Parallel Stories: A Novel

by Peter Nadas

  What have I got to do with them.

  Bellardi hasn’t gone anywhere with his cock.

  The bucket itself wasn’t smelly and neither was the mug—he had pointlessly nagged his mother about it, wanting her to wash them properly—which meant that throughout his entire childhood he’d drunk smelly water. In fact, the condition he cannot end is that of not being a Hungarian and not wanting to share the Hungarians’ painful helplessness and their permanent conspiracies and rebellions.

  A place that one has grown used to for reasons beyond one’s control, that one calls homey.

  It was always the water and not the mug that was smelly.

  He won’t find out whom he should win for himself, for the sake of his peace of mind, or what he should end; and he won’t learn these things in America either.

  He stood frozen in fear of himself.

  The truth was that the last few minutes before the start of the docking maneuvers had profoundly exhausted and upset him.

  When one is young, one does not realize that mental exertion means a substantial loss of general energy.

  The wines and heavy food also did their share.

  He had to admit that Bellardi deliberately timed everything so that he’d have no chance for a response, so that they’d both be drunk with the wine and each other’s presence. This too was a trick. With his dispassionate calculations, he could plow through everything. Madzar saw before him a view of life that made his own view seem distorted and inadequate. As if Bellardi in fact had not been acting at all but instead had transformed his intention to act into a clever trick and then waited for the results. Put another way, if Madzar wanted to hold on to his own view of life, he had to see Bellardi’s behavioral patterns as distorted and inhuman. He saw clearly enough what he had known about him since childhood, but he also saw clearly that his own thinking, desperately seeking escapes, kept manufacturing useless caricatures of either himself or the other man.

  That is how I’ve transplanted into myself the eternal, hereditary mental anguish of the Hungarians.

  Everything, but everything, about Bellardi—his sentimentality, his gourmandizing, his loyalty, his physical arrogance, even his recurring self-pity—is illusion; everything is an illusion. Either these Hungarians pace up and down in helpless anguish or they stamp on one another. Luckily, Bellardi can hardly cover up one illusion with another. Here is a man who makes everything genuine disappear among illusions.

  Yet I can’t avoid him, for he bewitches me with his countless illusions, and he really sank his claws in me with his request.

  But now he’s standing here in the middle of the night and can’t rid himself of the thought that in this part of the world people drink smelly water and don’t even realize it.

  Madzar was one of those people who become incredibly sensitive and confused by all sorts of requests.

  Of course he should have rejected this one, but then he could no longer conceal his extreme stinginess, which until now he had refused to acknowledge in himself and didn’t want to acknowledge in the future either.

  All night long he struggled with the dogs’ barking, was tortured by thirst, and the next morning continued struggling because he was constipated; because of Bellardi’s request, he was still furious at midday.

  He carried the shit inside him.

  He did not understand how Bellardi allowed himself this sort of shamelessness, which is to say, he pretended to himself that he didn’t understand.

  That way it would be easier to refuse the request.

  No matter how poor they are, these Bellardis always swagger and consider everyone else as their servants.

  But why is he taking it, and without a word of protest.

  I probably take it without a word because in the depth of my soul I am their serf.

  He was incensed.

  Either I could be the servant of these rotten gentry or I could work for the dirty Jews, I certainly have choices, haven’t I. I should have taken the time to liberate myself. I want to be a Jacobin, a republican, he cried to himself, and his lips were moving as he walked. He could amuse himself with these sentences. Death to priests and aristocrats. He giggled. Hang your kings.

  But these intimate little yelps failed to quell the fury he was directing at himself. That all my life I should be such a gullible fool whom anyone can seduce or play tricks on.

  No, no, he argued with himself, chuckling and swearing as he walked on the deserted Upper Danube Row, I won’t stay here, I’ll go away. I will, so help me God.

  But this was not the same God he’d thought about the night before; this was the fucking God who thrusts the world into misery, damn him.

  He moved on, the sun burning on the back of his neck, in his much too hot knickerbockers, his visored cap in hand. He was going to Ármin Gottlieb’s lumberyard while asking himself how that little pederast dared present him with such choices. To claim that it was a matter of honor, that his wife was frigid. Out of the question. The handsome little lieutenant was kicked out of the navy because they caught him with someone like this little shithead the Mayer boy.

  Instead of fucking his wife good and proper.

  And just by looking at those two you’d never guess they suck each other’s dick.

  Actually, he had been deeply deceived, and now he couldn’t delay the necessary decision any longer, but he also dared not admit his disappointment to himself. What should he do. Give them money for their stupid conspiracy or not give them a cent. Take on the work or refuse it. He couldn’t understand why he might be ashamed to say no. Not only did his paternal name and his religion show that in this multireligious small town he was Hungarian, but for some inexplicable reason he in fact felt himself to be profoundly Hungarian.

  He felt more Hungarian and felt it more profoundly than those making a lot of noise around him. These show-off Hungarians disgusted him, and he already knew that because of them he would say no because he wanted nothing to do with them.

