Parallel Stories: A Novel

by Peter Nadas

  It was terribly hot because of the crowd; in this room too everyone threw off their jackets or sweaters.

  Out on the gallery, arriving and departing guests kicked the empty bottles, sometimes deliberately, sometimes by accident. The bottles made a terrible racket as they rolled or bounced down the stairs until they banged against the wall on the first landing and shattered to pieces.

  The entrance door was also being constantly slammed.

  He saw all this while falling backward and pulling Klára with him.

  He well remembered playing the infantile bottle-kicking game with these strangers. One of whom held him with his arm around his shoulder, while he had his arm around the stranger’s waist, and that is how they held each other up while passing the miserable bottles back and forth to each other with their feet.

  Customers of the tailor shop must have stood on the high platform while trying on pencil-thin tailcoats.

  While they plopped down on the coats, Klára’s hair became undone and instantly surrounded Kristóf’s face; still, they remained restrained. And the noise of breaking bottles coming from the galleries reminded him that perhaps he should return to the staircase, he couldn’t just leave Pisti there by himself. And no matter how often he looked at the window giving on the courtyard, he always thought, this is how it must have been darkened during the war, during the siege, and it had stayed like this, all the panes daubed with black paint. He did not understand how he could be thinking about something like this when he was so dangerously close to losing his self-control.

  Later he probably did not think of anything.

  When with some difficulty they stood up to compose themselves, they realized that other people were also lolling about on the coats.

  He did not understand how the mind allows itself these parallel connections, it upset him, as if he considered his own way of thinking as dissolute or as if with his compulsive thinking he were questioning his feelings.

  Fixing her hair and looking around while readjusting her pins, she saw people slouched on the coats around them behaving in a disgusting, shameless way; let’s get away from here, she whispered, but she was still wearing the mink coat that would be safest on the coat rack next to them.

  To get a free hanger they simply took another coat off a hanger and threw it on the platform.

  They went looking for a drink, could not find a glass anywhere, did not even see one. But people were more than willing to let them drink from their bottles. They stood in a window recess for a while, holding each other with interlocked knees and thighs; they shared a cigarette while standing like that. They passed the cigarette back and forth, taking the smoke from each other’s mouth. They were insanely careful with the demands of their chests and groins, not to go too far but not to leave each other either, and their bodies readily obeyed both commands.

  They also danced, like lunatics, Elvis was singing, their dance turned increasingly vulgar, they deliberately tried to shed their humanity; the pianist in a distant room stopped banging his instrument so as not to compete with Elvis, who was becoming so frenetic that nobody could resist him.

  And then they were panting, various odors of perspiration wafting everywhere, Klára looking for her hairpins again, but her extravagant coiffure was gone for good; they went looking for drinks again. But first some water, water; they found it in an empty bathroom, though someone was innocently asleep in the dry tub. At the sink they drank water from each other’s hands. Kristóf was so flushed and overheated that, losing all proportion, he not only slapped water on his own face but, yelping wildly, splashed water into Klára’s open, unprotected face.

  Although she liked his buoyant attack, propelled as it was by sheer happiness, she protested hysterically, practically screeching objections.

  I’m soaking wet now, my hair.

  You’ve ruined my makeup.

  How could you do that.

  She looked at herself in the mirror, at the water from her face streaking her face powder, running down into her cleavage; she was desperate, and suddenly she looked horrible. Kristóf felt like crying when he saw what he had done.

  Forgive me.

  No, this can’t be forgiven.

  Yes, it can, please forgive me.

  After this they had to console themselves with each other’s body and mouth for so long that in the end they could barely extricate themselves from each other. Although in their private darkness thickened by silence, they heard the man in the tub waking up.

  They did not spare each other’s tongue or saliva.

  Get out, get out of here while I fix my face, but I won’t forgive you.

  I’m watching, I want to watch you do it, I won’t get out.

  Get out, don’t be a baby, and do it while I’m asking nicely.

