Parallel Stories: A Novel

by Peter Nadas

You were probably saving those bottles for the holidays.

  Come on, stop bugging me about the holidays.

  Who else but guests would you be waiting for with so much wine.

  And he became suspicious in his own eyes, for he was trying too hard and insisting on making headway with these stupid holidays and this pitiful boy. As if he had thought that with the help of this copy he could step into the original, the source of his premonition. Before their fits epileptics disappear into the trap of repetition.

  And in that case, suddenly kindled love is not the exit from but the terrible entrance to monotony.

  Because you have lit up the house so nicely, he said—and no matter how much he did not want to, he had to repeat some of the words—in nice holiday fashion, so festive, as if he were hearing similar echoes in his own skull: holidays, festivities.

  There is no holiday, I’m not preparing for anything, Döhring exclaimed, elemental hatred against everything and everyone seething in his voice, but I tell you, since you’re so curious, I am afraid, he shouted, scared, do you understand, he shouted, that’s all, that’s why I lit up the house.

  Haven’t you ever been afraid when you were alone in a house, he asked, and his voice faltered as though he was about to cry.

  What did he have to be afraid of.

  I’m not expecting guests, stop pestering me with this stupidity, and I’m certainly not going to wait for my kid sister.

  I thought you were twins. Twins are inseparable.

  I hate her anyway. I hate every kind of holiday, he fumed.

  As though his hatred had no object at all, only it would have been nice to lower himself to the very bottom of the word designating hatred.

  I don’t need calendar holidays for my joy, or for guests. I don’t want anybody yakking at me about holidays or whatever. I constantly think inwardly, on my own I am pretty much enough to make me happy, I can reassure you about that. And I certainly don’t need company to think. Even if I had something to celebrate I wouldn’t have a holiday for it, or I couldn’t celebrate it with others, it’s that simple.

  Of course, while he was shouting he suddenly had an insight into this older and undoubtedly more experienced man. Who was sitting here with him, his big thighs spread, his feet in his big shoes, his short jacket open, and, in his large, loving self-satisfaction raising high the misting glass.

  As if he were truly drinking to Döhring’s health. As if he could serve himself here to his own satisfaction. He drank to his love, to his happiness; Döhring saw perfectly well what he was drinking his toast to.

  And since his sentiments could not be turned off like a faucet, his love spread out over everything, including this unhappy boy. Who was just staring at him, eyes wide.

  How does one become so shameless and arrogant with one’s freely gained happiness.

  There was indeed much to be astonished about in this question, and what a pleasant astonishment it was.

  Kienast felt that he was blushing at having been discovered; the other one had seen through his weakness. He had never blushed before in his entire career. He must have been ashamed of the little secret that he was here because of the woman and nothing else. He was even more ashamed of his soft-heartedness, and not only did he turn away from the young man but he also looked for a place where he could put this stinking glass in case this goddamn epileptic fit decided to get him after all.

  He should take off his jacket in this heat. He’d have enough trouble with this miserable man as it was, and he stood up to do this while there was still time; he put the wet glass on the edge of the mantelpiece. He slipped out of his jacket and successfully lobbed it to the sofa, not letting the other one detect the inner struggle in the movement. To which the young man responded by straightening up in front of the fireplace.

  It’s a long story, he said in his deepened, manfully ingratiating voice. I won’t spare you, I’ll tell you in great detail.

  I have no right to pose questions to you. I must say that right off.

  I’m aware of my rights, you don’t need to instruct me, but perhaps I have the right to ask how you ended up here.

  Nothing could be simpler.

  Because I have the impression that we are way beyond written rights.

  Frankly I have the same impression.

  I don’t want to give up on getting a clear response from you.

  I may not look it, but I am capable with a little bit of luck of solving far more complicated problems than this one. I’d like you to tell me a few things in greater detail than you did before. After all, from the very first moment you’ve been very helpful, that’s why I bothered to come. If you still remember words like the common good or helping, and if they still mean anything to you.

