Parallel Stories: A Novel

by Peter Nadas

  He would continue doing the job he had begun, as the Creator continuously placed successive tasks within his reach.

  However, Isolde had urged him—and the reason she had not begged him more urgently was that she did not want him to become violent with her—not to think anymore about any kind of creator or anything like that, and just stop whatever he’d been doing.

  The first thing she’d do after the holidays would be to get her lawyer involved, if Döhring had indeed done such a foolish thing and was now making a mountain out of a molehill.

  She would not tell her parents what he had done, she could promise that. She did not believe they’d think of coming to the farm before New Year’s Eve, he’d be safe there. But he must promise not to take a single step without a lawyer and make no phone calls to anybody anywhere.

  She really couldn’t stay with him, however strongly she felt it was necessary. She knew, sensed in her every pore that Carlino was not only lying but also possessed by madness, he was insane; what she saw and heard were the lies of that insanity. But that evening, her agent was expecting her at dinner in Paris with representatives of the Drouot auction house. Over dinner they were going to prepare a large-scale benefit auction for which they had great expectations.

  These are all stupidities, those thoughts of his, he should believe her, and he can’t go on torturing himself with them. He’d taken some impossible ideas into his head that were nothing but barefaced lies, he had fallen victim to some clever deception, he should believe her.

  She spoke hurriedly, heard herself hurrying, and was a little ashamed of herself.

  Such things simply did not happen in their family. She had no idea where Carlino had come up with such an idea. Who had told him such a thing. Something that nobody had thought about, let alone taken seriously for at least two hundred years; why is he going around scaring her or himself with it now. If he can be taken in by such idiocies then there’s not much point in his studying philosophy or psychology.

  But that’s exactly what he was trying to do, to look into the depth of things, Döhring said, defending himself.

  Things have no depths or surfaces.

  Isolde should know. In the fashion business, she had to learn the lessons of pragmatic philosophy well.

  It’s a good thing he hadn’t joined some crazy cult, or maybe he should join the neo-Nazis.

  Isolde should not exaggerate, should not mix up different things. He was interested in very concrete questions, and that’s hardly the same thing.

  But it is, Isolde cried out, with the full force of her penetrating voice, and she blushed deeply in her anger.

  Döhring went along with this childish quarrel, repeating that no, it’s not the same, because he wanted to see Isolde surrender, at least to him. But she could not or did not want to understand his allusions. At least for the sake of their own peace of mind, for their private use as it were, she should confess what she had done. What she had been keeping to herself for decades, which, by the way, everyone knows about.

  Gerhardt Döhring killed at least four people because of the gold that had vanished.

  Then he had to realize that Isolde didn’t remember anything; no matter how he tiptoed around the subject, she did not want to acknowledge and would not admit anything; and he fell silent.

  If she did not understand what was at stake or if she did not want to understand, then let there be tranquillity.

  Then let her quickly take herself off for Paris.

  He realized that it was not by chance that it wasn’t happening. It was not by chance that Isolde was slow on the uptake and kept denying and denying. Things that fail to occur have the same value as divine portents. Isolde was the only person, the last one who to some extent tied him to his family, and this tie had to be loosened so that he could be perfectly free in his actions and able to carry out his mission. He never understood how he’d wound up among them. He despised his stepmother and had always hated his lily-livered father and ass-kissing younger sister, who allegedly resembled their mother.

  It will be like a tooth extraction, it will make an awful cracking sound but then he will be free of hatred.

  So he decided to promise her, yes, he wouldn’t think about it anymore, about these bygone things, about this creator or whatever, Isolde should go and not worry, leave him to himself. But he was tired of her atheism.

  Sweet Carlino, there is no such thing as a creator, so how could you have anything to do with him, how could he exist, what sort of mission should you have. Before I go, I shall talk this idea out of your head, you can think of it as an accelerated university course.

  She should know that he was very grateful to her for letting him come out here, now she should go and not worry.

  One does not have any kind of duty in the world, nothing, nada, and there’s nothing that one must accomplish either with or without a creator. And most of one’s fellow humans are beyond help anyway. You might do this or that for them, but that would be worthwhile only if you had a penchant for senseless charity. And you don’t have a penchant for that.

  Neither do you. I at least am struggling for it, suffering, why don’t you want to understand that.

  As if at the very last moment he risked beseeching her, and his most enlightened aunt did not understand this last appeal either.

  No doubt for young people it is very hard to swallow this bitter pill without a sugar coating.

  He also knows that there is no creator, he’s not an idiot, has not gone completely out of his mind.

  Then don’t drive me out of mine and don’t make fun of me, and mainly stop whining at me. I can’t stand it.

  The one I’m talking about, or the thing I’m talking about, is not as the Christians or Jews imagine him, or the way you do. He is much more ancient, much simpler, rawer and more brutal. And it’s not important whether it has a persona or not. It bothers you because right away you think of it as a person and worry that it might be crawling out of some Germanic myth.

