Parallel Stories: A Novel

by Peter Nadas

  And what if I don’t feel like going to someone’s party right now, and even less like talking to her husband. Or what would she do if her husband didn’t feel like talking to me.

  Nothing would happen, no problem, and at least we’ve talked about it.

  That’s exactly what I’m talking about. What we’ve got, then, is only this nothing.

  Furiously, she held her peace.

  There is nothing, I shouted.

  I’m talking nonsense.

  I said, in that case I am very sorry that I’m so obtuse. Obviously, my talents do not reach this far.

  But if I really wanted to leave, I should go ahead, of course. Ultimately, she didn’t want to make me do anything I didn’t want to do, and she couldn’t, anyway.

  On the one hand she knows very well she could; if she couldn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here like a jerk. On the other hand I don’t want to go away so much because if I did, I wouldn’t have come in the first place.

  Well, that’s really very witty, she answered, sharp and sarcastic. But she was afraid I had no more time for further witticisms.

  I didn’t understand that; I said I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand why this was witty.

  While we were talking I paid no attention to what was happening around us, though I must have seen and heard more and sensed every smell and odor more keenly than before. Now suddenly everything changed. As if she had pushed me out of herself, making me feel like a drunkard. I understood neither the words nor the sentences. Only the fragrance that emanated from her enormous hair, full of glittering beads of drizzle, from her soft white skin under the collar, and from her bare neck—perhaps only that fragrance had not changed. Her posture had changed, the color and tone of her voice had changed, and her comportment had changed. It was as if with my sense of smell, stunned by the acridity of an exceptional perfume, I were trying to reach her true fragrance while becoming so deeply immersed in both fragrances that I couldn’t hope to separate them. It was improbable that we were still standing here in this storm, roaming over each other’s face, knowing that it was all hopeless. I should have jumped into the Danube from the Árpád Bridge. I planned to leave here as soon as possible, yet I couldn’t even give up the enjoyment of hopelessness. Or perhaps it was her fragrance that kept me; the gusty wind thrust it toward me and carried it away from me.

  And she had a contradicting sentence for every one of my words; I could not allow that, but she wasn’t going to allow anything either.

  She laughed again—my uncomprehending face must have looked funny. I sensed that a long time was going by, but there was another computation of time in which not even one of our shared moments could have passed and only the surface of everything could be touched, where everything remained hurried and volatile.

  And, as if because of the words, we only snatched at issues in a desultory way, unable to talk them through to the end.

  She motioned to me to look behind me.

  A car was parked along the curb. I remembered having heard it stop there.

  I looked at her and then at this odd, shiny automobile from another world, from before the war. I couldn’t decide what to do. I was furious, pouting about the way she might be forcing me to do something senseless. The person at the wheel did not move, seemed not even to notice us. His face could not be seen, he must have had a coat on, maybe a leather coat, and for a few moments he remained but an indifferent shadow. The windshield wipers kept swishing. And then he must have lost patience, having to wait so long. He leaned across the passenger seat and threw open the curbside door; his movement sizzled. People started coming out of the church, the organ sounded its loud farewell with great blows of air.

  Don’t be angry, but I’m not coming, I said. I won’t. I said it as someone whose self-respect was important, but by saying it only once, I couldn’t make myself accept this declared intention.

  When would she see me then, she asked, without the slightest change in her face. No annoyance, no sorrow. Raised eyebrows, engraved in her forehead. Perhaps her large eyes and pursed lips awaited an answer, but whatever my answer might be, no response would touch her being. A face made of large, white, motionless, and indifferent fields.

  She looked so lovely that it hurt me to say what I was about to say, but I said it, I don’t know when we can see each other again.

  And in that very instant her husband honked.

  He barely touched the horn; it was nothing but another signal, but now the woman too seemed to lose patience. The various fields on her face twisted in anger, she pulled up her shoulders a little as if ready to attack. She shook herself, became ugly, and then yelled into my face to stop shitting around, what the hell was I shitting around for about a stupid little thing like this.