  Even my parents don’t know where I am. Only one person does, with whom you can’t have talked.

  You must be thinking of your dear aunt.

  She is everything but dear, but she’s the one I’m thinking about.

  Why couldn’t I have talked to her.

  You could have, but you didn’t.

  It’s very clear there’s no trick here. At the examination in situ, you were the one, Mr. Döhring, who gave us the important reference points. After that it was quite easy to uncover everything else.

  Not from the things I inadvertently blabbered to you, you couldn’t, I don’t believe you. You think I’m stupider than I am.

  I haven’t made any direct inquiries anywhere, Kienast replied, I haven’t gone around asking questions, I can assure you, if that’s what you’re worried about.

  Well, all right, you’ve found out whom I telephoned, where I made the calls from. Which I didn’t count on in advance, I admit. I made phone calls everywhere I could in the whole world so that I could talk to you as soon as possible. I did it unthinkingly.

  And Döhring was terribly ashamed that he’d managed to say something like this; it was such an ignominy that he should still need anybody, especially someone who was nothing more than an ordinary detective.

  This is a closed system, Mr. Döhring. Nobody but I and my immediate supervisor can get to your data, and so I couldn’t have given you a bad name.

  Which for the time being would not even be justified, he added, yet in his words fluttered the hint of a threat.

  I hope you don’t expect me to be grateful for that, replied Döhring quickly, trying to sound as crass as possible.

  Kienast had to allow more time again for chat, if only to gain time, more time to catch up with or overtake him and keep him from slipping into his own well-established way of thinking.

  He’ll jolt him out of it.

  Yesterday you called from the gas station. That’s not a public phone.

  The owner’s phone on the counter. I paid for it.

  You mean you’d have left a message on my answering machine that the gas-station owner could hear. No, I don’t buy that, I don’t believe it.

  You should. I waited until he was dealing with a customer.

  The first time you called from a public booth, if my colleagues are not mistaken.

  You can check this as easily as you can check anything else.

  Well now, the detective said, directing his most charming laugh at the young man, slowly but surely you’re learning the trade. But I did have to puzzle out, and on the run, that the phone booth was in the Hofgarten, opposite the house on whose third floor madam Isolde Döhring has her apartment. Believe me, these are not facts one can’t easily find out. It’s not the person of the murderer that’s hard to identify—the final result is almost always there, ready and waiting for you, someone saw the murder, or some seemingly inconsequential circumstance will give it away, et cetera, et cetera—but gathering legally admissible pieces of evidence, that’s what’s sometimes almost impossible.

  I understand what you’re saying. Maybe I can’t immediately adapt to the way the authorities think, but I understand.

  Although my visit is a private one, we can’t put ourselves outside t
he law, Kienast said, and this time Döhring remained silent. From that moment we met at the scene of the crime, we haven’t been private persons, and I must in no uncertain terms correct your ideas about this.

  He wasn’t sure Döhring understood him.

  I am the one you called, your trust in me is truly touching, but I am the police.

  This too had no response.

  True, I had a free evening, or I made myself free for this evening, that’s also a fact. But anyway, based on your calls and no matter what the nature of your worries was, my professional responsibility told me I shouldn’t leave you by yourself.

  Maybe then you’ll have time for me. You don’t have to leave so quickly.

  This was so unexpected, sounded so gentle and convincing, so full of pure human hope, that Kienast was alarmed.

  I can’t demand more time or attention than you are willing to grant me, I wanted to warn you about this.

  But you wouldn’t give any more, either.

  That’s something you don’t need to ask about. My personal feelings and professional sense of responsibility are not so far apart.

  You must be every inch a democrat.

  No need to mock me. A thing like this doesn’t happen to you every day.

  No, it doesn’t.

  Then how can you miss the personal sympathy, or empathy.

  I know what you mean.

  There, you see.

