Parallel Stories: A Novel (98 page)

All the Hungarians of Mohács are lost, you’re the last one.

I’ll do something with their tools they couldn’t possibly have imagined. They’d have said it was impossible, forbidden, shouldn’t be done.

Won’t you be needing some help, Bellardi asked.

Madzar had no response.

Please, tell me, and this time the captain turned his head away, out of decency, this doctor in Budapest, his wife, the ones you’re working for, I assume they are Jews.

Bellardi evidently did not wish to break completely with the earlier subject of their conversation.

But Madzar didn’t want to return to it.

Yes, they are.

They took a few more sips of their wine.

As if they were quietly weighing the nature and character of the confidence they had in each other and as if this were the subject of their conversation.

To get into it or not.

But you still haven’t told me, said the captain from behind his glass, as though about to make a decision, was there anything with Marika or not. It hasn’t been more than two months since I last saw that female.

That means you were at home.

It was a sad occasion, to liquidate my aunt’s inheritance. What can I tell you, judging by the characteristics of her race Marika is very pretty.

You must be joking, what could possibly have been there between us, Madzar replied, irritated.

The old Viennese waiter was making his way up the stairs again, this time with the menu. Madzar was reluctant to be drawn into matters he had managed to avoid earlier. The waiter flapped open the menu’s hard covers and with a broad gesture spread it out before them.

I am curious about your confidential message, Madzar said.

First we order, my friend. Later we’ll deal with business and politics. The captain laughed hard, showing his strong white but uneven teeth, and he imperiously poked at the top line of the menu.

If I’m not mistaken, then, you wish to talk about business and political topics, remarked the architect.

First I wish to talk about entrées and mainly about our favorite soups, my dear Lojzi. Everything else will come later.

I can’t imagine what you want to ask of me, but frankly I sense some ulterior motives.

You may not believe it, but my motives are honorable. The sword is out of the scabbard. I shall lay it out for you. We’ll play with all the cards on the table. Or maybe we’ll first see the first-course dishes before deciding on the entrées. Bellardi looked at Madzar questioningly, boastfully.

Madzar did not reply; alternately they studied the menu to avoid seeing each other and then looked up into each other’s face; it would have been hard for them to break contact completely.

Or, even more important, they both wanted to keep the other’s countenance from gaining an advantage, from deciphering the unmasked face across from him.

Only the steady puffing of the liner was heard.

The old Viennese waiter had lighted the candles on the table, stopped muttering to himself in his several languages, and now stood expectantly in his enormous worn-out black shoes and baggy black trousers that shone at the knees.

Where is Mayer, why isn’t he here, asked the captain as if in passing but in a curious falsetto.

It seems, said the old waiter in German, he had to go down to the stokers again.

Bellardi let it go, but it was obvious he did not care for this answer. It made him restless.

The candles in the three-arm silver candelabrum were burning more brightly, slowly reaching their full intensity, thus deepening the approaching night outside.

I suggest, said Bellardi after a while, that we stay away from the more ordinary dishes. Let’s have a holiday meal.

If you tell me what you call ordinary, replied Madzar, drawing out his words—he was immersed both in the menu and in all those ambiguous feelings that Bellardi’s proximity and the liner’s puffing aroused in him—I’ll be happy to follow most of your suggestions.

As if the tremendous steam power were working itself into a night in which there was neither forward nor backward, as if all that enormous effort were exerted only to be standing still.

Could it be that this confusing sensation was what grown people think about when they claim that friendship is more important than love. His heart was filled with unfamiliar anxiety and dread.

Because only now did he comprehend completely what had happened twenty years earlier.

We’re not yet thirty, yet our lives might be over.

Bellardi’s probably right, a person does not change a bit, and without change, how can there be any progress in history. For there to be progress, one should be aware at least of one’s own direction. What has happened, what is happening to me. And if there is no progress, then why am I so severe. The two great paddle wheels on a single axle are spinning in place. He knows that, of course, because he sails now with the current, now against it; he has no other choice. With the same exertion, he might be a horse on a treadle or a streetcar conductor. If there is no progress, there is neither past nor future.