  With anyone.

  It’s not Hungarians who are alone; every Hungarian is alone, a Hungarian does not join anyone, and Bellardi is the last person he’d want to join.

  Empty and thirsty, the disappointed lover walks under the sky supersaturated with beauty, he said to himself, while all sorts of murky, weighty actions with unpredictable consequences are demanded of him. He tries to provoke himself with sarcasm.

  But it was unbearable to think that behind his back people unknown to him discussed him, came to conclusions about him, people with a secret world in the depths of which, mixed in with ordinary emotions, stifled pleasure was seething.

  As he walked, dogs in the enclosed yards and behind the thick gates were awakened by his steps and hurled themselves insanely against the iron and wooden fences.

  As if forbidden pleasure and conspiracy were mating at this unknown, hot, and secret depth, concealed from consciousness. Not only do they fuck each other in the mouth, they even penetrate each other’s asshole. It seemed that with the unavoidable and infuriating flight of fancy, he was saying to himself, I’m excluded from that experience.

  And so as not to hear the dogs’ frenzy, he fled to the other side of the road.

  For a while, he walked beneath the orbs of the ash trees.

  From here, from the dam, he could see the water.

  Actually, he didn’t want them to accept him.

  And he had a glance, in the depths, of those dark underground rooms in which with white-hot iron tongs they tortured one another, and which it would not have been wise for him to enter. Until now it hadn’t been difficult to overcome his natural curiosity and envy.

  But now he was seized by sorrow and dread.

  The silent water was inviting him with its light, depth, and scent.

  He could easily submit to this attraction.

  Anchored fishing boats clanked and burbled against one another.

  He continued on the shore, below the dam, by the old concrete wall green with moss where in his childhood the
bare feet of boat-hauling day laborers had trod in the black silt. This almost two-kilometer-long old wall, considered to be one of Europe’s first significant concrete constructions, exuded the icy breath of winter, despite the sudden heat wave. Near the water, the silence was perfect. His day might already have been spoiled, but at least he wanted to hear the lapping and splashing of water, not barking dogs.

  To inhale the scent of the swelling river.

  When, the night before, the pale, vibrating lights of the Mohács coaling dock had appeared in the hazy darkness, the captain did not leave the dining table and go to the communication flue to call down to the stokers or talk to the engine room. Those men knew how to do their job without his instructions. On a big, time-tested ship like the Carolina, everything works by itself. In fact, the captain rose and with a single quick movement closed the communication flue. By doing it so decisively, he showed he needed every one of the remaining moments for himself.

  He sat back down.

  Holding his cigar, he leaned amiably across the table so he wouldn’t have to talk loudly. The crepitating, flickering candles illumined his eyes from close up. No trace of cheerfulness remained in the deep grooves and pits of his face, not even in the depths of his radial wrinkles.

  Madzar had never before seen this face of Bellardi’s.

  As I indicated already, he began quietly and with a bashfulness not easily concealed, my intention is to inform you of something in strict confidence. I’m not expecting an immediate response from you. But I do count on your complete discretion, otherwise I’d never even begin, naturally.

  You do me honor with your confidence, Madzar replied guardedly.

  Regarding the discretion, I would need some reassurance.

  Forgive me, but since I don’t know what this is all about, what kind of reassurance could I give you.

  I’m not asking for your word of honor because that would be too much. Bellardi laughed and looked at him warmly, but you could say, so help me God.

  Madzar had the impression that the candlelight was pulling apart the other man’s features and shoving them aside so as to make his masks disappear.

  The end is not yet near because this is still not him; he is only exchanging one unknown face for another.

  My impression is, he said aloud, that you are asking too much. And we should leave the gods out of the game.

  I cannot comply with your wish, he added very quietly, to emphasize his refusal.

  Bellardi looked at him, amazed, being unprepared for this refusal; he did not accept it, and, as if putting down a deposit on what he was still intending to say, he broke into a demure, encouraging smile.

  It’s not my own safety I’m looking out for, my dear Lojzi, or I should say not only mine.

  The seriousness of his words was credited by his transparent, trust-filled, pale-brown eyes, lit by the candles right down to their dark depths.

  Nevertheless, Madzar, keenly attentive, could not accept the words; he involuntarily suspected a lie, a deception, ulterior motives between the captain’s mouth and eyes.

  He did not understand why this Bellardi thought that of course he’d be curious about secret matters.

  I’ve got enough things to think about as it is, he apologized.

  He found it abhorrent to give his word of honor blindly about anything. And what do these things have to do with any kind of god.

  A word of honor would be too pathetic. Don’t be angry that I can’t do it. I’m much simpler than you think.

  Growing indulgent under the influence of his own words, he began to understand Bellardi’s double-dealing, sentimentality, and love confessions. Everything up to now had served one purpose only: to prepare him, to soften him up.

  That is why he’d wanted to cast a net over him, to keep him from saying no.

