Parallel Stories: A Novel (30 page)

It does not have the reserves to supply the system’s center and peripheries simultaneously.

But by then it’s too late.

Gyöngyvér, my little girl, said Lady Erna, her voice hoarse and reduced to a whisper by the sudden urge for self-preservation. She was loath to say aloud what she was about to say. It was exactly what she wanted to keep to herself. I don’t want to frighten you, but I haven’t been feeling well since early this morning, and I think I had better prepare you. If you see that I’m getting worse, my medicine is here, in my purse. If I become very weak or even faint, you should put it under my tongue.

Yes, I know the medicine, Gyöngyvér answered dryly, as if she too wanted to move past this, wanted to get it behind her.

Contrary to Lady Erna’s expectation, neither fear nor surprise showed on Gyöngyvér’s face. Indeed, her pretended empathy and genuine curiosity only grew.

With the excuse of having to look for her medicine, Lady Erna turned and shifted away on the seat with a small laugh. As if to apologize for clinging to her miserable life. Which is truly laughable. Common sense told her it would be more pleasant to slip into the hereafter in a state of unconsciousness than to continue wide awake, trembling for her wretched life. And if that was how it was going to be, and it could hardly be otherwise, why bring her back with the help of medication, why couldn’t she be content to simply faint away. No matter how hard she tried to find her instinct for self-preservation ridiculous, her fear of death won out. There was another creature within her, too terrified to be amused—in the hope of overcoming fear—at being terrified. Efforts to master her fear had never been successful, yet she never gave up. Exactly the opposite happened. Laughter did not help overcome the dread, and the elemental fear, much stronger than she, deeply humiliated her and repeatedly made a mockery of her faith in common sense.

Common sense failed to stop the symptoms; her hands shook visibly. The telltale spots caused by afflictions of the nervous system, going from flushed to pale, made their appearance, along with imperceptible dewdrops of fear gathering along the rim of her upper lip. And there was no good reason why she was unable to click open the latch of her handbag.

Even if I confide in this woman, I can’t expect anything from her but hypocrisy. In her restrained fury, she practically tore the gloves off her hands. She didn’t regret this. She had noticed earlier that at times Gyöngyvér’s eyes were glued to her. At least her hands had not yet lost their shapeliness. The young woman had something to envy. Leaning back from the edge of her consciousness, she somehow gathered that what she was doing now had nothing to do with her heart; false alarm, a lot of hysterics, no threat of another attack. But her inner tensions, with their various origins and vectors, were raging so furiously that she genuinely feared being unable to control herself.

Then it must be death I am so afraid of, after all. No matter how I’ve tried to deceive myself, telling myself that he’s been dead to me for so long that no matter what happens the actual death won’t be a shock.

She finally managed to undo the clasp with her trembling fingers. She glanced up to assess their progress. She did not want to be shocked. She saw they were still far from their destination. God, help me have him sign it. We’re only on the ramp to the Margit Bridge. She did not understand herself. Why is her body producing such absurd hysteria in front of this young woman, and also because of her. What need does she have of anyone’s empathy, why make a stranger feel sorry for her. She couldn’t say.

And she couldn’t even thrust her hand haphazardly into the bag the way she wanted to; first she had to take out the copies of the sale contract.

I’ve been having such a migraine since early this morning, said Gyöngyvér dolefully, I’m nauseated, my head is about to explode.

The handbag was the kind in which one could never find anything. Just let your head explode, my dear, there’s nothing in it anyway, said Lady Erna to herself; she was furious that instead of empathizing, the young woman was looking for pity. What a stupid hen you are. What a primitive soul. A decorated pouch of a handbag on a strong metal frame. Just recently very fashionable, and particularly to her liking because it reminded her of the sporranlike pouches her mother carried to soirées and balls. And now the two of them in the taxi were holding two all but identical handbags on their laps. This also annoyed her.

Lady Erna’s purse was made of soft, dark gray calfskin, just like her shoes; Gyöngyvér’s was so-called Negro brown, a fashionable hue that also matched her shoes, but it was made of imitation leather. Which, at the time, was considered more chic than real leather. This insignificant little difference made Lady Erna feel the light-years of distance that separated them. The rage for successful imitations had shattered her image of the world. She could not conceive of owning a purse or anything else made of artificial material. The whole world, as it was, must now be considered one big forgery. Still, one should spare no effort to curb the display of falsehoods, or at least one should hide one’s own.