Man, like swine, lies down in the first puddle, bathing all the time. This is a dyed-in-the-wool miserable man, this Bellardi, who has always had this secret, dark little penchant for conspiracy and rebellion.

What a pleasure-filled mouth he has. Perhaps every emotion is pure illusion; illusion is other people.

In which case, my experiments to objectify everything in the extreme in that psychoanalytic clinic are in vain.

It’s not the women, they are overly realistic, but the men. We are good for nothing but reproduction. We might as well be breeding stallions or even rabbits.

How could I suggest anything, do you think I know what I have in mind, the captain responded whimsically after long cogitation, shaking his head for emphasis. Well, I definitely won’t have lobster, he said, still looking at the menu, not goose liver either, nor will I order buttered escargots with Provençal herbs, no sir, but don’t expect an explanation, and I won’t have frog’s legs.

It seemed as if he was trying to say that in the approaching warlike situation his own military high spirits would be at least as useless as the architect’s civilian austerity and seriousness.

At least this is how Madzar read the information.

The old waiter leaned closer and with his serving cloth began nervously to slap different parts of the table, which rudely disturbed the two men.

Please, stop that slapping.

Wir haben alles, müssen Sie mir glauben, wirklich alles frisch eingekauft.
I swear to it.

Don’t swear to anything, Josef, said the captain, and raised his hand to cut him off. Today, I’d prefer something less refined, less cooked for a an appetizer. Let me call your attention to the fish-roe salad, he said, clicking his tongue, or perhaps champignons à la grecque. Yes, I’ll start with that.

Sehr wohl, sehr wohl
, said the old waiter, bowing several times, ass you gentlemen vish.

His importune loquaciousness did not go well with the profound, genuine humbleness with which he kept bowing, always ready to be of service. The misshapen rebel whose time had not yet come but who already held all the strings in the conspiracy.

As if he were the one who controlled and guided Bellardi’s behavior.

Darf ich doch sofort nachgiessen, den gnädigen Herren
, he asked nervously, and kept bowing with his entire body as though he had to correct his earlier mistake if he wanted to regain control of the situation.

That’s right, that’s right, answered the captain amiably and totally inattentively,
die höchste Zeit, tun Sie das.

For the first time Madzar closely observed the waiter’s figure.

The enormous heavy body that all his life the man had been dragging up and down the stairs on legs riddled with varicose veins. As if despite all indications that he was unsuited for this profession, his parents had sent him to become a waiter, and he had spent his entire life using the same method of obligatory dissimulation that Bellardi and the other gentlemen he had to serve also used. Bowing low to fill their glasses, and with his free hand waving his serving cloth in all directions, he explained how the fish roe was prepared.

They take the roe of lean Danube fishes, this is important to know, not the roe of predatory fishes, never, as your excellencies must be aware, because they are much heavier. Their eggs often smell of silt, not pleasant, while the eggs of plant-eating fish have only a slight scent,
sans odeur mauvaise.

The creased-up wrinkles that once had been plump with fat were now parched; they flapped and slapped on his neck and his face. He rehearsed the information in a bored nasal voice, and one could not be sure that he was not parodying with his accent the vocal mannerisms of mildly crazed Viennese aristocrats, which would have been a great impudence on his part. At any rate, he behaved as if he had no intention of imposing a decision on the fine gentlemen yet could barely disguise how bored he was talking to them.

Our chef—and the honorable architect must unconditionally understand this—is unerring in such delicate matters. He adds milt, you see, sir, I’m sure you know what I mean, not much, about a fifth of the roe’s weight; it is said to be beneficial for virility. Then he splashes it generously with lemon juice, adds a bit of grated lemon peel, lets it sit on ice for about an hour, while the sourness of the lemon tones down the harshness of the fish eggs, which is as it should be, gentlemen, bitterness sometimes settles on top of bitterness, as we all know from life, and then he sprinkles it with coarse-ground pepper, tosses in finely cut red onion, crushed garlic, salts it lightly, that’s important, not too much salt, and, while very slowly dripping olive oil into it, he stirs it until the last drop of oil is absorbed. I highly recommend it. We serve it with hot, caraway-seeded pumpernickel toast.