  I won’t leave you here with this guy.

  If he gets fresh, I’ll throw hot water on him.

  He waited for her outside the bathroom for at least twenty minutes.

  During that time, other people went in and he couldn’t stop them; they’d come out again while he stood there foolishly, a laughingstock, lost in this corridor busy with human needs that had to be satisfied. But it was good to be alone a little; people went into the bathroom and also to the adjacent toilet, he heard everything, and then they came out.

  He stood there until he remembered that the bathroom had more than one door.

  Klára had disappeared, and the tub was ominously empty, no, that can’t be, he thought, but he did not find her anywhere in the crowd. So she hadn’t forgiven him. That cannot be. But luckily he noticed the man, now in the company of other women, on whose account he had endured hell’s torments for so many long minutes.

  And from then on he ceased his maniacal search for her.

  He’ll punish her.

  Why should he look for her, pant for her like a dog.

  Instead, he wound up in the midst of a heated discussion among some people, and it didn’t matter about what. They were arguing about art, he only watched from the sideline or shouted his views; they were all drunk as skunks. Well, is Picasso really a fraud, leading everybody by the nose, or a truly great artist, a fucking great artist who loves to bluff, and you, daddy-o, wouldn’t know how to separate his world-class bluffs from his art.

  Then define bluff.

  Why should I, let some smartass give a definition.

  You can’t even define what it’d be like when I send you back to your mother’s cunt, daddy-o.

  In the arts, we can’t get anywhere without definitions.

  But you still have to know, daddy-o, where you are inside your mother.

  He became mixed up in this argument because he happened to recognize one of the participants as someone he knew from the Emmi Pikler children’s home on Rózsadomb. This boy was a few years older than he, and he recognized him immediately. Both of them were surprised that he was not mistaken. He hailed the other one by his old name. They had taken away this boy’s name too for a time; they had a good laugh about that now. After a while, though, he had to resume his search for Klára because he couldn’t stand being without her. Perhaps Klára had gone on to someplace else. People would sometimes just get up and leave parties like this. He was ready to run out on the street and chase after her. And then he found her, leaning against Simon’s shoulder and talking animatedly to some people. Which caught him unprepared. He was almost ready to turn around and go, to get away from here. The people she was talking to suited her well: a bright-blond, wildly gesticulating, heavily freckled fellow and a peaceful-looking round woman with a large pregnant belly. With his free arm, the boyish fellow was hugging his wife as if holding her up. Simon, addressing some other people, thundering across a quieter conversation, as it were, was explaining in his penetrating hoarse voice that everything was fine, there was no reason for anxiety, nobody should worry about the communist movement. Next week the French will skedaddle out of Algeria like a shot.

  But what does that have to do with the communis
t movement.

  Lots, he’d bet his life on it.

  That much, eh.

  Anybody refusing to leave willingly will be wiped out completely, he said, and took a long swig from the bottle in his hand. And Ágost can say anything he likes, but Hungarians will always be in conflict with the French. Even in the communist movement.

  Maybe, but the French won’t even notice.

  People were smiling at Simon’s claims, but he continued with his explanations, making himself out as quite invulnerable; he declared that everyone else was mistaken and he was the only one who was predicting events correctly. The people who’d thought they were right tried to rescue what could be rescued, but now there was no way back. Mendès-France was mistaken, Pascal Pia and de Gaulle too;* I’ll tell you how it is, he shouted.

  The great mistake of the French is embedded in their religion, Catholicism, that’s how simple it is in history. They wanted to save those filthy little Arabs for the civilized world, you know. Only the generals thought about it clearly,† with iron and blood, how to preserve everything for at least another fifty years.

  And he could also have told them they didn’t have that much time.

  Life will be more awful for those who want to stay than it’s been for the stubborn British in India.

  One doesn’t have to be a prophet to know that the French, with their incredible diplomatic skills, will declare their loss. It’s a matter of days, mark my word. He’s willing to bet that Louis Joxe‡ will make the announcement.

