by Peter Nadas
And I should go by myself.
By yourself or with anybody. Wherever you want to, however you want to.
After the latest squabble, their silence turned hopelessly dark and ominous. A moment ago, despite all my humiliation and resistance, they had captured my curiosity, but this skirmish unsettled me. For what they were doing to each other now needed no witnesses; my observing them was no longer explainable or endurable. This did not occur to me as a moral question; it simply hit me in my stomach, in my guts. One never knows what sort of life to wish for, because one would have to wish for several different kinds at once, to weigh the possibilities, but surely one wouldn’t wish for this kind. I worried that in my fright I’d have to fart.
I felt the moment had come; I couldn’t keep the results of my prolonged anxiety in check.
I began to speak, quietly and cautiously, calling the woman by her first name for the first time, and to emphasize what I was about to say I leaned closer to her and with both hands grasped the back of her seat near her shoulders. I took great care not to let my fingers touch her coat.
The man eyed me hostilely in the rearview mirror.
I think my presence is really unnecessary, I said, and told her that with her permission I’d like to get out.
As if she had waited for my voice, she turned around—but not just with her head, with her entire torso—and her shoulder pressed my fingers into the upholstery. And I was just going to turn to the man to take my leave. If the situation turned out like this, there was no reason to reverse it or pretend it wasn’t the way it was. But with her shoulders and her back, the woman bound me to herself, I became bound to her, and it wouldn’t have occurred to me to free myself from her. This was nothing more or less than what happens when one fits the right plug in the right outlet and the current flows and the bulb lights up. She had to feel how excited and tense my body was. Through her coat, I sensed there was no reason to be nervous, because her calm or security would not be upset even by momentary despair. And for the next decade I would light up, would emit light, only for her. That’s it, the matter was taken care of. An enormous keel of confidence, tranquillity, and security steadied her, and other kinds of emotion or feeling could only scratch its surface, they could not disturb it.
The darkness we sat in glimmered, because light from the streetlamp outside was diffused by slowly accumulating drops of a fine rain that rolled quickly downward on the windows; the dark depths of the car were pervaded by the smell of stale tobacco, wet hair, coats, animal hide, and perfume, and now I could detect the reek of booze.
The man’s black hair emanated its fragrance differently from that of the woman’s blond mane.
For me, at that moment, everything had an elemental force, a perspective, height, depth, light, shadow, and of course an impalpable dark side. Be it a sight or a feeling, elemental forces were pitted against one another and, so that they would not be noticed in their naked forms, the words said one thing and the gestures said something else. Otherwise, they’d have knocked me out or carried me away completely. Although everything was interlaced with helplessness—the dominant feelings of the times, saturating and pervading everything, were total hopelessness, fear, disappointment, regret, exasperation, apathy, and tension—this state of affairs inevitably clashed with the confidence that comes from being alive; one’s own breathing offered assurance and hope for the next few moments and also, and above all, energy to endure many things or at least to throw a bridge over them. Even while making that remark about intending to leave, I knew I could never extricate myself from this affair. But I’d known that before, known it well in advance. She could see me better now, and I was afraid that her husband could too, though I hadn’t the vaguest idea with what and how I had revealed my shock. At any rate, the light of the streetlamp fell on my face and left theirs in the dark, but there were two unmistakable flashes in the woman’s eyes with which she meant to reassure me. As if with one flash she was saying, the problem is pretty big but this time I can handle him, and with the other, referring to my hysterical fear, she was peremptorily blocking my desire to escape: stay, help me.
Yet this was not what she said aloud, or rather, she arranged her words according to the rules of propriety.
She said, go ahead, go, she saw no problem, and while I hadn’t recovered because I was still trying to understand how I could be of help to her, she reached over for the door handle, the door was already open a little, ready to step out and fold down the front seat and let me out.
I still wonder what would have happened if the scene had ended there.