  Now it was my turn; I burst out laughing. I said, all right, let’s not shit around. But it was easier to say that than to follow her and also satisfy every unexpected demand of the new situation.

  The Lovely Angel of Revenge

  Baron Schuer took his customary place at the large oval table as head of the family; Countess Auenberg sat opposite him, at the place to which the lady of the house had shown her. They were in the smaller dining room, which was used on weekdays. Its walls were covered in deep-green silk embossed in old gold; its white-lacquered neo-Baroque furniture was upholstered in the same silk; double doors and two large windows gave onto the terrace and because of the summer weather were left open.

  One could see down the enfilade of rooms.

  The two of them began to talk politely, rather coolly even, a bit offhandedly, as if barely able to control a mutual dislike. Even though from the very first word they felt such an urge to converse that they scarcely had the patience to await the other’s responses. As if they had spent too much time on the high, neutral plane of politeness. While beneath them, in the depths, beyond the formalities, they saw all sorts of other things—nimble fish, gently floating water plants—which in a little while they would dip down to obtain, without breaking off their mutual glances, rapidly filling with increasing joy.

  For long minutes after the maids had left silently, having served the cold fruit soup topped with whipped cream in cavernous Rosenthal bowls, incredulity and shock reigned around the table on account of the two of them, shock underlying the restlessness and the continual babble of voices; the others, despite their formal discipline, felt the maddening whirlpool-like tug of a potential scandal.

  That’s it, Schuer cried to himself, so pleased with his idea that he could have jumped for joy, as if arriving at an important station in his life. This did not necessarily have amorous significance, at least not directly. She will create the right conditions for me in Budapest, and once again he carefully scrutinized the young woman the better to see who it was whom he had to win over for his undertaking. Yet he couched his professional plans, which had arisen because of her, in terms of endearment. As if to say, all I need to do is touch her, and she will bloom.

  Oh, why didn’t I think of this before.

  He saw clearly that she was the being he should have waited to marry, no one else.

  They did not acknowledge that in their great bewilderment about each other they were talking at cross-purposes while hearing and understanding the words of the others at the table, who, prompted by a similar bewilderment if not embarrassment, had been interrupting their duet and one another too. The two of them heard this duet they were creating—how could they not—but they didn’t understand the others, because they were no longer curious about them. This time he must not be too hasty, Schuer warned himself. Not every day does one meet someone who will be a queen tomorrow.

  Nothing changed in the pleasantly cool dining room shaded by gigantic maple trees, or outside in the splendid rose garden, to warrant a mutual emotional excitement of such proportions.

  Someone should have stopped talking, if only out of obligatory courtesy.

  As if a thick, sonorous jet of water had bubbled up from the well of mutual
admiration and adoration.

  He had not waited for her, how could he have; he hadn’t known her, had had no idea she existed. Ridiculous, he said to himself. But now she would be useful, together they would establish the new institute, which he definitely needed, and this woman, a Hungarian queen, would be his patroness, which is quite impressive any way one looks at it, even though he knows these are empty words, a ludicrous self-consolation. The more likely object of his enthusiasm was the young woman’s beauty and elegance. He felt her as irresistible, had never met anyone like her.

  Everyone noticed it, even the cautious maids busy with the soup. Amid much giggling and pretended secretiveness in the kitchen, they passed on the news to the cook and the scullery maid preparing the sauerbraten. This is a delicate operation in any circumstance; one must be quick so the meat doesn’t cool while being sliced.

  The two of them had no sense of the impropriety they had put on public display. They both believed that in the circumstances they were well disciplined, and they admired themselves for their self-control.

  Yet it was more like being on the brink of an earthquake.