  Perhaps I could follow you, but I don’t want to.

  The reason she needs the whole Germanic mythology or the Christian God is only to conceal or protect herself with them for a while.

  Somebody did murder Gerhardt.

  No one ever found out who.

  He killed at least four people.

  You must be listening to too much Wagner, Carlino. Or you’ve become addicted to some cheap drug, you can tell me.

  You’re on the wrong track, but crimes must be confessed, no doubt about it, there’s no other way, and I agree about that. Everyone should confess his or her own.

  At least you should leave off with this. After Christmas we’ll go not only to the lawyer but also to my doctor. Whatever you’ve been taking, believe me, we can take care of it in no time.

  He’d try to formulate it differently, but he didn’t like censoring his words.

  As if he were standing on a promontory across which waves were slowly crashing right before his eyes, and soon there’d be no solid ground left under his feet.

  Perhaps Isolde is right, that his agitated fantasy is carrying his thoughts in the wrong direction. But why should she be so frightened of him, why call for a doctor right away. This too is only a cultural or cultic collective term to label one’s recurring fantasies, or fantasies of the collective. Wagner is in it, no question, and so are the Greeks, and the Germans—as in a large bowl of soup.

  You’re not answering me.

  I haven’t become addicted to anything.

  Then something very unusual has happened to you. I understand if you don’t want to tell me about it, but then we’ll have to find a trustworthy psychiatrist.

  I’ve told you more than once that if you’re ready to undergo your obligatory analysis, I will pay for it.

  What’s to be done, Döhring shouted, if there are cultural fantasies with these brutal gods or even the creator sitting in the middle of them. Yes, the Creator. Whether Isolde likes it or not, such words do exist and one can�
��t avoid them. He knows that everything is very fragile, concepts are also very fragile and one must be very careful, but that’s why. He won’t keep quiet anymore, he cannot stand it, and he doesn’t much care if he offends other people’s convictions with this concept. He will wreak havoc, will smash the system of concepts. He can’t help it, the job of cultural fantasies is to excite, and how can he keep his mind from becoming enlightened at last regarding certain issues that eventually urge him to action.

  What are you talking about, Isolde interrupted, trying to turn her entire being into a palpable threat, what words should you avoid and how.

  Maybe you can tell me how to protect myself from them or from my own thinking.

  He said this because he did not dare mention becoming enlightened again. One day I will tell you what can be done against it, against becoming enlightened, because you’re a big boy now.

  You haven’t got very far with it.

  Until now I’ve never wanted to interfere with your most intimate private life.

  But you have, you’ve done nothing but.

  Come on, what do you know about it.

  Or, all right, maybe not from them, but how is one to protect oneself from one’s own imagination.

  Nevertheless, the detective was coming toward him, leisurely and cheerful, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

  Which told him right off that no matter how risky it was, he had acted correctly when he let Isolde go, let her go to her happy little paradise and take her limitations and irresponsibility with her. He had broken the last thread that tied him to their reality. Where is it written that because of them he should censor his dictionary and even his imagination. He would do his own worrying about his vocabulary. He and the detective had to be left alone. The Creator’s hound has found not only the needed spoors in the universe but also his hangman, who will carry out the sentence.

  This is as it should be, how could it be otherwise.

  He did not understand the other gods but, at last, to himself, he could easily translate this more brutal god’s language into human language.

  Let Isolde go to her dear rue Cassette, let her go and not worry.

  Nothing more can go wrong.

  At the very most they would be unable to decide whether cultural or mythological images are uniformly part of a cosmic reality, or whether they function as independent entities in a reality that is homogeneous for everyone.

  Everything will be all right.

  What he should say is yes, now the one I’ve been looking for has found me. And I shall carry out the sentence entrusted to me.

  You called me, the detective said gently when he reached him in the patches of light cast from the house, and he showed his bright teeth in an overly nice smile.

  Döhring wanted to reply just as gently and lightheartedly, he too wanted to attempt a smile, this obligatory flashing of mood, but instead he said to himself, I have to behead this man who has finally found me, and he shuddered at the happy thought of this verdict, that he has to finish him off.

  He thought that wherever there was sin, there had to be virtue as well.

  Not that having seen the axe, the detective wasn’t clear about the danger facing him.

  While they were looking into each other’s eyes in the coldly dripping twilight, as if it couldn’t have been three days since they’d met for the first time, as if in the meantime not many things had happened to them and they needn’t think about so many other things, other dangerous persons and other dangerous occurrences.

  If you take one of the handles, I’ll take the other, the detective said cheerfully and reached for the basket filled with chopped wood.

