the name of the fucking square.

  I didn’t have a place to take him to either, no matter how much I pitied him, and that’s the truth. I should have realized I had no place here, in the city of my birth.

  I asked him if it was Bem Square.

  No, but the fucking square was on the Pest side.

  The irritating noises our steps were making were not only too loud but also senseless, completely senseless.

  Maybe the Belgrád pier.

  Not really, that’s where passenger boats dock, you know.

  Then Dimitrov Square, I replied, irritated, maybe Vigadó Square.

  I hated the black sand under my dirtied-up shoes and all the drivel we were hurling at each other.

  He has this thing with Dimitrov; it’s like doing a crossword puzzle. What pops into his mind every time he comes across the name is that the man was a Communist martyr. He grinned. Eight letters. He memorized it so he wouldn’t forget the name of the square, but then he forgets this fucking martyr. Every week he buys a copy of Füles, the crossword magazine.

  Then his face became serious.

  Do you do crossword puzzles, he asked.

  I did not reply, but I felt insane willingness and devotion emanating from his body.

  He was putting me through various tests, licking me all over with his words and gestures.

  Actually he was behaving like a normal, lovable human being.

  I was the one who wasn’t normal; never in my life had I solved a crossword puzzle; and he hadn’t yet realized that he would find nothing lovable about me.

  He was easy, light, his words smooth and caressing; he altered his gestures and turned them all inside out yet remained helpless with me. I was rather intrigued as to why he’d put away his cock so quickly and what it must be like. Just as, in his eyes, I had won my exceptional position in the unfathomable hierarchy of the night with my cock. But it was senseless, completely senseless—the way I was making obnoxious sounds at the side of such a profoundly witless stranger. This depressing knowledge was stronger than my curiosity. I didn’t want to hear that our irritating jabber had anything in common. To my left I saw a path among the trees leading back to the thicket where I might find the giant with his mustached assistant. I can’t imagine what I wanted from the giant; he too probably had a disgusting life.

  A little farther off I saw the paved promenade that would lead me, in a more civilized way, back to the interior of the island, where at last I could drink and urinate, but I didn’t think I could endure a long stroll with this loquacious little idiot by my side. I figured that at the next well-trodden but not too clear split in the trail, I’d lose him with a single fast turn.

  As if fleeing I left him without a word because I couldn’t think of anything to say. After such a brief, odd acquaintance I didn’t know how to take my leave; I knew no formula for such an occasion. I turned at a virtual run into the dully thudding path, where the gas-lamp light still managed to penetrate the dark.

  He followed me.

  His lack of suspicion was unequivocal.

  After a few steps I turned around to face him and tell him in no uncertain terms what I was thinking. He literally recoiled from my raging fury. He was somewhat shorter than I; our bodies nearly collided. He gazed at me with his bright childlike countenance—a person ready for anything, ready to do anything for me. Surprising myself too, I hugged him, he clung to me like a suction cup and I glued my reluctant body to his. A huge sigh escaped him, followed by numerous shorter, lighter, relieved sighs and moans. Our loins could not meet, but I thought I felt something of his warmth on my thighs. I planted my lips on his neck and on his nape covered with childlike fuzz, and I too held him as if, or almost as if, I had found what I’d been looking for. I’d have liked to find someone. Somewhere above his loins, he must have felt on his belly my cock restrained by the buttons of my fly.

  I would have liked to feel the warmth of his loins or his hand taking hold of my cock.

  Yet the feel of his body remained so strange and distant, its scent and tension so alien, that I thought it would instantly sober me up.

  To make this happen, I pushed him away by his shoulders and looked into his face, close up. In the dappled lamplight his milk-white skin glowed, showing its dark and ancient grooves. There, before me, stood a railway man of Tiszahát whose fate had brought him to the city a hundred years ago and who begot several children with a servant girl from northern Hungary.

  Forgive me, I said quietly, there is some misunderstanding between us.

  Swallowing my shame, I got stuck.

  Don’t be offended, but this is not what I had in mind, and please, I stuttered, let’s leave it at that.

  How could he understand what I was talking about; if that was not what I had in mind, then what did I have in mind, what was I thinking of. I did not think of anything.

  His face, radiant from the
pleasure of our touching, looked up at me, terrified. I could also hear that I was speaking a foreign language, issuing from my body and in my own voice.

