Parallel Stories: A Novel (123 page)

His heart beat loud at the sound of the ship’s horn coming close.

Then he preferred to think about Mrs. Szemz
ő
; he made as if to think about her but in the end did not. His hand slipped; in alarm he had either hit or grasped something the wrong way. His old friend might show up in a few minutes, though he wished he wouldn’t come—now or ever again. He even sighed and moaned in his wild joy. Such an emotional turmoil was not without its danger because the old power saws made by the Langefelder machine factory had hardly anything by way of protective devices. He was embarrassed to think such thoughts and to be making little moans instead of watching what he was doing with his hands, but he had to admit he had good reason to tease and make fun of himself.

He was indeed waiting for his lover.

So what if at least twelve years had gone by without giving him a thought. Which, of course, was not even true. Bellardi might come this afternoon. Or if not this afternoon he might come five days from now in the middle of the night. The latter was the more exciting image, that he’d arrive at night. They’d sit on the veranda with a bottle of good wine until dawn, he’d ask his mother to bake some of her pork-scraps round cake. He wondered whether he should tell his mother in advance about Bellardi’s possible visit.

Mother, please be prepared, I might have a guest soon.

But he said nothing about it to her.

Yet his mother spoke, from behind his back, asking whether she should count on anyone coming, perhaps a guest.

Yes, he shouted over the noise of the power saw, but don’t make a fuss. If he comes, he comes, if he doesn’t, nobody else will be coming.

And to keep his mother from asking more questions, he quickly asked her whether she knew what had happened to Gottlieb’s dogs.

What dogs, his mother shouted back in German.

Madzar stopped sawing; only the drive belt was making repeated clattering noises.

He had two large dogs, didn’t he.

How in hell would I know what he did with them.

So his mother didn’t dare ask whom they might be waiting for, though she remained for a long time in the workshop doorway, standing silently, watching her son measure everything more than once and make new marks before putting the logs to the saw.

Her son did not like it when every so often she spoke to him in German.

Mother, you probably beat those dogs to death yourself, he said aloud later; he had long wanted to learn the truth from her.

What dogs, son, his mother shouted back, this time in Hungarian.

When the subject was unpleasant she preferred the foreign tongue.

Well, our two big white dogs, the komondors, I’ve been thinking about them, said Madzar, as if in passing, as if he weren’t truly interested and might not even hear her answer in the noise. He did not look up from his work; with such transparent maneuvers he thus occasionally managed to trick his mother.

Oh, son, that was so long ago.

Once again, only the noise of the drive belt was heard. They said nothing for a long time, but as she looked at her son’s strong back while he was checking the cutting surface, she knew that if she did not give a straight answer she’d have to leave, because her son would be angry with her.

First, I killed only one of them, the bitch, she answered.

But why did you do it, that’s what I want to know.

The female was the wilder one. I couldn’t cope with them, because they listened only to your father, son. They were partial to him, how could I live with them.

Now the silence felt better.

The sheer mention of Bellardi’s name always provoked excitement in his mother, so for his peace of mind Madzar did not risk invoking it. She was more in love with Bellardi than he was, if that was possible. She treated him, even when Bellardi was a small child, as if the Lord Jesus had come down to them or had sent the little boy with his schoolbag in his stead.

Ultimately, the Bellardi-Montenuovo clan has always been and will forever remain the first family of Mohács.

Madzar knew this was the right opportunity; he could make it easier on himself because he wouldn’t have to wait alone for Bellardi, but he said nothing. Yet the very next day silent preparations began for receiving the guest; his mother was baking, I’ll bake some cheese bundles ahead of time, she said.

Which made her kitchen bloom with the sweet smell of vanilla.

Maybe you should bake some pork-crackling cones, Madzar said incautiously, for with the crackling cones, which Bellardi could never get at home, he revealed everything to his mother.

He blushed so hard he had to turn away.