For heaven’s sake, how would you know about this miserable medicine, she asked irritably when she found it at last and lifted out the antique silver etui. What problems can your heart have.

You are young, strong.

Silent for a moment, the young woman pressed her hands to her temples, squeezed and kneaded them, moaned and whimpered.

Nobody can get trinitroglycerin except people with serious heart problems, though as a medication it’s not dangerous.

Lady Erna’s hand in the meantime also found her handkerchief of snow-white, lightly starched lawn. The absentminded movement with which she put it to use was among the imperceptible supreme achievements of her upbringing. Looking deep into Gyöngyvér’s eyes—and it was these apparently incidental gestures that Gyöngyvér absorbed and internalized most eagerly—she dabbed and blotted up the pearls of perspiration under her nose without either the immaculate kerchief or her fingers touching her lips. The lipstick was not smeared and the movement was not in the least conspicuous. This was the trick of the proper use of a handkerchief. The gesture must be rapid and restrained but not fussy.

In her other hand, she was still holding the little silver box.

Explosive, I know, believe me, nitroglycerine. Gyöngyvér’s words tumbled out. By the way, I have what they call an athletic heart, really, it’s like steel. She felt she was making no headway with her headache. But I did have an old lady colleague with very serious heart problems. I liked her a lot and helped her often, believe me. I lived at her place for months, and while she was telling this story she blushed and her face showed signs that it might be painful for her to remember this friend.

The little chameleon has finally betrayed herself. The pained artificial little smile, which she had built on a true headache, might have been provoked by a memory of real pain, but she had buried it under the unceasing pain she felt because of Ágost, which filled out her skin and made her face beautiful, even though her soul was filled with scab-encrusted injuries, purulent sores, and open wounds.

While her gaze wandered elsewhere. Unblinking, with an all but shameless lack of empathy, they kept looking into each other’s eyes.

Who in fact was an old gentleman, this dear old lady colleague of yours, if I’m not mistaken, came Lady Erna’s venomous response.

Immediately she thought she shouldn’t have said this, but the sentence had spilled out of her with elemental force. As if she had said, I know you were nothing but a whore and you still are. And now, with your mawkish sentimentality, you are trying to put one over on my son.

She could see through the young woman, who herself had the feeling she shouldn’t have come up with such a big lie.

And I’m blushing, too, so the old bitch can see how big a lie it was.

They were both slow to say more. The two statements remained hanging in the air. Neither one could be retracted.

But why say such things to me, why, Gyöngyvér whimpered under her breath, as if still moaning and whining about her headache, and as if, above all, she must convince herself that something terribly unfair had taken place. Though she sensed that her childish self-pity led her to an open clearing where there was no shelter. I don’t understand, she whined, I don’t understand at all why you hate me so much.

What are you talking about, may I ask.

I feel it, yes, I feel that you hate me.

Well, if that’s how you feel, one can’t argue with feelings, Lady Erna answered severely. But you constantly prevaricate, my child. And that’s putting it mildly.

Their faces seemed to be glowing in a peculiar light.

They could not acknowledge the source of the light, they could not look aside, and right now neither of them could afford even a flutter of eyelashes without risking the other drawing conclusions. Neither of them had room to move to let the other one pass by. As if they had been trying to avoid this very moment, or rather, as if they had been on the way to it. This is what they both felt. Lady Erna was filled with restrained expectations, Gyöngyvér with light-headedness, with the mature vitality and explosive superiority of youth. As in a game of team handball, when her movements were most intimately her own, dexterity, anticipation, and strength all working together. And these feelings now painted vaguely ironic smiles on their faces, which simultaneously spoke to itself as well as to the other.

At least for a moment, they both laid down their weapons.

