Parallel Stories: A Novel (183 page)

He had the same difficulty imagining this never-again as he had with infinity, or with space, or the complete emptiness at the original place of creation: the Beginning. He made several attempts but did not succeed, because he saw that the vessel of space might be infinite, and then what sort of a beginning would it have, would it have a limit, could it fit into a larger vessel; he could not imagine that there was nothing before the beginning and therefore there wasn’t a beginning either. Or it happened that suddenly the giant was there, standing before him in his corporeal reality, even though he hadn’t found him in the city. As if he knew his name, János, his name was János Tuba. And if not the man’s corporeal self, then his memory stood before him, a picture, the memory of a gesture or an odor, the giant’s thinking emerging as his own.

And as if in the darkness he were blinded by the dazzling of days, he buried his face in his hands.

In the light of day he never would dare ask anyone out loud, but now from behind his hands he did ask.

Locked inside the friendly darkness of the old car he felt secure.

It was a special pleasure that the question he addressed to Klára Vay referred to the giant.

With whom can’t one talk of such things, what one calls philosophy.

He would have to leave him, and reflect and meditate on him with the woman. Philosophy must be a painful activity, then. Had he told himself forever, he could not have borne his pain, infidelity, and betrayal of the giant without Klára’s noticing it.

She must not notice it.

So he tried to keep some of the cheerfulness he had appropriated from the giant.

And he managed to surprise Klára with it; she was unprepared for it after his serious questions; she stammered—a bit mockingly and not completely free of her earlier banter—as she took a new hard look at the young man, seeing him as for the first time, at the height of his physical and mental powers, at the border of insanity, perfectly composed.

Have you gone out of your mind, she asked angrily, but her eyes flashed with joy when she heard the splendid questions.

Why would I have gone out of my mind, moaned the young man, and for a moment he looked out from between his fingers.

Klára Vay had inherited her improbably large eyes as well as her persistent and neutral attention from her father.

And what if I’ve gone mad, so what, he added so as not to sound too childish.

How did he know from whom Klára had inherited the physical texture of her eyes. And the organic world was presumably based on these silly resemblances and relationships.

Your response depends on it, Klára replied, beaming, and now it was she who ignored Kristóf Demén’s banter and disregarded his viewpoint—and in her great excitement didn’t realize she was addressing him in the familiar.

First of all, you should be able to formulate your response, she corrected herself, speaking formally.

But I’m the one who’s asking, I’m the one asking the questions, cried Kristóf in the darkness, at least this once I am.

To show what your viewpoint is, whether you’re a determinist—in which case the world is a strict system with no room for faith or chance, that’s the question you have to answer—or maybe the opposite.

How should I know what my viewpoint is, the reason I’m asking is because I don’t know.

Do you think that vital life processes, or life’s phenomena, even your own, are absolutely and exclusively in a causal relation with one another. Or in your view is there no such relationship among them. That’s another big question.

The young man lifted his head from his hands, looked out at the pavement glistening in the rain as the moving car gradually devoured it; amazed at how many stones he had tried to move in his great spiritual quest, he preferred to remain silent.

First he must answer these questions, after that they could talk about anything.

Klára answers questions with other questions, he replied, dissatisfied; this was too trite even for a trick.

Why should she need a trick, or what sort of trick did he have in mind.

To avoid things, to go around them.

He may not be aware of this, but asking questions is a classical method used in philosophy.

Then he’d rather take back his dangerous questions.

Does he believe in predestination, answer that one quickly. What does he base his faith on. Does he believe in free will or believe that the Almighty conceived and decided everything well in advance.

With the same effort she might as well have asked whether he believes in free fall.

Exactly, because he can imagine the universe as a gaping void, with not a living godhead anywhere, a kind of desolate metaphysical wasteland, and in this void he would attribute greater significance to contingency or chance than to will, decision, necessity, and so on.

He doesn’t know; how would he know.

Doesn’t he understand that people must talk over these things among themselves, people have to show one another the way and make one another realize things, why doesn’t he want to understand this.

He often has the feeling that one acts before thinking, though it would probably make sense to do things the other way around, Kristóf continued after a brief silence. At any rate, he says things first and then thinks about them, and as a result he justifies them only later, which makes his whole life kind of laughable.

Klára did not respond for a while, but clicked her tongue admiringly.

Perhaps she was busy with the car, with the driving and the empty streets, or perhaps she liked and enjoyed the thought.

Later they could not have said when they started in again or how many times they stopped.

How would he know what the order of things should be.

Kristóf had to know this for himself, and she could not decide it for him.

They were approaching Dürer Ajtósi Row, where they’d have to turn.

He should name the reference points of his personal perspective, the so-called pivotal points.

He has no personal perspective.

But of course he does.

He’s one big knot of feelings, nothing else, he’s a nobody. That things might have pivotal points—what an idea.

Enough of this maudlin stuff. They should be talking more sensibly.

It’s Klára who’s talking to him like a strict schoolmarm.

And right now I’m being relatively gentle, I’ll have you know.

Klára should stop sounding so high and mighty too.

Sensing the possibility of falling back to pointless mockery and teasing, they both had to tamp down their aggressiveness.

It’s not about categories that he wants to talk with Klára.

Does he think that world affairs will slowly become knowable and, once they are, can be sorted out in line with his admirable views. Like pralines, candy, dragées, and bonbons. These here are the ones with fillings, those over there are without; or sorted according to the kind of filling, caramel or hazelnut cream, raisins or almonds.

You’re joking again.