Bravo, Josef, well done, the captain cried. Go ahead, Josef, bring it. I don’t think you can choose anything else. I’ve already ordered the appropriate wine for it too, for I am nothing but sheer foresight, you see, he said, laughing, and of course I’ve just revealed that I tricked you.

He literally guffawed.

Madzar was not fully present in this moment; his attention was arrested by the intricately detailed words; he disregarded the subject of the speech, let it pass by his ears. He was watching Bellardi’s strong, crooked canine teeth, glittering in his guffaw, and he could easily imagine the man’s brutishness as he might tear into someone’s lips. The face itself was a trap. An empty surface on which the features may be rearranged, thus every moment gives the impression of novelty. And the almost yellow wine had a personality, a stratification. Despite its perfect dryness, it left a sweet memory on the surface of the tongue, while its spices widened and inundated the palate; its various flavors prepared one for the tasting.

You won’t regret it. Bellardi laughed, and this time it frightened Madzar. But he had no choice now. He was becoming lost among Bellardi’s many faces; perhaps the wine had gone to his head. Swimming in the wine’s multiple flavors, he had failed to gauge its strength.

As soon as they were served, with quick, eager little movements the hungry captain began to spread his Greek mushrooms on the toasted French rolls. Greatly enjoying watching each other eat, they kept spreading and then chomping on their various breads and drinking quite a bit in a leisurely but steady rhythm. Their chomping was rather noisy, not very proper; to make it a bit quieter Bellardi explained to Madzar how finely chopped onion was simmered in olive oil and then bombarded with mushrooms cut in small cubes. In the fall, and Madzar will have a chance to see this for himself, it is even more delicious because then they make the dish with cèpes, the woodland mushrooms Hungarians call the gentleman’s mushroom.

Which obviously meant he would want Madzar on board with him again in the fall, would like to chomp on bread in his company, talk to him with his mouth full, digest and drink with him; he kept pouring now, perhaps to get drunk, let out huge farts, never become sated; there was nothing to misunderstand here.

From the moment Bellardi had been hastily taken out of the school on Koronaherceg Street and hastily transported to Trieste, Madzar no longer had a bosom buddy, no one he could count on as his friend.

Bellardi’s absence turned into a very peculiar lack. Something was missing, which Madzar did not consider important.

Something of Bellardi returned every summer, a now strange figure who always had something to brag about, something to show off his exceptional qualities, and to whom, sometimes for whole days, sometimes only for a few hours, Madzar managed to find his way back. On these occasions he was glad he had never taken their friendship seriously, because he sensed ever more palpably the distance growing between them, and no matter how close they found themselves, this drifting apart was unforgettable. He lived with this estrangement as one fortunate enough to have escaped a great danger, because he no longer had time for puerility.

Now, because of Bellardi’s unguarded words about the future, that in the fall Madzar would have woodland mushrooms, the real pain felt at the long-ago loss returned.

He did not know what to think of this; for the first time in his life, it confused him to his core.

Maybe you don’t remember, he said loudly in a stifled, strange, trembling voice, as one calling back one last time from his childhood, desperately asking for help, I left my best leather slingshot at your house.

Something similar now happened to the captain too; it was very rare that something truly surprised him, but this was as if some rebuke or old rumor had caught up with him, accusing him of theft.

You forgot your what, he asked, shocked and threatening. I don’t remember a slingshot.

This hurt Madzar because he could see that Bellardi truly did not remember, the louse. But somehow he quickly awakened from his surprise that Bellardi couldn’t even remember this foul deed of his. He had the nerve not to return one of my best slingshots and he doesn’t even remember doing it.