Parallel Stories: A Novel (137 page)

I asked what she would have done if it had been a stranger who followed her.

She saw it was me.

When did she see that, and how did she.

I saw on her face that she was reluctant to answer.

Perhaps she preferred to go on drifting with the words.

Her gaze was now circling in very different areas, around my eyes, gliding across my mouth, continually touching my forehead, where it lingered, as if it had found something there, and I liked that very much. Perhaps she wanted to continue talking so she could find what she was looking for and she wouldn’t have to touch my stubbled cheek, either gently or rudely. In fact, I was very curious to know what her touch would be like; I wanted her touch. We were standing very close; from below, she was looking up at a place she wasn’t reaching out to touch.

She’d caught sight of me, she said reluctantly, when they were closing up the store.

I didn’t notice that you did.

Because she does this more adroitly than I do, she doesn’t stare so obviously and irresponsibly, and still she sees more than I do.

But now she really must hurry.

Where are you hurrying to at this time of day.

If I wanted to I could wait for her. She motioned at the church, indicating that she would be going in to it. And then her husband was coming to collect her.

This was like two blows of a cudgel, that’s what my face must have shown.

She started to laugh, as if taking revenge for the earlier insult, though she seemed a bit ashamed. At the same time, I recovered from another daze, a deeper one that did not include her. And I fell into a helpless fury, which she had provoked yet was now only observing, coolly, innocently. Or was happy about. That was her revenge. I did not understand anything in the strictest meaning of the phrase: nothing. I did not understand how I’d gotten mixed up in this situation, and I didn’t know how I could get away from her quickly. What did she want or what did I want from her. Why am I still so careful not to turn my anger loose.

What had we talked about, what subjects, what had I spoiled, with what, or why did I even exist.

But then why did she say I should wait for her.

Right away I heard the stifled rebuke that had found its way into my voice, which sounded like the shout of a quarreling man; hard as I tried, I couldn’t do much about it and saw her face turning cold as ice.

No, she did not say I should wait for her, not at all. She asked me not to wait for her in front of the store.

While we spoke, we could hear intermittently the sound of the organ from within the church. And the wind kept on roaring.

Really, she didn’t have to tell me not to wait for her.

Why should she, if this is what she wanted.

Wanted or still wants, I asked, on the attack.

Wants, she replied innocently.

Her gentle impudence and the glitter of her huge eyes so enthralled me that I became even angrier with her—or with myself. But then how would I defend myself against her. I asked her why she hadn’t told me not to wait for her today but tomorrow, another time, the day after tomorrow or sometime when she didn’t have to go to church and her husband wasn’t coming to collect her.

If she works the afternoon shift, her husband always comes for her.

I had never seen him come for her.

Because they always meet here. This is something she didn’t care to let her boss know, whether her husband or someone else comes for her. Her older brother is a deacon in this church.

What this means, then, or what she means to say, is that this whole thing makes no sense or is completely hopeless.

Even if I did wait for her.

If that’s what she means, she would have told me not to wait but to get lost.

But that’s not what she said.

But then she could have told me to wait for her after the morning shift, because then she wouldn’t have to go to mass and her husband wouldn’t come to collect her, either.

It seemed I kept repeating the same tune. I have said this before, it’s boring.

What, am I here to amuse her.

That’s how I vented my anger, that’s what I kept on insisting, incredibly and ridiculously, even in my own eyes, as if looking for a tiny crack where I could hide, probably making myself more ridiculous; but in fact I kept wasting time with my questions so I could leave with my dignity more or less intact.

No, I shouldn’t be angry with her, things like this disgust her, it never occurred to her to say something like that—or ask for it. She might have said it, no doubt, but she’d never want to be entangled in dark little lies like this or entangle others in them. No, she loathes this type of secrecy with all her heart. I probably misunderstood her. She likes to talk openly about everything. She’d just told me why she hadn’t been able to talk about anything in the store. But she wouldn’t keep secrets from her husband, why should she. She didn’t understand why I didn’t understand.

Because it’s not understandable.

But what don’t I understand.

Or maybe I do understand but don’t want to. Or I’m afraid I might misunderstand her.

Now she must really go into the church because they are almost at the Elevation of the Host, but still, it would be better if I told her what I didn’t want to understand or why I didn’t.

I don’t want to offend you. Please, do go in, and I’ll leave.

I shouldn’t go away now.

Not now, I’ll go once you are inside.

Still, she asks me not to go.

Leave it to me, all right.

All right, then she won’t go in.

I don’t want to offend you with anything, even if you stay out here.

She really can’t imagine how I could offend her.

By leaving, for example. Or if I didn’t tell her what I was thinking about. That’s already two examples. Everyone can be offended.

My own words made it clear that this woman was playing a role and had assigned a role to me too—an unfamiliar but most intriguing role.

And I could see how defenseless she was, precisely against this sort of thing. But she didn’t want to be protected by lies and self-deceptions. She did not like it when something was kept secret from her; true, she herself had no secrets. And she did not like things turning out unexpectedly, though she was fairly flexible.

I told her it was just like that for me too.

That makes two of us.

I said this didn’t sound too good.

What didn’t sound good, what was I objecting to, and what do I want anyway.

I said it was very simple. Either I’d like to leave right away or I’d like to understand why I had come in the first place.

Wonderful, she said, laughing, and asked if I always busied myself with such quintessential questions. As to this particular one, we can answer it very simply. In all probability, I came here to talk to her.

I said, if she knew so well I wanted to talk to her and not someone else, and she didn’t mind, then why was she making my situation difficult. And frankly, I didn’t understand why she had to go to church and to confession. Or why she would need her husband for it.

