Tranquility (35 page)

And now, after having been the person sitting inside, let us be Mr. W., who, while setting his watch, for some reason looks up at this mirror. What he sees, basically, is himself standing on the sidewalk, his hand on the Doxa's thingamajig, the same way as he has stood on the sidewalk every morning for the last fifteen years. And his necktie is askew again, because he has been running again like a madman. And it's pouring again the same way, and the number seven bus is splashing the water of the puddles again the same way, but he probably doesn't even notice that. But what he does see most clearly is the dread emanating from his face because the same old game is about to begin: is it eight o'clock or eight-ten, and again he vows he'd rather stay awake all night than go through this again, ever again, because nothing is more horrible than this.

And then suddenly he realizes that actually he is standing in front of a window and from inside someone has been watching him for years exactly during the moments he goes on lying to himself. If we are somewhat familiar with human nature, it's not very difficult to figure out what goes on inside each of the participants. The one behind the glass feels a strange embarrassment, but profoundly understands that in the eye of the other, dread has turned into hatred. Perhaps this understanding is not that far from forgiveness. But whether at this moment they are looking into each other's eyes is a question impossible to answer. From the viewpoint of the one looking out from the inside, we may venture a hesitant “maybe”; from the viewpoint of the one outside looking in, the answer would be much more complicated.

And now let us imagine that we are the ones standing on both sides of the opaque glass. It's easy to imagine and not that complicated, but unfortunately the question of whether the eyes are looking into one another
does not change much. Well, this is the sort of thing writing is – mainly. Confession or absolution is possible only through the partition of the confessional.

.   .   .

I bought a Sokol portable radio in the pawnshop. Originally, I bought it for the music, to listen to it at night, because I had grown used to the drone of Mother's TV, by which I could sleep much better. Then I started to listen to French, Russian, and Portuguese stations, but after a while, they made me jittery. Judging by fragments of words or merely by the emphases, you tend to guess what they are talking about, even though you have no idea whether you are listening to the news or a radio play. In short, you understand parts of some words, which inevitably makes you listen, and more and more you feel that you are missing out on something. Then I got used to the Arab stations, completely devoid of Germanic, Latin, or even of Slavic words, with only the monotony of a completely incomprehensible language. This, in a low volume, is much better for night listening than music or European stations. It is as if the Good Lord were speaking, now in a male, now in a female voice.

.   .   .

There is one story I still want to write down, no matter what. My mother and her fellow actors were appearing in Markó Street and I begged and cajoled to go with them because I wanted to see the jail from inside. It was Liberation or Constitution Day – April 4th or August 20th – but I think the former. Yes, it had to be, because I was wearing my velour coat. Judit told me not to get excited, it's a hideous place, like the zoo, and she stayed home to practice. I imagined it to be more like a theater where the audience is also in costumes and, except for today, condemned to watch the empty stage every night for the rest of their lives.

The show, held in some assembly- or cultural hall, consisted of poems, work songs, and educational skits like The Cricket and the Ant, etc. Mr. Diós was the cricket because he played the violin, on an amateur level only but well enough for a jail. The actors hated doing this show, and it wasn't even mandatory, which is the worst, because saying no to a mandatory appearance has a predictable result; in case of something non-mandatory, it's impossible to know whether one gets extra good points or the whole thing makes no difference at all. In short, it was one of those I'm going to play it safe shows, which may free its participants from having to take part in a Gorky play next season.

No doubt, I had expected something more of a theatrical atmosphere than this. About five meters above the floor, fluorescent tubes were vibrating that could not be turned off for security reasons, and the entire place smelled like a school dining hall. Under the national coat of arms there was something written, which I assumed had something to do with justice. The well-behaved prisoners sat on backless benches; true, on both sides you could see guards standing along the walls. In short, there wasn't much resemblance to a provincial performance where the audience is fidgety before the curtain goes up, chews the fat and whistles freely during the show should the negative hero – villain – go too far; but the greatest difference was that in the country, old-ladies and not prison guards are the ushers, and in far smaller numbers.

I was sitting at the edge of the first row. It was cold enough to keep my coat on, which is why I remember it was April 4. And another reason I didn't take my coat off was that the color of my suit closely matched that of the prisoners' uniform and I wanted to maintain some distance from them. Next to me sat a man of athletic build, but this description refers only to his physique; a uniform, however, is like a greater-than sign
between a somebody and a nobody. Three hundred priests in one church is as terrible as three hundred prisoners in a culture hall or three hundred soldiers in the Keleti railway station. In short, even though this man had an athletic build and his face seemed much more human than that of the guard standing closest to us, there would be no point in saying that he was like an ironworker or a gymnastics teacher or an oversized poet.

On his lower arm, he had a bluish tattoo of a woman with enormous breasts, and a fish tail for legs. I was looking at it, but the picture was upside down and the face invisible because the way the man rested on his elbows, his sleeve slipped down to the mermaid's neck. I said hello to the man and then asked him to show me the woman's face, too, but he adjusted the sleeve and said, it's not for children, kid.

“I'm Andor Weér,” I said, and added that the woman who had just recited a poem by Attila József was my mother.

“One thousand twenty-four,” he said and then smiled and told me his real name, but I can't remember it anymore.

I asked him what he was in for.

“That's also not for little children,” he said, but he reassured me he never harmed anyone without reason.

I asked him how many more days he'd be a prisoner, and he asked what's the largest number I could imagine.

I said infinity.

He said nobody could imagine that.

I said I could.

He said that was good and I probably would get far. Then he asked me how old I was.