If it had, I’d probably never have gone back to the store and my life would have turned out very differently. My hysterical fear would have overcome me and I’d have met something entirely different. I would surely have met somebody on Margit Island who would not have been a woman. But I’ve no way of knowing that. Maybe I’d have found the wonderful giant again, whom I could never forget anyway. But the scene could not end that way: the man started the car—it all happened so fast—and in an instant the old motor moaned and bellowed, all revved up, and Klára managed to yank the door shut.
Puddles spurted under us, the wet roadway sizzled, on the empty road we barreled into the darkness at an insane speed.
And from then on none of us spoke.
Well, there’s nothing I can do about it; if he wants to drive while he’s drunk, let him. I threw myself back on the stiff leather seat meant for luggage and did not give a damn. Wheels screeching, we turned sharply from Nagymező Street into Andrássy Street. Maybe this man is not only drunk but also crazy; in a little while, I caught myself enjoying his craziness. I caught myself not only holding on but also letting my fingers go exploring, patting, and stroking, and these movements were involuntary and revealing. As if I were taking possession of something that belonged to them. I wanted some hide, some skin, while thinking again about the giant. I am touching and feeling this finely made black leather seat, stroking the decorative, richly grained, brown stripes of nacreous luster that, at the height of the backrests, tauten the vertically cushioned, ribbed, gray upholstery. As if I were discovering only now that in the interior of this old rattletrap everything was flawless, comfortable, and luxurious. This flawlessness went well with the woman but not with the man. I enjoyed the speed, their obstinate necks, their craziness, my own madness, I enjoyed the streetlights flitting by so regularly, I enjoyed having no idea what would happen to me or what I could do with my unstoppable thoughts. I enjoyed the little freedom I had gained from them, enjoyed having left my usual life so far behind that all questions seemed to reach me from a great distance. I gave myself over to the mad rush—from today’s perspective it probably wasn’t all that fast—which seemed to squeeze my soul.
He must have seen from far off that in front of the Savoy Café, around an open assault vehicle, policemen were cooling their heels and smoking; still, he didn’t slow down. The Savoy was empty that evening, as was the Abbázia across the street. White tables had been set for guests in the empty light. In fact, the entire dark city, paralyzed by the emergency situation, was empty, though filled with news and rumors; everyone preferred to stay quietly at home. Jostling and rattling, driving parallel to the streetcar tracks at full speed, we crossed the boulevard, decorated with drenched flags. For some reason, the police decided not to pursue us. I didn’t dare look back because I couldn’t imagine what would happen if they decided to chase us. It was a good, warm feeling, dictated by a groundless sense of confidence that even the possibility of a chase would not faze me; let them come after us. But they didn’t. In a few moments the car pleasantly warmed up and the rain-beaten windows became a little hazy. It occurred to me that the police might have thought Simon was one of them because of his leather coat, or that he behaved so fearlessly because he was a police officer. Regular cops did not wear such fine leather coats. The wet bare branches of the plane trees hovered above us in the gusting wind and rushed above us on Andrássy Street,
a straight, wide boulevard with two tree-lined promenades that divide the broad roadway into three double-lane strips.
Not a vehicle, not a pedestrian anywhere.
The glimmering cobblestones on the tree-lined street rushed darkly under us. Just before the Körönd rotary I involuntarily yelled, watch out, dog, because a rather large black animal, attracted by the approaching car, was loping toward us from the outer sidewalk. Its surprised master, yelling and gesticulating, was running uselessly after it. The dog galloped at a right angle from him and then was off the sidewalk, across the road, back on the promenade, as if it were planning to hurl himself at us from the flower beds. For some reason it thought better of this, and, with muscles tense and mug thrust forward, it merely barked at the car from among the trees.
But it was not the same dog.
And it did not slow us down. Simon wasn’t driving as if, defying danger or at least taking it into account, he felt free. I’d say, rather, that he was ready for any collision, at whatever cost, and the explanation for his resolve was not to be found in either freedom or servitude. He grasped the wheel tightly, his arm stiffly spread. Nothing had an explanation, really. I certainly had no explanation for why I felt good at last in this anarchy or chaos opening up for me. I was a little embarrassed about my shouting. As if I still had something to lose.
