A Book of Memories (42 page)

So long as you still want to make a decision, so long as you are thinking about it, you won't be able to catch anything; they'll keep eluding you, they can smell your sour odor from afar.

Now it's there, standing in a small depression, and if you don't move, then, among the silently stirring leaves, you can make out its eyes as they flash into yours, though this is no longer the same being but another, maybe a third one, someone, anyone, because you let time pass in the mutual gleam of your eyes while you notice that the creature is naked, and so are you.

So long as you wish to reach its nakedness and bend the branches to have a better look, so long as you want its nakedness to touch yours and thus make it your own, and for this purpose you are ready to move from your spot even though you have found the creature you've been after, then you are still not quite here.

It's gone.

And so long as you keep searching for them, yes, the ones you managed to alarm with your clumsiness and sour smell, so long as you hope to meet them again and all the while keep grumbling that you should have been more clever and more cautious, you are still not quite here, and nobody will be able to reach you.

But chance comes to your rescue, because you have come far enough inside to be a little bit here.

You turn around, and what you had seen in front of you before is now behind you; on the soft green mossy stream bank, the creature is lolling on its stomach; you let your eyes run over its back, rise on the curve of its round buttocks, and then roll down on its shapely legs; it nestles its head in its arms, looking out from there, and this gives you such joy that not only your mouth breaks into a grin but even your toes begin to smile and your knees laugh; and by then you don't feel like moving, because you've found your place here: that laugh is your place on this earth; and then you notice that the eyes are not looking into yours, that there is a third creature in the picture, there in that small depression in the ground, the one you thought had vanished completely, and they are looking at each other; they are the ones, you think to yourself, who could teach you what you need to know.

They are looking at you the way you'd like to be looking at them.

But you are still not you, you still let your thoughts stand in for you; until you learn not to do that, you are not quite here yet.

Your snooping startles them, they spring up and melt into the thicket.

Just as their gaze makes you take cover.

And then for a long time you see no one.

So long as you want to find them only for yourself, the forest remains silent.

But this is already a different kind of silence; this silence has eaten itself into your skin, and the laughter must reach your bones.

When even your smell becomes different.

Grass Grew over the Scorched Spot

The tiniest move could have broken this peacefulness, so I didn't even feel like opening my eyes; I was hanging on to something that had become final between us then, in the shared warmth of our bodies, and I didn't want her to see my eyes, to see how frightened I was of what was to come
—it was good like this, let fear be mine!—of my body I felt only the parts her body could make me feel: under the rucked-up silk dress the moist surface of her skin touching mine—that was my thigh; at the level of her neck my own breath mingling with the whiffs of stifling odor rising from her armpits; I felt the hard edge of a hip that may have been mine, its hardness the hardness of my bone; I felt my shoulder and back because of the weight of her arm as she very slowly lifted it away, but even then my shoulder and back still felt the arm, for somehow even the receding weight left an impression in the flesh and bones; and when she also raised her head a bit to take a better look at the bite mark on my neck, I was glad to be able to watch through barely raised eyelashes, not exposing my eyes; all she could see was the quiver of the lids, the flutter of the lashes; she couldn't imagine how scared I was, and we hadn't even begun, but I could see her in almost perfect clarity, looking at my neck, yes, I could fool her so easily; she looked at it long, even touched the spot with her stiff finger; her lips parted, edged closer, and kissed it where it still hurt a little.

As if she were kissing Szidónia's mouth on my neck.

We lay like this for a long time, her face on my shoulder and my face on her shoulder, silent and motionless
—at least that is how I remember it today.

Perhaps our eyes were closed, too.

But even if I did open my eyes I could see only the patterns of the rumpled bedspread and her hair, the tickly ringlets on my mouth.

And if her eyes were open, all she could see were the green afternoon shadows stirring silently on the vacant expanse of the ceiling.

I may have dozed off for a short time; maybe she did, too.

And then, so softly that my ear felt more the thrusts of her breath than the sound of her voice, she seemed to say that we should get started.

Yes, we should, I said, or meant to say, though neither of us moved.

There was nothing to stop us now, and who would have thought that the greatest obstacle we had to overcome would turn out to be ourselves?