It’s easy to joke, but at the store they must perform this thankless sorting job at least once a week because even when one takes great care and pays close attention things have a way of becoming mixed up, and it’s no laughing matter, not at all.

He doesn’t understand why this haughty contempt. Does Klára disdain everyone this much, or are there exceptions. Why did she become suddenly so haughty.

If he could successfully sort out each thing that suits him and separate it from all other things and be aware of boundaries, his response would sound very different than if he thought world affairs were unfathomable, their individual phenomena inseparable or having no difference or connection among them. Because that would mean there were no borders, no such thing as a person’s character; people would have no traits, will, or ethical justification for their actions, at best only arbitrariness and blame or resignation or habit, and so on.

Ridiculous.

Why ridiculous.

Somehow he too had to make a decision, unless he wanted to consider himself an exception in the universe.

In any event thinking comes first—for the sake of the official definition, first comes thinking in the descriptive mode, and only after does one begin to speak. Which is not so exceptional. One surveys the possibilities, reviews what are one’s own or other people’s favored viewpoints. It’s hardly worth mentioning.

But why would this be important or interesting.

Because you are not alone and alone you can’t get anywhere, you’d be a laughingstock if you didn’t know about these things, or if you ignored them or failed to coordinate them with others. Thinking is not a solitary activity.

This made them be quiet for a good while.

Kristóf had a chance to be annoyed once again by the woman’s latest lecture.

Yet their silence affected both of them as if it were a delicate pact regarding their future. Kristóf could not tell what was inherently uneven in this silence. He was, instead, stuck on one word:
trampled
. The woman had trampled him, had trod heavily on him and then withdrawn. She simply withdrew. This hurt him, but he did not think it was unfair.

They were idling in the middle of the road again, for who knows how long. As if quietly signaling that they had to wait to make their turn in the night at last.

But Klára didn’t notice that nothing was or would be in her way to keep her from turning.

Kristóf was hesitantly motioning what to do, gesturing for her to turn.

And if they had reached the point where they could freely laugh at themselves and each other, there was no reason not to go on to Stefánia Boulevard so Kristóf could show her the other house with the big garden behind the pointed iron fence where his paternal grandparents had raised him. Their easy laughter grew irresponsible, which, more clearly expressed, meant they were hopelessly in love with someone. No matter how they tried to fight it. Protecting their independence from each other. Kristóf is in love with the giant and he cannot refuse to admit this. His mode of admitting it is not yet fully transparent, though it is slowly acquiring shape. And Klára states up front that she will keep Simon because she wants to, gives no explanation for this and won’t do so later. And yet they are progressing further and further into a metaphysical thicket. Where neither of them is on familiar ground because they must deal not with objects but with the essence and emblems of unknown feelings, historical rhymes, genetic assonances, and even more unfamiliar parallels and congruities. Although the building must look different because new tenants ransacked and divided it, sold off the iron fence as scrap metal, cut down the centuries-old trees to build temporary huts, pens, and lean-tos, the two of them did not get that far on Stefánia Boulevard on this stormy night.

Kristóf continued to tell his stories, to explain things, but with waning self-confidence, hinting that it might be best to say nothing of certain matters. He displayed awkwardness with all his talk; with his pig-headed persistence he showed, perhaps to the woman, perhaps to himself, his infantile clinging to various locales. Now he saw how empty they all were. The houses, the streets, the squares. And how futile his attempt to surround the woman with all those words. She avoided him, this woman kept going on her own much more objective way.

Perhaps she wasn’t in the least bit interested in so much abstraction, or he failed to present his story interestingly enough, which deeply shamed him.

As if he had failed to carry out an obligatory service.

This other story of his had little to do with history or with his own life story.

Or with words.

They did not look at each other, barely seeing more than a dark silhouette to their left or right, with the light of streetlamps flashing and fading above the car. Neither of them looked at their watches, were no longer concerned that they might be late or should be going somewhere; their commitments had faded away. Klára continued to handle the young man’s declarations with a certain innate caution. Or remained cautious because of his rebellious tendencies. She considered his vague urban-sociological theory as intellectual decoration, theatrical scenery with which Kristóf rushed to isolate both loud catastrophe and quiet tragedy. If only to spare her. This flattered her; she was moved by his courtesy but not appeased. She and Simon had banished from their life every form of courteous or ceremonious behavior, though she systematically continued to point out to Simon what rule of accepted behavior they happened to be breaking at any given moment. But now her former life seemed to be returning through the back door, a life more in accordance with her upbringing, based on the careful exchange of courtesies and the tactful transposition of brutality into something with acceptable tones. Simon had learned a lot about this, theoretically, in a course on behavioral history at the Moscow School of International Relations, but he acquired it negatively from Klára Vay. He learned from her firm denunciations how he should have behaved in given situations, what he should have done or should do. Klára Vay was not a very sensitive person and therefore minced no words; she could not afford to be sentimental. She had only contempt for everything that was weak, timid, or indirect; she struggled with her own intellect as well, she had to be clear-sighted at all times. Eventually she would begin her university studies and she was ready to do anything for that. She had had no formal education of any kind, though she had read a great deal; she was determined to fight her way through the history of thought, alone. She knew she was throwing her weight around and wouldn’t get far with her suggestion for systematization, but she had to keep on course and she could hardly expect more than that. She now and again tested her conceptual capacity and arrogantly disregarded her fiascos. Nothing interested her but finding a direct, practical, and easily understandable explanation, a formula that accepted catastrophe and, at least for a time, resisted erosion and tragedy.

And this formula, in all its elements, had to be beyond the personal.

Nobody could foresee a change in circumstances.