  Because they wanted more, wanted everything, they could not deny themselves to each other. How could they look into each other’s eyes without plunging into the whole scandalous story of their years spent without each other, and how could they not relate even more and more while readily absorbing the totality of images offered in the raw sight of the other’s solid, lithe physicality. The lady of the house, the three well-behaved children, the severely dressed Karla Baroness von Thum zu Wolkenstein and the nurse, Miss Bartleby, a rather pale, heavily freckled, unattractive Englishwoman with frizzled red hair, who was in charge of the children even at mealtimes—everyone around the table saw with their own eyes and heard with their own ears what the two of them were up to.

  A brilliant and indifferent early afternoon in late August with the unmistakable hints of approaching autumn’s flavors and barbs.

  This is what is happening to them. In the eyes of both there shone an alarming, wonderful feeling of being both surprised and privileged.

  Countess Auenberg felt only one thing, that after three days of absence, she had reached home in Schuer’s sparkling eyes.

  Although she couldn’t have said where she had come from or where they might now go together. Will this stranger sitting opposite her supplant her adored betrothed. She was so lost in Schuer’s glances, glittering with cold lights and cruelty—and she saw, how could she not, that he was dangerous, a man to be feared—that his incredible nose failed to disturb her, on the contrary. Yet it kept staring at her threateningly, in just the way she had complained about to Karla.

  But it did not occur to her that her infidelity might be scandalous or that she was wavering in her love for her betrothed; she was suddenly busy with many objective details. Other considerations could not have entered her mind, on the contrary.

  Because he was here, sitting opposite her.

  Even if she were to see them together, she would mix up the two men’s faces and mainly their figures.

  That made her happy—the sensitive, invulnerable mixing of the two, its enthralling realization. She spoke to him in rapid, whirling words. As if she were speaking to an idol. She spoke to him with her strong, courtly Viennese accent, herself incredulous about what she was experiencing and what she was now telling this idol so loudly, distracting her own attention from the impermissible attraction and its realization. This is not a human being; this is an idol. Not once did she turn to Baroness Thum, who also insisted on speaking only to Schuer, disregarding the lady of the house too, who, with loud arrhythmic comments, remained the loneliest person in the company. Well, the day before yesterday when—no, Schuer cannot possibly imagine—led by the charming Emmy Göhring, she laughed as she pronounced the name, she was absolutely charming, she laughed again, they paid a visit to Arno Breker’s atelier, here on Käuzchensteig if she wasn’t mistaken, wonderful, it’s probably not far from here, you probably know the place, isn’t it marvelous, you must go see it, he is a marvelously great artist, well, she became aware of an astonishing bust in one of the atelier’s abandoned nooks, on a pedestal such as one sees in ateliers, but she didn’t mention that, overwhelmed by the obscene and brutal sight of all those tight bundles of muscles, in the entire studio she had found fascinating and reassuring only this smooth naked male shoulder. At first glance she thought, she could not believe her eyes, that the artist had probably modeled the bust so lovingly on her fiancé. She could not describe it any other way but that it had been made with love, though she knew nothing of the creation or existence of this sculpture. Nor did she say, how could she, that she had not yet seen her fiancé’s naked shoulder, how could she. She worships her fiancé in his impeccably tailored suits, though she knows, she giggled to herself, that she should worship only Jesus Christ.

  Still, she wasn’t curious about him naked, nor about his shoulder either; in fact she wasn’t curious about any part of him. There will be a time for that. Which she feared—what she would have to do then.

  Schuer could not have known what the Hungarian countess was laughing about to herself as she talked to him with such abandon and why, at the same time, he shuddered at her sight, or why this shuddering made her more desirable. Even though he wanted nothing from her. I don’t want anything. She became in his eyes a little like a lovely angel of revenge. Only he could not understand why he thought this; on what or whom might this angelic being take revenge. On his terrible marriage, his entire infernal life until now.

  Or if the artist had not modeled the bust on her fiancé—she had to get closer to it, something about it was suspicious, she, by the way, worships art and worships artists too, she continued with the forbidden word and in her immoderately loud and piercing, shrill little voice—then the artist must have modeled it on himself.