Which made Gyöngyvér the more audacious one; Lady Erna’s audacity gave her permission. The way it usually happens on the handball court when she gets the ball, makes a lightning-quick movement with it, feints, steps to the side, takes off, and has already broken through the line of outmaneuvered girls. She seized Lady Erna’s hand, the older woman was ready for anything but this, and did what she should have done minutes earlier but could not without permission: she pressed it, held it in her hand, and kept it there.

The elderly heart-patient friend had indeed been a gentleman who kept her, she admitted, but fortunately he was no less seriously ill than her female colleague might have been. Somehow, there was some truth in all her lies. She apologizes for every one of them, belatedly and in advance. And here I am holding your hand because for a long time I’ve been admiring and envying your beautiful hands, your delicate fingers, your exquisite rings and the fine, thick gold bracelets that slide down your bony wrists. I love it all, love it. Perhaps the way I love every bone in your son’s body, his skin, his hair, his smell, his voice, his breath; to me they are jewels. I’d like to adorn myself with them every night. I love him, love him. There is no part of him I can do without.

Oh, I would die without them.

Now, as at other times, she turned her self-pity into a passionate humiliation. With her slippery subservience she matched the selfishness, rejection, and superiority emanating from Lady Erna—eerily reminiscent of how she treated her son. She rejected him; there was hardly anyone in her life she had not rejected for the sake of some unfulfilled desire. There was no such person. Her daughter had rebelled against her and perished because of her; but her son, nevertheless, followed her loyally and unconsciously. Like a dog. For not only their flesh but also the quality of their selfishness and sense of superiority were alike.

Gyöngyvér went so far as to bend over and kiss the beautiful hand. She usually took men’s cocks into her mouth when she bent over so nicely.

Surrendering to their childlike selfishness.

In this fleeting moment, the silver box in her hand both confused and somewhat hindered Lady Erna. Her hand would have felt good clasping Gyöngyvér’s gloved fingers. The skin of the glove was smooth, tight, and cool. She saw the nape of Gyöngyvér’s neck for a moment. She was strongly tempted to kiss the closely shaved female nape, thin as a child’s. Her sense of aesthetic proportions would have demanded as much, as did her desire erupting from the depths, hitting her briefly and bluntly.

She shuddered; she was so moved her body grew damp.

If only Gyöngyvér’s lips had tarried a moment longer on her hand. They were soft, silky, and cool, like the touch of a lizard. But Gyöngyvér quickly sat up.

She could never count on mutuality or reciprocity; Ágost had never pampered her with either.

The dark gray clunky Pobeda reached the entrance to Margit Island and slowed down. Not so much because of the turn but because of the terrific northerly gusts of wind. This is the highest point of the bridge as it rises from the two riverbanks. Arriving from the Pest side, and with nothing else to do, one registers the sight of the hills ahead. But the cabbie could not have seen much of them now. The windshield wipers were working at top speed and the wind pressed the rain’s myriad drops like a robe around the taxi. An opaque curtain was dripping down each window. It was as if nocturnal darkness had descended on them, but with something continually illuminating or flashing in it. The sky turned black and dense over the entire city; but beyond, somewhere in the south, over the flatlands of Csepel, and in the west and north, behind the hills of Buda, the clouds opened up. The rim of the sky was clearing fast in a wide arc and from there a flat, white light shone into the bottom of the darkness. The mass of clouds, gathered and piled up by the strong winds, slowly began to move eastward where flatland, clouds, rain, and city seemed to touch. And the flatly falling light was reflected in the mud-darkened foam on the surface of the Danube, illuminating from below, under the swirling firmament, the faces observing each other. There was something frightening, otherworldly in this phenomenon, though it may have had a simple explanation.

The cabbie correctly sensed that something unusual was happening between the two women behind him.

They were both laughing, but very quietly. It was a vocal confirmation of the knowing twinkle in their eyes.

As if Gyöngyvér were saying, you see, I’m not lying now, I admit it; and Erna were responding, my sweet, as far as I’m concerned you can lie all you want. I understand you even when I pretend not to. And the laughter had nothing to do with the old female colleague in Gyöngyvér’s life who happened to be an old gentleman with heart trouble; they were beyond that already, had forgotten all about it, had brushed it aside. And they were laughing not at the sudden revelation but out of embarrassment, at their mutual state of exposure.