I already did, son, don’t worry, just the way you like them, she added tactfully, as if she had no suspicions regarding the possible guest, I cut the pork crackling very fine before mixing it in. But it’s not my own anymore, that’s the problem. I had to have crackling delivered from Lehmann’s this morning. At least he has it fresh twice a week.

She cleaned the spacious veranda, the large living room, and the bedroom, where they might have to put the overnight guest. Unless he plans to spend the night elsewhere. Very few tradesmen’s families in Mohács could boast of such expensive bedroom furniture. These pieces had taken up an entire classroom of the local school when they were displayed as part of the great industrial exhibition, which His Excellency the regent came to see as did the royal princes, together with Magda Purgly, not to mention Archduke Frederick,
*
the prince of Montenuovo, and the Odescalchis. The furniture, made of pure Finnish poplar, was the masterwork of Tóni Windheim Jr., made after he had returned to his father’s plant from his wanderings. They had the wood brought from Finland; Sanyi Csikalek prepared the upholstery for it. The old Windheim manufactured an entire set; we bought ours from the first batch. He also sold a lot in Vienna, he shipped them there himself. Along with old Csikalek, they received a gold medal for it. But they got their medals separately, each for his own work. That’s when your father also received his, in 1926, when the grand exhibition was held on the four-hundredth anniversary, but you do remember that. Old Windheim was still with us then. They were standing like this, I’m telling you, your godmother to my right, and in front of her the whole big Windheim family, including the relatives from Pécs. Don’t forget, they are also our relatives, all of them. I’m saying it just like that, just as we said back then, not only the Catholics, we took an oath and everyone cried, everyone who came to Széchenyi Square that day. No stranger will ever set foot on our homeland as long as one Hungarian is alive. How could we forget the Serb rule. You can’t know about this, what are you laughing at. But Archbishop Zichy could not say this then because the Serbs were standing there crying. My, the things those people did, son. They broke down the door of our house in the dead of night. To this day I cry, son, when I think of that devastation. It was beautiful; you can laugh all you want. We’d swear there would be no discord, no disagreement. But the poor man could not get the gold medal himself, our young Tóni did, though it rightfully belonged to the old man.

Mother knows right well what I’m laughing at.

Hungary’s always been lost because of discords. There’s nothing to laugh about there.

Haven’t you been lost yourself, haven’t you said the same thing yourself plenty of times. Then why are you laughing at others. Just because you’ve seen the world, you don’t have to put your nose in the air.

The cover on the double bed, piled high with eiderdowns and pillows, was made of smooth, glossy yellow cotton twill, as was the upholstery on the two chairs, the round pouf in front of the dressing table, and the armchair, all of which were overlain with heavily starched handmade lace. Whenever Mrs. Madzar reminisced about the oath, Madzar had to smile because his mother truly did not consider herself Hungarian. We are German, she would say proudly, raising her white-kerchiefed head high. She said it as if she were removing her son from among the Hungarians.

Luckily, my son, she always said, with your nature you take after me more than after your father.

If only you didn’t urinate on the roses the way he did.

She moved out into the summer kitchen, sleeping on the cot, so that the precious bedroom would remain untouched until the guest’s arrival. A commodious white porcelain chamber pot was also part of the furnishing. They had never used it, because inside and out it was painted full of pretty little blue forget-me-nots. Still, during every spring and fall cleaning, Mrs. Madzar scrubbed it spick-and-span. Since she has been alone, she uses a blue, zinc-coated bucket at night so on cold nights she needn’t leave the bedroom and go outside. She was afraid, scared of every shadow. But she did not want more dogs in her life, because she’s had to beat enough of them to death. Earlier, they kept the bucket, if not this one, out on the veranda. It was not nice to let the man hear the woman’s dribbling. But even in the coldest winter nights her husband thought nothing of standing on the steps of the veranda and pissing from there.

I’ve never regretted marrying a Hungarian, but this I could never forgive the two of you.

That you have to piss on my roses, making the whole yard stink.