I said six and a half.

Then instead of infinity, he said, I should try to imagine having lived four times as long as I have until now. By the time he gets out of jail, I'll be a grown man with a wife, perhaps exactly as beautiful as Mother is now.

“My mother will be as beautiful then as she is now,” I said.

“Of course she will, kid,” he said and stroked my head.

I tried to imagine having lived four times as long as I have already, but I couldn't. All I managed to imagine was that I lived this same life four times, one after the other, but that, of course, is not the same thing.

“That's quite a lot,” I said, for lack of anything better.

“I can do it standing on one foot,” he said, and then we turned to the show because one of the guards signaled to us to be quiet.

There was no stage, only a strip of insulating tape on the floor to separate actors and audience and, at the two sides, black legs were hung on strings to give some illusion of masking. In the skit about to begin, my mother played the working girl, Mr. Bojtár the tractor driver, and the two of them discussed what should be done with the foreman who had been stealing ball bearings from the factory. The dialogue was about how my mother had seen the manager wrap a ball bearing into his handkerchief, but she doesn't want to report it because, after all, it wasn't her ball bearing that was stolen, but the tractor driver explained to her she was mistaken, because what would happen if that ball bearing was needed in his tractor, and at harvest time, too, when last year's wheat is practically gone, and then everything would come to a halt for days and there wouldn't be enough bread to go around; so my mother could see that the foreman's theft concerned her personally and not only her but Hungarian society as a whole.

“Flour is not ground from fresh wheat, because it turns moldy within a
day. It won't hurt you to know that, kid,” whispered the man next to me, careful that others wouldn't hear him.

“It's not the actors who write these texts,” I said because I was a little embarrassed by my mother's saying such stupid things onstage.

“Of course not,” the man said and asked me if I had any siblings.

“I do; one; but she doesn't like prisons. She stayed home to practice. She is a violinist,” I said.

“And you, what kind of artist are you?” He asked.

“I don't know yet, I'm interested in lots of things. Maybe mainly in drawing,” I said and then I asked if he had any children, to which he replied yes, a boy, almost my age, and he was a good swimmer.

“You go swimming together?” I asked.

Yes, he taught the boy how to swim; they used to go to the Tisza every summer.

That means that his son was allowed to look at the mermaid, I said.

“You're more dangerous than a lawyer,” he said and asked me if I wanted to sit on his lap, and I said yes.

The rest was pretty terrible. The second he took me on his knees, two guards were on the spot, twisted his arms behind his back and led him out of the hall, while I started yelling to let him go, he didn't do anything, they should let my father alone, and the prisoners laughed. Then my mother dragged me behind the curtain and I got a wicked slap on the face, not so much for the yelling but for calling the man my father.

Of course, the other ending of the story was more terrible. When they twisted the man's arm and jostled him out of the hall I didn't dare say anything. And for many years afterward I was trying to figure out when One thousand twenty-four would be released from prison, because I was terrified that I might run into him one day.

.   .   .

The other night I was looking for ink in my desk drawer, but then settled for a ballpoint, which I hate, but never mind that. In short, I found a spiral notebook. At first glance, I thought it was Judit's because I had written in it with my left hand. I wrote everything with my left hand for quite a long time, at least my dream diaries, poems, and things like that. I did that, I think, because at age fourteen-fifteen one's healthy sense of shame increases a little. Maybe one can quietly put up with Miss Ivett Bíró's fake orgasm in the cloakroom of the Kárpátia Restaurant, but when it comes to sonnets dedicated to Miss Weér, one would inevitably try to conceal oneself, as well as play hide-and-seek with eternity. Then gradually it turns out that eternity's average age is about forty-five; sometimes it applaudes, sometimes gets up and leaves the room, but mainly it just sits at home and reads a little before going to sleep. Moreover, in the course of time, one can guess the size of eternity: in my case in Hungary it runs to about five thousand heads, which actually is not that bad, and I haven't even mentioned the possible French edition. In a word, the moment we lay hands on eternity, it begins to decay. It boils down to Jolika, according to whom I could write this one story because it's a nice one, and to the bill collector, who has a story I must write because all the supporting documentation has come to light. Eternity also boils down to Mother's question of what is this garbage son, and to Eszter's borrowed typewriter clicking through the night – as if it were a piano whose wires were carved of wood. Getting back to the spiral notebook, I found in it a half-page story about the Pompeians. More precisely, about the excavations: when they find and then fill up with gypsum the hollows left by humans, the glowing triumph will freeze on everybody's face because they will find their own imprints at the bottom of the cooled off lava. And of course, Vesuvius will
erupt, and the whole thing starts all over again, because at age fifteen one cannot pass over a thing like that without getting involved.

.   .   .

About two weeks ago, Eszter came up to see me. No, three weeks ago. It
was
three weeks ago. The same day she returned to Pest. She asked me what had happened to my mother and I did my level best to give her an account. The only I lie I told her was about not staying in her apartment, because I didn't want to get her mixed up in my mess. So I invented a girl, Adél Bárdos, whom supposedly I had met on the train and then stayed at her place; but Eszter said it was not necessary to lie, at least now, because the minute she set foot in her apartment she knew I'd slept there.

I asked her what made her think I slept there, to which she said that, although she had kept quiet about it for years, she knew I could never distinguish between the right and the wrong side of the cover. Then she added that, incidentally, Adél Bárdos had been my love in kindergarten, the one who ate sand while sobbing, when my mother decided to transfer Judit and me to the interior ministry's elite kindergarten.