  That’s how this whole bloody affair will end, but the real show will only start then.

  And while Simon was holding forth in his loud and threatening way, flourishing his wine bottle, in front of him stood Ágost, Kristóf’s melancholic cousin, his arms folded comfortably so he could support his chin in one hand, looking very elegant and aesthetic in one of his well-cut tweed jackets and a cashmere turtleneck sweater, a dandy, with his straight black hair falling over his forehead and brow.

  And Kristóf was there too, standing off to the side with his hatred, awkward and wounded, wearing Ágost’s hand-me-downs. Everything he had on had once belonged to Ágost, from the blue underpants to the blue socks, all in perfect condition, even the socks, because his cousin would never wear anything frayed or mended. And he liked blue in all its hues, so Kristóf had a chance to hate all things blue, even though he actually preferred blue to gray or black, to say nothing of brown.

  You don’t have to be an oracle to see that now it’s the people’s turn, all oppressed peoples, you just watch, now they’ll be the ones to conquer the colonialists. That’s what the next fifty years will be all about. They’ll take everything back; he’s willing to bet his life on it. Sooner or later the war against the colonial powers and the communist movement will make contact, blend into each other, or just link up geographically, and then God have mercy on everyone because nothing will stand in the way of a world revolution.

  The freckled boy stopped gesticulating; he gaped, and let go of his wife.

  Everyone seemed deeply and seriously shocked, and they were mute about this drunken world revolution. What could anyone possibly say about such a hope. Kristóf watched them with disgust, just as Ágost kept looking at Simon with a certain revulsion, which was why he hadn’t noticed his cousin. Suddenly Kristóf wanted to turn away, maybe even leave the place. Because no matter how much he couldn’t abide Ágost, he had to admit that the quality of their attention when listening to a third person was very similar.

  And if he stayed, he would come to loathe Ágost even more for that, or himself.

  Just then Klára motioned to him with her hand raised before her lips.

  The freckled boy spoke first; dreamily elongating his words, he said he was shocked.

  Simon said that was exactly what he would have expected.

  Klára moved a single finger.

  But not the way you think, said the blond boy, whose eyelashes were also blond.

  Klára’s one finger gesturing at him sufficed to make him endure all this. So that he could sidle away now, so that he wouldn’t have to see them or listen to Simon.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve heard so much Stalinist baloney.

  I’m not going to argue with you, you’re a born Nazi.

  Kristóf had no choice; he had to accept that the two of them were not alone and would not be.

  The chandeliers had been left behind in these big, vacated rooms, one opening into the other, their ceilings not too high—his great-grandfather would have liked them—but most of the bulbs had either burned out or been removed from the sockets. Kristóf very soberly decided to get down to some serious drinking, even though he had had plenty of booze already. He had to step across bodies sitting or lolling on the bare parquet floor, leaning on or entangled in one another in the most peculiar positions. If he could have had his way, he would have cut them all down, to the last one, with a single saber, while screaming his head off. He discovered some acquaintances among the crowd, some of his college classmates, but he didn’t feel like chatting with them about exams or anything related to his studies. And just when he seemed to have succeeded in getting away unnoticed or half-unnoticed, three giggling, chattering women in another room pulled him down to the floor with them—to make the pretty boy drink their sour-cherry brandy.

  And does he know how cherry brandy is made.

  How would such a mama’s boy know something like that.

  They learned how to make it from their grandmama in Perth Amboy, though they don’t come from there.

  But mama’s boy must be from Perth Amboy.

  They bared their teeth, they were vampires about to eat mama’s boy from Perth Amboy.

  Unless mama’s boy from Perth Amboy was a bonny lad from Leningrad.

  They devour every pretty boy they meet.

  And they are especially nice to disheartened pretty boys.

  He should know he’s dealing with three vampires from Vienna.

  Which he will feel immediately.

  Give him the damn brandy already.

  But they didn’t, not yet, first they had to touch him and grab his arms and thighs, check his flesh. They cooed in his ears and bit him.