But I preferred that nothing should be the way I’d have wanted it; let everything be the way it happens to be.
Klára’s body did not respond.
True, nobody asked her anything; events as well as the persons participating in them became independent. Ultimately, I gave myself over to the feeling Simon had claimed to himself: I surrendered myself to the mad chase, which covered over all my confused or nice feelings or any other kind of feeling, and which did not even let me know what we were chasing.
Originally, to all indications, he’d planned to drive to Hősök Square, at the end of Andrássy Street.
We’d barely left the infuriated dog behind us when from the Körönd we could see that we might not easily get through what was waiting for us. From afar, it seemed like an inexplicable apparition: somewhere, near or in line with Bajza Street, between the sidewalks lined with gigantic trees, two dark masses were blocking our way; between them lay only a narrow, brilliantly illuminated passage. At first glance, I couldn’t figure out what it was. We could see only a glowing mass of light between two dark masses.
Simon probably saw this first and figured it out before I did. We had already sped through the huge intersection at Körönd. He must have made his decision in a split second; without slackening his stiffened arms, and leaning into the movement with his entire upper body, he yanked the steering wheel to the right and then, amid terrific jolts, creaks, and thuds, gave another yank to the left, which luckily missed running us up onto the promenade and into the trees or flower beds; he managed to find the roadway between the promenade and sidewalk, where he sped through without slowing down at all.
I won’t deny it, I admired him.
And the explanation for the apparition was very simple. To block that part of the road, the police had put two of their assault cars facing each other and turned floodlights on both of them.
It wasn’t easy to understand why they’d done this. Perhaps something else had happened in the city which we hadn’t yet heard about, not just the terrible accident that morning at the site of the official celebration. But none of us asked or said anything. They wanted either to arrest some people or to keep the entire city under control. One left so many things unsaid and stopped doing things at the slightest hint of danger; we kept quiet because we always expected the worst. In the dark, under the trees, the leather-coated fellows stood in groups. They had not erected such a conspicuous roadblock for at least four years. It was also peculiar that they had chosen this street on which to block this quarter of the city. At the corner, behind a heavy wrought-iron fence, stood the Soviet embassy, now darkened; if one strolled farther down these tree-lined streets one could see that all the way to the Epres Gardens every building belonged to the Russians; the area had become a little Moscow. It was not likely that we could get through the cordon even on a secondary road. But Simon was not slowing down; he turned into Bajza Street at a sharp angle, brushing against the curb and honking his horn twice.
The real game was just about to begin, or maybe it wasn’t a game.
Perhaps he wanted to prove something to the woman. Or prove his superiority to me. He was screaming. It would be incorrect to say he was screaming at the top of his lungs, rather I should say he was screaming from the depths of his chest. As if singing a lonely song of self-justification. Now he increased the speed, now just as suddenly reduced it; the car was rocking back and forth. For long spells he’d let go of the wheel or, thrusting his arms against it, would yank it this way and that, making the car dance between the two sidewalks. It was hard to tell what the old jalopy could endure; maybe it was an old Adler. All the while, he honked the horn rhythmically. I couldn’t be sure whether with this weird running amok he was testing his wife, putting on a show for me, or taking his revenge on the cops we’d left standing and befuddled, for having kept him in a constant fear of threats; he was simply thumbing his nose at them.
In those years, one didn’t do things like that.
There were enough other dangers.
Klára cautiously held on to the seat, but her posture revealed no fear or any sign that she had an opinion about what was happening. She retreated, became neutral and did so inconspicuously, which in itself was a weighty opinion. One did not provoke fate if one could help it. With triumphantly sung battle cries and much honking of the horn we drove across Queen Vilma Road, now called Gorky Avenue, and then across Damjanich Street. I thought Simon had indeed gone mad. Might deliberately run into a building. He drove up on the sidewalk. With a terrible racket, we swept away a few garbage cans put out for the morning collection.