  But you should know, said Döhring, embarrassed, that I’m a strange bird, a man locked into himself, restless, thinking, and I’m not a great democrat. I’m not on confidential terms with other people, I have only limited experience—I mean in the intimacies among people.

  I can assure you right now that you’re not alone in this. Everyone has to learn anew on each occasion—I mean, how to gain someone’s confidence.

  But this entire human confidence thing is nothing but a bad game, sheer hypocrisy.

  Mostly it is, yes.

  Like stepping into a terrible tunnel of mirrors. Nobody trusts anybody. It’s best for one to stay outside. It bothers me especially that people talk too much because they are incapable of even the smallest abstraction.

  That’s almost completely true.

  They keep lying senselessly.

  No reason to reproach them, they need to defend themselves.

  I can’t speak of anything but myself, of course, and why should this interest you or anyone.

  So as not to hear one’s own lies, people are afraid of that too.

  Yes, something like that.

  You may think it’s a sin, but no one can exist without lies, I guarantee it.

  I don’t know whether several needs don’t combine to do the thinking in one person. Whether one doesn’t have several selves, all at the ready all the time, and one can neither choose one nor express all of them at once—only one in place of another, or one after the other, or one in opposition to another.

  The faces of young people are most revealing; he must consider this. Their instinct to hide tends to expose them.

  Maybe you should sit where you sat before, please.

  Thanks for your kindness, but I’d rather get up. Before you say anything you think is essential, it is my official duty to tell you that nothing you say to me here may be considered as a confession.

  I understand, the young man replied, though at that moment what he truly did not understand was what, if that’s how things stood, the Creator’s intentions might be.

  He was ready to make a confession, against his own family, to save all of humankind, and perhaps the Creator might say that he would not accept the confession as valid.

  He faltered, shook his head as though trying to shake this disturbing formulation out of his skull, out of his brain, much as a helpless sick animal would.

  No matter how much I’d like to change the situation, he moaned at last—his voice very loud or rather very penetrating, because he knew this was an obstacle—I can’t be familiar with anyone.

  You may be disturbed by anyone’s physical proximity.

  I guess you can put it that way, said Döhring, as if suddenly relieved.

  Our being distrustful is mutual, if that’s any reassurance.

  But I feel it’s better than dissembling.

  I understand.

  I know you do.

  I must tell you a lot of things so you can see clearly and understand the connections.

  I’ll try to understand them, anyway.

  Though my case can’t have much to do with the case you’re investigating.

  If that is so, you are making me especially curious.

  May I ask something of you.

  First let’s hear your request, then I can decide whether you may ask it.

  Would you tell me what I am suspected of.

  That’s a rash question. If the occasion arises it would have to be asked not by you but by your lawyer. But I can give you a clear answer.

  Please do.

  Suspicion arises when factually and objectively we know what happened. I am free to suspect someone when the evidence allows me to raise charges against him or her. It’s not worth doing before then.

  This would be the paradox of your profession.

  I don’t know about that, but this way it’s practical. Otherwise one goes astray. One should not shut out other possibilities because of one possibility, and this is a basic premise not just in our profession.

  But I had the impression I was under suspicion. Maybe not by the others, but you suspected me. And I must admit that really got to me. As if I were truly the culprit.

  You’d probably find it flattering if it were so, but I had no reason to do that.

  I know what I’m talking about, I don’t need you to flatter me with such things, I’ve been preparing for a murder for years.

  I understand, I should have known.

  To be precise, I’ve been getting ready for it for two years.

  You probably want to share this compulsion with me so you won’t have to commit it.

  There isn’t necessarily a causal relationship between the two.

  How should I understand that.

  It’s hard to explain, or rather, impossible. I’ve never talked about it seriously. I’ve no experience in it. And I hate people gushing about themselves.

  You despise them, you’ve already said that.

  I despise them, but I also hate them. I know I should be ashamed, others are ashamed of it, but I’m not. I can hate them individually, but I especially hate them collectively.

  That is why I’ve come, you made me curious to know where you’ve acquired so much strength to despise people.