  Wait, sweet boy.

  Bend your little head nicely into Julika’s lap, and I’ll start sucking your blood right away.

  But he must close his eyes.

  It was cognac, some lousy Albanian cognac that had nothing to do with Grandmama or sour-cherry brandy. But they tickled him while he tried to swallow some. He put up with the tickling so he could drink; he wriggled about, completely lost in their hands and enjoying it immensely. When he swallowed, they reached between his legs, making him snort and swallow the wrong way, scream with joy, writhe and beg for more.

  They were common and sweetly innocent. But by morning he did not even remember how and when he had broken free of them or they of him. But he did remember his friend, that he should find his friend.

  Completely drunk, he tried to make his way out among the many bodies and again he noticed Klára among them. And he saw that she noticed him too. Goddamn it, she had to see this too. Her radiant face darkened a little, because he too was such a drunken animal, that’s clear now, but what the hell else could he be without her.

  But now he too raised his hand before his lips and with a single finger motioned to her.

  Klára pretended not to see him; now why in hell did she do that.

  That can’t be; no way, this is not happening.

  Just then, from behind, exquisitely fine female hands planted themselves on his eyes so he could not see; not to see anything, let there be darkness at least, let his life end now.

  But he was so insane, so drunk, that in his agony he could think of nothing but Klára, only her. No one else. He could not imagine these were not her hands. No one else had such fine small hands.

  Who is this woman, shouted the woman in the darkness, I am jealous of her.

  Her fine fingers vibra
ted on his face; long fingernails dug gently into his flesh, into his lips, it hurt, which felt inexpressibly good, she could have tortured him more with those sharp nails.

  Of course it wasn’t her but that stupid Gyöngyvér, who must have noticed what he’d been doing.

  But this also meant that the old fascist was still alive, otherwise it wouldn’t have occurred to them to come to this place. And that brought them too close to each other, closer than they had ever been before. Not even when in the adjacent room Gyöngyvér was squealing for his benefit. They were both drunk too, but there was another reason: they both felt abandoned in every sense of the word. They grabbed each other’s hands, and dumb Gyöngyvér shouted into his ear, right in front of everyone, who is this woman, because she looks like a high-class lady and she won’t put up with high-class ladies in Kristóf’s company.

  He told her he had to go because a friend was waiting for him outside, in the corridor, his best friend.

  But he’ll be right back.

  He should answer her question first, does he need these women, and he shouldn’t go anywhere, because she wants to tell him right away what’s happened.

  She can tell him when he comes back.

  No, she wants to tell him right now.

  And not only did she not let go of his hands, holding them down between them, but with her groin she pushed against his genitals. With her pubic bone, she clung demandingly to Kristóf’s loins, and while they supported each other like this, they could do nothing else; she breathed her stupid words softly and slowly onto his face.

  Luckily she was no longer screeching so loudly that Klára could hear her.

  Somehow Kristóf let himself go; against his will he let himself be carried away by the tension that the ideal position of their loins had created for them.

  Kristóf won’t believe this, but less than half an hour ago this lousy Ágost proposed marriage to her. That anybody could be so disgraceful. She had been drinking ever since, like a fish, but she wasn’t so drunk that she believed a single word of it.

  He could feel on his back that Klára saw him yet he couldn’t get rid of Gyöngyvér. And then everything would be over. His drunken agony increased so much that he wanted to scream. And now he didn’t want to lose Gyöngyvér either. He wasn’t actually listening to what stupid Gyöngyvér was saying. The truth was, he felt an appetite for her loins, that was the honest truth. He had observed her before and felt that when he had, watching mostly her cunt, he was not mistaken. The way she ran all over the apartment in her short slip. Not to mention her squeals from the other room. So that he couldn’t sleep. Why not let her cunt scream a little for him. He wanted it to scream for him, he wanted her breath, and her long fingernails. These truly awful red nails with which she was digging into his clenched fists.