  We’re deceiving each other with our childhood, what stupidity, he thought; as an adult with responsibilities on my shoulders, I can’t be playing the cub scout for him. After all, I build buildings that must stand, and the chairs I make cannot collapse when weight is put on them.

  He could not deny that a desire to assert himself was rising within him, to tell the other man straight to his face, wait, wait, my friend, things are exactly the other way around; I’m interested first and foremost in visible and reasonable things, not in your bottomless obscurity and perfidious secretiveness. I deal in objects and materials and if for no other reason I feel no obligation to obey your rules of chivalry. Retroactively, as it were, I spit on your hereditary valor too. I don’t give a damn about any of your transparent secrets, yours and those of your kind. Among you, I wouldn’t want to be even a master builder. You’re all notorious parasites, every one of you; your sole vital element is destruction and self-destruction, and I’m happy to leave that pleasure entirely to you.

  Of materials, shapes, concepts, building, and expert knowledge you have no idea at all.

  And because he did not say any of this aloud, his mouth trembled, as did his nostrils and eyelids, which the candlelight now turned glittering red.

  He leaned back on his chair, to be as far away from the captain as possible.

  And the moment he got his distance, he grew alarmed.

  But I still don’t know, he argued with himself, how could I possibly know what it is I don’t want to hear from him, or what exactly I consider so ridiculous or false in his request.

  In his nervousness, he laughed.

  And if this is indeed so, he continued in his thoughts, I must be struggling not with him but with my own cowardice, my own mistrustfulness and ridiculousness.

  If you absolutely insist on it, he said, laughing, then all right, here it is, but without the inclusion of any capital-letter God, take my simple word of honor.

  What does this kind of word of honor mean, anyway, he thought to himself, nothing.

  What accounting do I owe these people. I owe them no accounting at all.

  It was heartwarming to think he had deposited his money in a reputable private bank in Amsterdam. He had to laugh at himself, and he did, which quickly produced a small advance on the longed-for fulfillment. And nothing really matters except money. And then he saw that his supercilious laughter had offended the other man, and he regretted his own leniency.

  Now they had to reassess each other’s situation. They hadn’t yet started anything; they were in the midst of a methodological introduction but already sagging under the weight of each other’s life.

  Come on, out with it, he said aloud and brazenly, because he wanted to be free of this burden as soon as possible.

  Well then, I am a member of a very old secret society that today, unnoticed yet most effectively, covers the entire country, Bellardi replied, no less forcefully. What’s more, going with the spirit of the times, we’ve crossed borders.

  I’ve been given the task of informing you of the organization’s goals.

  Madzar did not even nod at this; he was dumbfounded, reduced to silence.

  The terrible hunch was coming true, Bellardi was indeed a zealous Catholic opportunist, just as he had suspected earlier, and a conspirator to boot; he was right. But it cannot be, things cannot be so simple, he kept telling himself, as the other man in turn fell silent to allow his friend to process what he had heard.

  But he was slightly relieved, after all, that it was not money the other man wanted from him.

  Our organization is a community of men of consequence and influence, Bellardi went on, his voice somewhat hoarse, and I want to reassure you right off that we do not recruit our members but rather, after a number of sounding-out conversations, invite them to join.

  You mean, I should consider this as one of those sounding-out conversations.

  If you wish, I can quickly give you the names of prominent men in our circles.

  No, thank you, I’d rather you didn’t.

  The less you know, the safer it is.

  That’s what I think too.

  Don’t think of it as a young men’s
club in some village, but rather as a large family with many distant relatives, or an exceptional gentlemen’s club so special that neither its name nor its address is known to anyone. The society has no address or, more accurately, it has as many addresses as it has members. The name of the organization we do not say out loud. Or you can think of it as a freemasons’ lodge, but one in which nothing embarrassing or exceptional happens. Except for the admission process, there are no ceremonies. At most, we listen to scholarly lectures on topics of Hungarian history. Whenever we can, we do this outdoors, at places where our ancestors gathered. The invited speakers are not necessarily members of our community and often they are not even aware they are speaking before a family or even members of an entire national-ethnic clan. Lajos Bartucs, László Németh, and Dezső Szabó lecture regularly. We chat about the world’s situation, its destiny, I would say über Gott und die Welt. The last time, we heard a lecture by Professor Lehr, with whose work you are probably familiar.

  Unfortunately, the name means nothing to me, but you know I’ve been living and studying abroad.

  He plays a very active and authoritative role in the society.

  Bellardi paused, as if with a knowing look he were signaling something like this: I know what I know, the professor is one of the society’s supreme leaders and I’m letting you in on this.

  He lectured, I would say very edifyingly, on the relationship between Dutch methods of dike building and the images of nature in rural Dutch life. I mention this because he himself has lived and taught in Holland, where he is well known in academic circles. His fields of interest include ancient history, linguistics, and ethnography. If you’re interested, I can give you a summary of his lecture.