I can’t understand how Hungarians don’t smell their own stench.

Since they talked about a possible guest, she had been airing out everything, mercilessly chasing the tiniest flies and numerous mosquitoes. Every evening, she collected the day’s eggs in separate baskets. Her zeal irritated Madzar, her humbleness and servility because of the supposedly upper-class guest.

Why must you prepare so much, Mother. But he restrained himself, did not say anything. They talked very little anyway. Unless his mother was doing one of her well-practiced monologues, silence reigned in the house and above the yard. At most, the power saw screeched on the wood. The feeling itself was unjust toward his mother. Still, he did not show his real feelings. And Mrs. Madzar was very indulgent with her son, that was the reason—not thoughtlessness—she always talked with him about something other than what they should have talked about.

There were so many things that a mother could not talk about with her grown son, anyway.

She did everything not to hurt her son.

Because what she feared most was that this, her last remaining son, was about to leave her for good.

He was in such a hurry he did not even bring any luggage and he walked around in his father’s clothes.

Very carefully, she said to him, son, people will laugh at you in your father’s clothes.

Actually, her son confused her in these clothes.

You’re paying for your expensive hotel room in Pest instead of bringing your fine clothes here.

I’d keep them in fine order here.

Come on, Mother, who would laugh at me, I don’t know a soul in the whole city.

The city knows you’ve come home, son. At least when you leave the house you should wear your own clothes. Can’t you see how much you take after your father. He also saved money on things he shouldn’t have.

Oh, Mother, stop chewing my ears off.

As if you were only a tradesman, that’s what you look like in your father’s clothes.

Well, Mother, what should I look like.

You’re working here and paying for your expensive hotel in Pest. Gottlieb’s older son has two cars in America. I’m afraid your studies may have been in vain. The way you’re going, you’ll never have anything.

What have I got to do with Gottlieb’s older son, Mother.

He uses one to deliver merchandise. In the other he takes his family on outings.

How many times have I asked you not to interfere with my life.

But try as he might, no matter how much he felt he was behaving very properly, exercising the correct measure of self-discipline, with his mother he was unable to use a different tone.

Please be quiet.

Don’t you tell me to be quiet.

I know what I’m doing.

In a few days, he could see how thoroughgoing her secret preparations had been. And he also failed to banish Mrs. Szemz
ő
from his mind, because whenever he finished his daily work—before twilight, for he did not feel like working by lamplight on this sensitive wood with its delicate color and proportions so easily distorted by electric light—then suddenly he felt very lonely. There was nothing to be done about it, and he was disturbed by the thought that he had no way of knowing what he was doing.

He sensed, like a heavy premonition, how utterly alone he would be in America if he ever got there.

On top of it all, the day was approaching when he would have to interrupt his work here and go back to Budapest for the work on Dobsinai Road. And he worried that the apartment would not turn out as he had hoped. That it wouldn’t satisfy his demands for architectural purity. Don’t let the telegram come just yet. If Bellardi arrives at night, he’ll be getting off at Mohács on his way from Vienna. Or else he might come five days later on the ship arriving from Belgrade at four in the afternoon.

But he did not come at either time, and Madzar again had to wait three more days, and he could be glad that no telegram came either. In his great expectation, he went so far as to leave his work quietly at the relevant hour and take a leisurely stroll down to the boat station. He went as is, in his father’s work clothes, to see with his own eyes whether Bellardi would disembark or not.

But he did not see him on the bridge.

He could have sent him a message, because he saw the Mayer boy.

But, outwitting himself, he had to pretend that only by coincidence was he observing from the willow trees along the shore the
Carolina
’s spectacular and noisy arrival and then its painful departure. When the
Carolina
was receding from Mohács, with its streaming, clattering wheels turning against the current, the wailing of its horn lingered for a long time. At such times, Madzar usually stopped either behind the customhouse or at the silk factory’s stone wall, but from there he did not see Bellardi either when the ship came or when it left.