Around this time of the afternoon Szidónia usually disappeared, visiting neighbors, going on a date, or just taking time off for herself, and so long as she didn't tell Maja's parents about the afternoon adventures of their daughter, she could be sure her own little illicit absences would not be discovered; and they not only covered up for each other but also shared their intimate experiences and adventures, like girl friends, disregarding the seven-year difference in their ages; once, inadvertently, I overheard them, barely able to catch my breath at my unexpected good fortune: with her hair undone, Szidónia was swinging back and forth in the garden hammock, confiding something to Maja, who, fully engrossed in the story, sat on the grass, giving the hammock an absentminded push now and then.

What we should have got started on, what we both wanted to begin, was the search that, once we did begin
—our own compulsion making us shake and tremble—was so grave and dark a secret she didn't mention it to anyone, and I'm convinced she's been quiet about it ever since, just as I've never spoken about it to anyone, ever—let this white sheet of paper be my first confidant!—not even to each other did we mention it, we merely alluded to it, dropped hints about it; it remained a silent event in our lives, and in a certain sense we blackmailed each other with the fact that we had a secret so terrible it could not be shared with anyone, binding us together more fatefully than any form of love ever could.

And what is that mark on your neck, she asked, her whisper no more than a breath.

This red one, here.

For a moment I didn't know what she was talking about, thought she was just playing for time, not wanting to get started, but I also needed more time just then.

Oh, that mark? it's nothing; she bit my neck, that's all, I said, and I didn't have to say who, she knew; and I was very pleased that the teeth marks were still visible and that she'd noticed them.

From the shade of the apple trees, the hammock swung lazily into the light.

I've never forgotten that afternoon, either.

And with her mouth sunk into me, as if her lips had fallen asleep, we stayed that way.

As the hammock swung into the light and the two tightening ropes tugged the trees, Szidónia's voice grew stronger; the leafy crowns of the apple trees rustled, the branches strained and moaned, and then, as the hammock swung back, she lowered her voice, which not only lent a curious, almost panting rhythm to the story but for no logical reason amplified certain of her sentence fragments, while others became barely audible whispers; her voice swung back and forth, the unripe apples kept shaking on their stems; I was standing behind a round shrub, a boxwood, enveloped by the warm fragrance of the little oily green leaves, listening to Szidónia talking about some streetcar conductor, and the rhythm of her voice, growing alternately loud and soft, seemed to be in direct contact with Maja, because she pushed the hammock as if in immediate response to the story
—more vigorously or more gently, speeding up or slowing down the pace, now shoving it furiously, let's get on with it! now barely giving it a tap, anyway rather unpredictably; the conductor was short, with big, bulging, bloodshot eyes, his forehead full of pimples, "big as my fingers," Szidónia was saying, "red and bumpy," which made Maja squeal and give the hammock a good shove, though interestingly enough, the emotional tones of Szidónia's delivery oddly suggested complete detachment—she talked about everything with the cheerful smile of someone for whom details are very important but never very meaningful, let alone decisive, each detail being important simply in and of itself; she took the Number 23 tram, getting on the last car, where she liked to ride because "it jerks and bounces"; the tram was almost empty; of course she sat on the shady side; she was wearing her white blouse with the picot-edged light-blue collar which Maja liked because it hugged her hips so nicely, and the white pleated skirt which at home she was allowed to wear only on holidays like Easter, because it soiled so easily, and whenever she sat down in it she spread a handkerchief under herself; besides, it was hard to iron all those pleats; it was warm in the streetcar, and this conductor— he may have been a Gypsy, Szidónia thought, Gypsies have such bulging eyes—rolled down all the windows, every last one of them, using one of those hand cranks; it took him a long time, because the crank kept slipping out of its slot; then he sat down opposite her, quite a distance away, actually, on the sunny side, put the crank back into his conductor's bag, and began staring at her; but she pretended not to notice him, as if she had to close her eyes because of the wind blowing in her face; what she liked best was when the tram was going really fast, because that scared her, especially around sharp bends; once she got on a roller coaster with her godmother's younger sister and she thought she was going to die right there and then; and there was this other man in her car, watching the conductor watching her, but she kept forgetting about them, because she was really looking out the window, or she closed her eyes and thought of other things; but she did not get off, kept on riding, and the conductor kept changing his seat, moving closer to her; of course she took a look at his hands, he didn't have a wedding band; though she didn't find him attractive she liked his jet-black hair and the hair on his arms, he was a bit dirty-looking; and she was curious to see what would happen, whether he would have the nerve to speak to her, especially while the other man kept looking at them.