She didn’t have to go to church or confession at all, and usually didn’t, since she lived in sin consciously and inveterately. But for a few weeks she had been studying rituals, and the concept of sin interested her from a theological-historical point of view. But I should know that she does not exist without her husband. Anyone who wants to talk to her, it’s like talking to her husband.

They tell each other everything, anyway. They grew up together. This has nothing to do with the Catholic Church, her brother, or confession.

Still, I can’t expect her to keep it a secret from herself that she wanted to talk to me.

Well, that’s all.

That simple.

But why would she think I’d like to talk to her husband, whom I don’t know. Or how on earth could I have known they’d grown up together.

No, she hadn’t thought about that, and she leaves it up to me whether I feel like waiting for him.

For God’s sake, what did she think the three of us would do together.

She hadn’t thought of anything special, and she certainly didn’t want to alarm me with debauched thoughts. But since I asked, she could repeat that she must have thought of something like this: I would wait for her while she was in church, and afterward she and her husband were planning to go to someone’s house, to a party, and if I felt like it I could join them. She definitely did think of this, more precisely, such a thought did occur to her. But I kept asking so many senseless questions that she hadn’t had a chance to mention it.

And what if I don’t feel like going to someone’s party right now, and even less like talking to her husband. Or what would she do if her husband didn’t feel like talking to me.

Nothing would happen, no problem, and at least we’ve talked about it.

That’s exactly what I’m talking about. What we’ve got, then, is only this nothing.

Furiously, she held her peace.

There is nothing, I shouted.

I’m talking nonsense.

I said, in that case I am very sorry that I’m so obtuse. Obviously, my talents do not reach this far.

But if I really wanted to leave, I should go ahead, of course. Ultimately, she didn’t want to make me do anything I didn’t want to do, and she couldn’t, anyway.

On the one hand she knows very well she could; if she couldn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here like a jerk. On the other hand I don’t want to go away so much because if I did, I wouldn’t have come in the first place.

Well, that’s really very witty, she answered, sharp and sarcastic. But she was afraid I had no more time for further witticisms.

I didn’t understand that; I said I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand why this was witty.

While we were talking I paid no attention to what was happening around us, though I must have seen and heard more and sensed every smell and odor more keenly than before. Now suddenly everything changed. As if she had pushed me out of herself, making me feel like a drunkard. I understood neither the words nor the sentences. Only the fragrance that emanated from her enormous hair, full of glittering beads of drizzle, from her soft white skin under the collar, and from her bare neck—perhaps only that fragrance had not changed. Her posture had changed, the color and tone of her voice had changed, and her comportment had changed. It was as if with my sense of smell, stunned by the acridity of an exceptional perfume, I were trying to reach her true fragrance while becoming so deeply immersed in both fragrances that I couldn’t hope to separate them. It was improbable that we were still standing here in this storm, roaming over each other’s face, knowing that it was all hopeless. I should have jumped into the Danube from the Árpád Bridge. I planned to leave here as soon as possible, yet I couldn’t even give up the enjoyment of hopelessness. Or perhaps it was her fragrance that kept me; the gusty wind thrust it toward me and carried it away from me.

And she had a contradicting sentence for every one of my words; I could not allow that, but she wasn’t going to allow anything either.

She laughed again—my uncomprehending face must have looked funny. I sensed that a long time was going by, but there was another computation of time in which not even one of our shared moments could have passed and only the surface of everything could be touched, where everything remained hurried and volatile.

And, as if because of the words, we only snatched at issues in a desultory way, unable to talk them through to the end.

She motioned to me to look behind me.

A car was parked along the curb. I remembered having heard it stop there.

I looked at her and then at this odd, shiny automobile from another world, from before the war. I couldn’t decide what to do. I was furious, pouting about the way she might be forcing me to do something senseless. The person at the wheel did not move, seemed not even to notice us. His face could not be seen, he must have had a coat on, maybe a leather coat, and for a few moments he remained but an indifferent shadow. The windshield wipers kept swishing. And then he must have lost patience, having to wait so long. He leaned across the passenger seat and threw open the curbside door; his movement sizzled. People started coming out of the church, the organ sounded its loud farewell with great blows of air.

Don’t be angry, but I’m not coming, I said. I won’t. I said it as someone whose self-respect was important, but by saying it only once, I couldn’t make myself accept this declared intention.

When would she see me then, she asked, without the slightest change in her face. No annoyance, no sorrow. Raised eyebrows, engraved in her forehead. Perhaps her large eyes and pursed lips awaited an answer, but whatever my answer might be, no response would touch her being. A face made of large, white, motionless, and indifferent fields.

She looked so lovely that it hurt me to say what I was about to say, but I said it, I don’t know when we can see each other again.

And in that very instant her husband honked.

He barely touched the horn; it was nothing but another signal, but now the woman too seemed to lose patience. The various fields on her face twisted in anger, she pulled up her shoulders a little as if ready to attack. She shook herself, became ugly, and then yelled into my face to stop shitting around, what the hell was I shitting around for about a stupid little thing like this.

Now it was my turn; I burst out laughing. I said, all right, let’s not shit around. But it was easier to say that than to follow her and also satisfy every unexpected demand of the new situation.

The Lovely Angel of Revenge

Baron Schuer took his customary place at the large oval table as head of the family; Countess Auenberg sat opposite him, at the place to which the lady of the house had shown her. They were in the smaller dining room, which was used on weekdays. Its walls were covered in deep-green silk embossed in old gold; its white-lacquered neo-Baroque furniture was upholstered in the same silk; double doors and two large windows gave onto the terrace and because of the summer weather were left open.