  A man in love becomes very generous even with total strangers, though right away he saw how little enthusiasm the other one showed in accepting the generosity. He saw in Döhring’s very sharp features, and mainly in his compulsively small steps and tight movements, that his initial impression had been wrong. He had to correct himself. As though standing in the Tiergarten he had not acknowledged that this young man was not just an egomaniacal urban jerk; what he had was not neurosis, but schizophrenia. He saw the obduracy and the destructive desire to break free, he saw how the two clashed and did not let each other breathe. As if Döhring were urging or forcing himself to take steps to flee, or as if he were lurking around his own body. He was at once driven and treacherous.

  If he wanted to learn something from him, he had to be on guard and address not the young man but the lurking stranger; he would have to overtake the fugitive in his flight.

  Döhring’s eyes were wide and alarmed; he looked at the other man and showed that he did not understand what was happening or what more might happen as they walked together, carrying the basket.

  He felt a kind of defenselessness that he could not resist, but neither could he forgive Kienast for it, and these contrasting feelings tugged and pulled his features in different directions.

  And at that moment he accepted something he did not know, something he should not have accepted or come to know. A love-filled sentiment radiated from the other man for which he had no words, which he did not know, and which was not intended for him. He realized he was scowling, though in his own interest he should have been smiling at this miserable cop.

  His grotesque silence felt oppressive once they reached the house; he felt he did not have enough air and was behaving in ways that did not serve his own interest, especially after they put down the freshly chopped wood by the fireplace. Maybe it was only because of a single bad move. Kienast hardly had time to look around, for they’d brought the wood in just in time; the fire was about to go out. And Kienast was, very politely, about to lift the short-handled axe out of the basket so that Döhring could quickly throw a few pieces on the fire, or who knows why he did it.

  Döhring grabbed at it as if someone was trying to take it away from him or as if he feared being assassinated. As if Kienast were an assassin. Human blood had clung to the handle of this axe once before, and it had been carefully washed off so the axe could be used again and not given or thrown away; both handle and head had been sandpapered clean. The Döhrings did not talk about this, but everyone knew what had happened with the axe. Even though no trace of his uncle’s blood or marrow remained. And objects cannot be held responsible for their being used for irregular purposes. He managed to grab it, but this move embarrassed them both, the embarrassment of one only strengthening that of the other.

  As if they were mutually familiar with every episode in the other’s life.

  The mutually revealing move and mutually felt fear offended them in their shyness and dignity, affected them all the way to the groin. Surprised by the unexpected contact, they had the presence of mind to exchange furtive bashful looks, as conspirators do when they take large risks and then turn quickly away.

  Which emphasized the silence all the more—the fact that until now Döhring had said nothing, had not returned the detective’s greeting, and was unlikely to be the one to break the silence of this house in the woods. Nevertheless the detective decided he wouldn’t be the first to speak, no need for hasty politeness, he’d bide his time. He had come here in response to the young man’s schizoid outburst, having understood the hidden meaning of the personal invitation, and that should suffice for now. He could not appear weak. It was warm and there was a smell of apples, and anyway it was time to look around, see who these Döhrings were, what he might expect. The walls were covered with old wainscoting, wooden stairs led to an upper floor, and every light was on, every lamp and sconce as well as the chandelier.

  Döhring hastily leaned his carefully guarded axe against the side of the fireplace as if his very body, his bodily existence, had become shameful. To avoid facing the leisurely, brazenly inquisitive detective with his intrusive physical self-assurance, he squatted down before the fire. But he was unable to break their mutuality. He quickly surrounded the dying flames with thin pieces of kindling. Everything was positioned on its prescri
bed course; he could not deviate from it. The detective actually liked to see how practiced Döhring’s fingers were at this, though he had no movements that weren’t hurried, sharp, unrestrained, compulsive. He probably always leaned the axe against the fireplace at the same angle.

  He blew on the fire so the flames would catch the new kindling, his agitated blowing obviously meant not only for the embers but also for the detective. Who then turned away, as if to absorb the young man’s quiet performance with his shoulders, as it were, and with leisurely steps creaked his way around the room, whose beamed, old ceiling seemed low. The rather friendly space seemed to be struggling under the weight of the upstairs bedrooms. He looked out every one of the small windows.

  A man in love likes to flaunt his body. He became terrifically excited at the sight of the threatened young man. He would not have admitted to himself that he considered him easy prey. According to the rules of his profession he must remain indifferent.

  His profession demanded from him two things that could be carried out neither simultaneously nor in parallel.

  To avoid exaggeration or to keep his embarrassment at bay, he carefully observed the view that someone taking refuge here would see from each window. And the blowing on the fire behind him strengthened his impression that from the first moment of their encounter this unfortunate young man had been broadcasting distress signals in his direction. Being asked for help, having hope placed in him, was a very touching experience and not exceptional for the detective, but this young man was already beyond the point where he could be helped.

  One kills not only out of need, interest, or selfish enjoyment but also out of suffering.