Nobody could be sure that some unsuspecting person might not step out on the sidewalk.
I was counting on Klára to figure out a way to restrain him.
But during those few seconds we drove along the sidewalk in Nefelejcs Street, I chose to close my eyes. I had no other way to protect myself against such an enormous attack of senselessness. Perhaps it would have been more dangerous to do something than do nothing. At the corner of Dembinszky Street, we literally fell off the high curb. At least he left off with his screaming, as if he’d bitten his tongue. Then, as if doing the most natural thing in the world, he drove perpendicularly across the street and deliberately braked so sharply that we tumbled forward.
Voilà, c’est tout, he said, here we are, and slapped the wheel with both hands, making the horn screech again.
This is when Klára looked at him again, with yet another profile.
I’ll just change, she said dryly, give me ten minutes.
Five, said the man.
Eight, she said, and before getting out she threw a glance my way.
She wanted to be sure that I’d survived the shock.
For that instant, I could cling to her attention, but this brief encouragement proved inadequate to help me endure the following minutes. She released the car door carefully, it barely clicked shut; with hurrying steps she walked through an open, dark, gaping gate. Leaning across the seat and pushing out the door a little, the man yelled after her to bring some cigarettes. The door clicked closed again, there was silence at last; again an impossible moment. Outside the wind was raging, slamming into the tin gutters. We were out of life-threatening danger. In the rearview mirror he looked at me hostilely, as if he were still preparing something against me or against the world; I looked back at him. It was an unfamiliar look; I couldn’t tell what he might be up to. But I ran out of the reserve of Klára’s encouraging glance. Now I couldn’t have given a good reason for leaving.
It was getting late, but that wouldn’t do for an excuse.
I said, I’d like to stretch a little, but now
I wasn’t thinking of anything else except getting away. I wasn’t going to wait for Klára to come back.
Of course, it also occurred to me that I should cut across dark Aréna Road. I seemed to feel in my limbs the elation of getting away, the liberating steps.
As if freedom were truly waiting for me on the other side under the storm-tossed trees.
I still called it Aréna Road, its old name, because there stood the house, facing City Park, where I was born, and which my grandfather had built. And behind the Műcsarnok art gallery, among the large plane trees, the underground public urinal yawned invitingly with its pale light; this was where men thirsty for one another always waited in droves.
He asked me if I had any cigarettes; he said he’d get out and stretch a little too, but he’d gotten very wet before, which made me glad. At least we clarified the distance between us. I said I was sorry but I did not smoke, which was not completely true, and we both got out of the car. For me it was harder because I had to climb around the front seat, tipped forward. And to lessen my humiliation, I said if my memory did not fail me, there was a bar nearby. While waiting for Klára, I’d be happy to buy him some cigarettes there. He burst out laughing as if to brag about his embarrassment. He said that would be very considerate of me, but he could hold out for another few minutes. But I was right about the bar, he said, there, and he motioned toward the farther stretch of the street.
They have pretty lousy cigarettes.
His leather coat was short, I could see now under the streetlamp, its leather rather worn, its surface scaly with time. Private chauffeurs and farm managers had worn coats like that before the war.
The bar was indeed there on the bleak and shabby part of the street. Who knows how long the shadows of men had been standing there with their beers and spritzers in front of its illuminated window. This bar was one of the most mysterious places of my childhood. Regardless of what kind of family one comes from, in the city where one grows up there are always some forbidden places. This was not a hostile world; if the drunks weren’t on a rampage it was a rather peaceful place, yet I knew I should not step inside it. Not because somebody had forbidden it; life simply presented no situation that would have required it. Lately, this was the starting point and terminus of the number 5 bus line. The bar was always dim with smoke; it buzzed like a beehive; there were always so many men that some of them had to stay on the sidewalk, even in winter. They put a bench outside, along the wall of the building. The streetcar on István Road was also discontinued. The bench was painted blue, like the buses, because it was meant for resting drivers and conductors, but most of the time this is where the drunks lay about.