I could actually see her thick brown hair getting dry in the heat of the afternoon; when I'd begun watching them from behind the hedges, it still clung wetly to her bare back and shoulders; she was wearing a white linen undershirt and a lace-trimmed petticoat; the vestee, as she called the little shirt, fastened in front with tiny snaps and held down, almost flattening her aggressively large breasts, but it left bare her back, her broad shoulders, and her strong fleshy arms; as the hammock kept rising into the light and falling back into the shade, the drying strands of hair on her shoulders and back gradually came unstuck, at first only at the edges, fluttering and gliding in the wake of each swing.

Then finally, she went on, after riding like this for a good long time they got to the last stop, except she didn't know it was the last stop, and the conductor, sitting opposite her but much closer, now stood up, and so did the other man, to get off, though he was still looking at them, wondering what would happen; he seemed a decent sort, wore decent clothes, a white shirt and black hat, and had a small parcel with him, probably food, because the wrapper was greasy, and yet he looked hungry, but not drunk; then the conductor told her that it was the last stop and to his regret they'd have to part company; and she laughed at him, saying there was no need to part, she'd take the return trip with him.

This made both girls laugh, a brief, dry, I'd say colliding laughter, a meeting and sudden breaking off of two separate laughs; Maja stopped pushing the hammock and with a quick move gathered her skirt between her thighs and, still sitting, leaned stiffly forward; the hammock was slowing down, and in the girls' silence it continued to rock Szidónia's body gently for a little while longer; I felt I had come upon their innermost secret; they looked so familiar and at the same time I was seeing them for the first time; Maja's eyes seemed to be thrusting, retrieving, and rocking Szidónia, while Szidónia's softly swaying glance kept Maja in a charmed immobility; but it was not only that with their looks they held each other in this position, but that their faces also remained fixed in that short, dry, somewhat sarcastic burst of laughter; no matter how different those two sets of silently parted lips, wide-open eyes, and raised eyebrows, the sharing of their secrets made the two girls alike.

When the hammock was only barely swinging, about to stop, Maja grabbed Szidónia with both hands and gave her a mighty push; there was cruelty and fierceness in the movement, even a touch of wickedness, but not directed against Szidónia so much as sent forth with her, and Szidónia, flying back into the light, resumed her story, her loud voice resonating with the same touch of wickedness.

On the way back, she said, the conductor went on talking to her, but she wouldn't respond, only listen, look at his bulging eyes, get up suddenly to change her seat, playing this little game for a while, as the conductor would also get up, follow her, not listen, go on talking and talking; no one else got on the streetcar for a long time, and the conductor told her about how he, too, was from the country and lived in a workers' hostel and how much he wanted to find out her name; she didn't tell him, of course; and he said he'd fallen in love with her the moment he saw her, she was the kind of girl he'd always been looking for, and she shouldn't be afraid of him, and wanting to be honest with her, he'd tell her right away that he just got out of jail a week ago, having served a year and a half, and all that time he hadn't been with a woman, but she should hear him out, he was completely innocent; he was an illegitimate child, his mother had a friend, a boozing good-for-nothing whom his mother had sent packing and never wanted to see again, even though she had another child by him, a little girl, and the conductor loved this little sister of his more than his own life, and since his mother was a very sick woman, with a bad heart, he had to raise the little girl, a sweet child with golden hair; but the man kept coming back, whenever he ran out of money or had no place to sleep, he would come and kick in the door, he even smashed in their window a couple of times, and when he couldn't have his way he would beat the sick woman, call her a whore; and if he, the conductor, tried to stop him, then the big lug would beat him up, too; one night, after they'd bathed the little girl and put her to bed, he was doing the dishes and accidentally left a knife on the table; it wasn't a big knife but very sharp
—he used to sharpen all their knives—the man showed up again, and it was the same old story: they wouldn't let him in, but then the neighbors started yelling that they'd had enough of this, and so his mother finally opened the door, he came in and started after her; as she was backing away from him, she reached the table and tried to hold on to it, and as she did she felt the knife; she snatched it up and stabbed the bastard, and then, to make sure his little sister wouldn't lose her mother, he confessed to the crime, but at the trial it came out that he wasn't the one who'd done it, because the door was open and the neighbors saw everything; so he was sentenced to a year for perjury and for being an accessory to a crime; and now he was asking her not to get off the streetcar without giving him her address at least, he wasn't asking for a date, but he didn't want to lose her, and anyway, from now on he wouldn't stop thinking about that pretty face of hers.