  At his marvelous incomprehension, my heart filled with profound gratitude.

  Unthinking, I bent over him, I wanted to thank him and take my leave; I kissed his sweet, milk-tasting lips.

  He would have instantly opened them to me; in an incredibly short time he would have been unbelievably cruel with his lips, his teeth, tongue, and saliva.

  For the first time in my life, I was filled completely with the fragrance of a male face, the fragrance of stubble, the fragrance of a man’s saliva, and the fragrance emanating from the coarsely woven shirt on the ill-groomed male body.

  But I did not let him plunge his tongue into my mouth.

  His legs tried to entwine me, his arms tired to clasp me, he was aggressive, with his experienced fingers he quickly explored, assessed, and then scooped up my ass; I was defending myself.

  With an incredible feather lightness he pervaded my tense, stone-hard body, which resisted the fragrances and grew rigid in dread. His fingers raced in all directions. He was all lightness, and I raw fear itself. I would not let him; my muscles resisted him.

  Which made him literally sob on my chest.

  I should have realized earlier that I was not meant to be a human being, even though that realization would not have helped either of us.

  You’re so sweet, oh, your body is so strong, he kept squealing, why don’t you let me. What should I promise you of myself, he asked, he begged, he flashed and sparkled.

  Don’t promise anything, promise nothing of yourself because I’m not curious about anything, and sweet I’m definitely not, those were the words I wanted to throw in his unprotected face. But I could not deflect my feelings about him; he was the one who had declared feelings. Simply a sweet man, he was the sweet one, that’s what I thought. But without his words I wouldn’t have dared think such a thing of a male person.

  I was sorry I couldn’t do it for him, sorry that he misunderstood me, but I couldn’t do it, because something like a team of horses was holding me back.

  No matter how you protest, I want to be yours, he whimpered, and since he felt precisely what I was thinking, he smiled, and I will be yours, you’ll see.

  And at that moment I believed it.

  He reared up so our loins could make contact with both their heat and the sensitive sensation of hardness.

  Can’t you see, he whispered, haven’t you noticed, I’ve been following you all evening, he asked. This surprised me greatly; if he had he must have done it very cautiously. More cleverly than I had followed others. His fingers were plowing up both my thighs, dangerously close to my groin.

  I walked my feet off for you. I’m hustling after you and you just keep walking as if you were blind. He was cooing at me. You could have been inside me a long time ago, oh, he squealed, I can already feel your big cock, but all evening you kept running from me on your little feet.

  He was talking nonsense and his words felt like punches.

  My feet are not little, they’re positively large, and how could he have convinced me that I should take him for a woman when what I loathed and enjoyed so much at the same time was that such a sweet little man fell into my clutches, and that is why I felt so much tenderness and cruelty for him. This whole thing could not be understood by normal standards.

  He overwhelmed me because he could allow himself to mouth these insanities, such as how I could have been inside him a long time ago, while I didn’t allow myself anything.

  As if only half of my self understood what he was saying while the other half was buffeted by doubts that made it vulnerable.

  There was a man in the night whom I learned to love, along with his stupidities, which made him even more precious. And I right away wanted to protect him, perhaps from his own dark obtuseness, even though I was the weaker one. I did not recognize myself in him but was instantly infatuated with his lightness, his daring, and his openness, traits I must have lacked and wished for. It would have been wonderful to live with these traits. I was envious of his terrible freedom, for which I did not have the courage or maybe not the talent. At least in the water tower I could have a secure little hiding place with him every night.

  I foresaw that I would not forget for a long time to come the stormy presentiment of passion I was at once experiencing and restraining.

  By tomorrow it would turn into pain and longing, regret and bitterness that would torture me terribly.

  Yet something was carrying me onward. I had to turn him away, peel him off me.

  Listen to me, I said, and he must have felt the tenderness in my voice because he did listen and his cheerful, happy-go-lucky, little-boyish, and ancient being opened up even more toward me; this is a fatal misunderstanding, I continued insistently and soberly. I shall now leave you, please don’t follow me again. Let’s leave this between us just as it is.