  I see you’re at home in psychology, you’re trying to calm me down.

  I studied it for two and a half years, to have some idea of it.

  Or to learn a few tricks of the trade. When you say I’m strong, for example, you can count on my growing weak.

  There’s hardly anyone who wouldn’t grow weak from that.

  That I should be easy prey for you.

  When we use tricks in our conversation, that doesn’t necessarily mean our intentions are false or treacherous.

  I have to kill my father.

  There was silence for a while; Kienast sensibly let it be a long pause. And Döhring didn’t even dare swallow during this time, because he wanted to carry out his mission: he wanted to tell all, but the problem was he didn’t have the proper method for doing this. His Adam’s apple moved up and down too rapidly, like that of a young adolescent.

  Had Döhring not become so sharply outlined in his exertions, if insanity had not distorted his features, Kienast might have said to himself that Döhring was amiably childlike.

  He was struggling with the air, or struggling for it; it can’t have been easy to combine such great trust with such great distrust and then express this.

  Almost everyone has to kill his father, said Kienast by way of helping. But that’s not a personal problem but rather a ritual, which should be c
onsidered a ceremony. In earlier times the Elevation of the Host or Holy Communion must have had this significance. To take to myself a body that others have murdered and whose bones they have broken, when you think about it, that’s no less brutal and barbaric. I, for example, am in trouble compared with others because my father killed himself instead of killing me.

  Döhring was silent again; his eyes shone soberly out of his insanely distorted features.

  If you want me to, I’d be happy to tell you about it, Kienast continued readily. And we’ve reached a point, given the various beliefs in supernatural powers, where even girls have to kill their fathers, and I tell you, this is based on my professional experience.

  He stopped for a moment, as if he had lost his breath like the young man, because he did not understand how two things that have nothing to do with each other could cross paths so powerfully.

  Little girls seduce their fathers so they can kill them, with the help of their mothers, for the incest committed.

  Somehow this created a profound silence between them.

  From a sociological viewpoint this is a salient symptom in the new era, Dr. Kienast continued cautiously, wanting to say something rational in their mutual silence. You must have read the story of Lolita, or you will read it; the secret of her success must lie somewhere in that attitude.

  That’s not what I’m talking about, I’m talking about our own father.

  I don’t mean to take the edge off what you’re saying, don’t misunderstand me.

  I’m not very interested in ethical questions, so I’m not interested in commercial novels either. Our father had no personality of his own, anyway, so in the sense that you propose, the way you think about it, I’d have no reason for wanting to get even with him. He was a nameless, clumsy petit bourgeois, a nobody who preferred to go around staying out of the way, avoiding everything and making sure not to stand out in the crowd.

  Now it was Kienast’s turn to wait and see what the young man was getting at.

  He’s the fellow who wouldn’t harm a fly.

  Is that why you think, asked Kienast, still guided by surprised caution, that he might be in your way.

  It’s not so simple as you might imagine. I’d have to squeal on or accuse family members individually, including dead ones. And you’re coming on with these miserable conceptual dichotomies. If I may, I beg you, please stop it. The others are truly frightening murderers, but not disgusting. Because one can understand them. But my father is a common opportunist. Legally speaking, this seems like a ridiculous accusation, as if I were harping on obsolete business. But it’s the matter of obsolescence, of statutory limitation, that gives me no rest. I won’t lie to you about essential matters. This thing torments me, nothing urges me on so much as that they continue to make a living out of this statute of limitations—until someone exposes them. And there, at that point, that’s where it has to be cut, you understand, so they can’t go on living off the statute of limitations. It’s not the legal process, I don’t care about the law—everything is legal or everything is illegal, that’s a matter of litigation, it’s all the same anyway—what interests me is the way later developments push aside earlier events and the sly way they play with this. I enjoy it too, the place of dread always filled by the next dread. Why should I remember anything, that’s what I want you to explain, but I bet you don’t have an answer.