  That is what she wanted to see, but the ladies kept following her everywhere.

  She personally didn’t care if sometimes these modern artists with their modern works were shocking. She failed to notice the chilling effect these words provoked around the table. The moment she uttered them, all three women and even Schuer fell silent. Miss Bartleby, who until now had been trying in a subdued voice to restrain the children—and who, to the great amusement of the family, was considered a passionate devotee of the spirit of national socialism—could hardly contain herself. Unless asked, she was forbidden to take part in conversations around the table. Modern temples should be erected to house their shocking works. This remark caused a cacophony even louder than the previous one; everybody was trying to drown out the countess’s impossible sentences. And she did not say aloud how the artist with his entire physical presence had reminded her of Mihály, even though she could see that Breker had a terribly weak character, that he was a terrible sycophant. At this moment, it seemed to her unbearably impossible that her listeners knew nothing of Mihály. Perhaps she should talk about Mihály. But then it turned out, she continued easily and in the same breath, that the statue depicted neither the sculptor nor Mihály but the wonderful architect Albert Speer, whom she had not had the good fortune to meet, but she was sure they must know well that he was the Führer’s favorite architect; she said it like that, her voice full of tenderness as she pronounced the word Führer. With which she quickly rectified some of her earlier rudeness, as her listeners interpreted it. Even though the tenderness was directed at the model of the bust rather than at Hitler, whom she quietly abhorred. Following Count Svoy’s advice, in this instance it would have been incorrect to say Hitler. She had to accept that this was the way Germans expressed their natural affection for and unconditional trust in the man she found repulsive in every sense of the word. And demonstrating to the Germans that she was independent was not the only important thing to do, in this she agreed completely with Count Svoy, since over the centuries the Auenbergs had become great Hungarians; she also wanted to exploit for the benefit of Hungarians the fact that given
her bloodline and her name she belonged to the Germans.

  Which Schuer, involved in this subject, had instinctively sensed in her face and figure when he first saw her approach on the garden path alongside Baroness Thum. With some satisfaction he acknowledged that she had an exemplary Nordic physique. Even Eichstedt, that skeptical scientist, would be happy to see such pigment-poor skin and hair, so supple and slender a figure, on which there was nothing superfluous, the long face with its slim nose, with its exceptionally high base and unusually close-sitting nostrils; with their sensitivity, these features moved him to the core. He will start an affair with her, a secret affair. He lingered long on her unpainted lips and then sought out her barely protruding cheekbones to observe how she spoke, chewed, and swallowed, in a way to possess, from an anatomical viewpoint, the young woman’s bite.

  But she was sorry that Eva Braun was not present, her lips said.* Another topic her listeners would not talk about, and they were appropriately taken aback by her mention of the name. She had heard so many good things about her, she must be a charming personality, they probably knew her. They fidgeted, what is this foolish little Hungarian countess going on about, and began to speak over and above her scandalous utterances, so as not to hear them. Speer’s charming wife, Margret, she was there, however, in the dazzling array of ladies, Magda Goebbels and the others, all of them. Any man would be happy in the company of so many dazzling women, but she had the definite impression that they had left this great artist cold. Artists, after all, are busy with their art, and for a great artist we forgive everything, do we not. And with that remark, and an amiable laugh, she glanced around at her table companions, all of whom were preoccupied with themselves and, except for Siegfried, talking about themselves. Countess Imola received no answer, but this did not seem to bother her. Margret Speer is a dazzling woman, she continued, instructively, as if going more deeply into the subject might elicit curiosity. Her modesty is so winning, and the two of them quickly established a friendly relationship, a few words sufficed and then they understood each other, they would visit each other. Margret would come to them in Fánt and she would very happily visit the Speers in Berchtesgaden. Her shyness and objectivity were touching. Downright touching, she said, with an embarrassed little laugh underlining this impression of Margret, who said, yes, she also could not fail to notice the resemblance between the physiognomies of the two men.