  But what kind, he wondered, what kind of misunderstanding, he cried, alarmed; he grasped my arm, I could feel his animal-like strength. You must have lost your marbles. We didn’t even have time to ruin anything. He was looking at me but I did not respond. What have I done wrong, he whispered, enraged, because he had no patience for my silence. You think the world came out of your ass, he cried tearfully, is that what you believe. I didn’t imagine anyone could be so rotten.

  Why are you ruining it, don’t, I begged him.

  Me, ruining it; this shithead has the nerve to say I’m ruining it. He says I, I.

  His wounded pride and his wrath set his words on fire; they lit up everything in the darkness and made him look like one of the furies.

  He was right; I could not say he wasn’t.

  I was afraid he’d hit me; he hypnotized me with his wrath. And this made me realize, unexpectedly again, that in fact we were not in my imagination but at a very dangerous place where I had done something to another human being.

  Only a few paces from us an unbelievable figure was standing in the bushes, his pants half lowered.

  In full preparedness, he was spying on us, waiting for us to continue, which would increase his excitement, a parasite, a voyeur. I could not ignore him. His arms were like huge hams, his short-sleeved shirt very tight on them and open to the waist, letting me see massive, hairy, rippling layers of fat hanging low and luminous in the darkness. With one hand he was holding up his pants on his enormous sausagelike thighs, with the other he was yanking something under his shiny belly protruding tautly from the layers of fat that luckily could not be seen for all the hair, skin, and darkness.

  At the same time at the opening of the footpath a strange couple appeared among the bushes, partly penetrated by the light of the gas lamps.

  They were exchanging excited words as they approached, yet something restrained them, so I could not make out what they were saying.

  One was obviously a burden to his partner; he was one of the tribal warriors and I happened to know that his name was Robi Königer. He lived on Eötvös Street, in the house we reached after we had managed to break through the firewall, when the boulevard was on fire.

  In our neighborhood most everybody treated him as a fool.

  Robika is like this, Robika is like that; maybe he’s a little weak in the brain. Come on, sweet Robika, carry my basket for a spell, you won’t regret it.

  He did not strip like the others; on the contrary, he was all buttoned up because he could not possibly put his shapelessness on public display.

  He wore white surgeon’s trousers and a white shirt; he worked for the ambulance service of a clinic on Üllői Road. When he had no money, and everyone in our neighborhoood seemed to know what he spent his money on, he would go to the open market on Hunyadi Square and help housewives carry home their live chickens tied by the legs, their tomatoes to be preserved, or heavy sacks of potatoes.

  His skin must have been bluish white to begin with, every little blood vessel close to the skin’s s
urface, yet he covered his face, I cannot imagine why, maybe because of some injury, with a thick, blinding white layer of powder. Dread sat on this strange, motionless face. That is how he roamed the streets, white and frightened; in the winter, he wore a black cape. Even in my childhood I had been frightened of him because of the way he carried the struggling chickens, tied together in pairs, Szófia Street reverberating with their squawking, and I could not help thinking that I’d wind up just like that for my secret sins. He was very tall, and because of the constant bending over, his back subserviently developed a hump; he gave the impression that he was forever being forced to go through doors too low for him. He was going through doors we could not see with our naked eyes. Whoever touches himself too much will develop a back like that because too much sinful pleasure eventually attacks the spinal marrow. He had to bend down to everyone he talked to. All his clothes were too small for him, his ankles showed under the cuffs of his pants, one could see he wore red or blue socks most of the time, white only rarely, and his shirtsleeves left not only his bony wrists but a good section of his lower arms uncovered.

  The entire man was so thin it was as if he had no flesh on his bones, or as if his bones were made of glass.

  The other man was coming faster toward me on the path.

  Königer was following him, upset and mesmerized, and one could hear they couldn’t end the tune of their irritation. This other man wore short pants and very spare sandals on indecently naked and strong feet.

  As they came along the darkening path, one could not tell which of them was telling the other the more important things, or rather, which of them disdained the other more, and which of them should have controlled his temper.

  But this was enough for me.

  Seeing their fast approach, I lost my self-control and was left with nothing but the will to get away.

  I burst into the thicket without looking at what I was stepping into, at what I would come up against.

  Branches slapped my face with their metallic-tasting flowers, I bumped against tree trunks, I scraped my skin, under my feet everything crackled, I also heard the sailor’s shouts.