Parallel Stories: A Novel (193 page)

But what does that have to do with the communist movement.

Lots, he’d bet his life on it.

That much, eh.

Anybody refusing to leave willingly will be wiped out completely, he said, and took a long swig from the bottle in his hand. And Ágost can say anything he likes, but Hungarians will always be in conflict with the French. Even in the communist movement.

Maybe, but the French won’t even notice.

People were smiling at Simon’s claims, but he continued with his explanations, making himself out as quite invulnerable; he declared that everyone else was mistaken and he was the only one who was predicting events correctly. The people who’d thought they were right tried to rescue what could be rescued, but now there was no way back. Mendès-France was mistaken, Pascal Pia and de Gaulle too;
*
I’ll tell you how it is, he shouted.

The great mistake of the French is embedded in their religion, Catholicism, that’s how simple it is in history. They wanted to save those filthy little Arabs for the civilized world, you know. Only the generals thought about it clearly,
†
with iron and blood, how to preserve everything for at least another fifty years.

And he could also have told them they didn’t have that much time.

Life will be more awful for those who want to stay than it’s been for the stubborn British in India.

One doesn’t have to be a prophet to know that the French, with their incredible diplomatic skills, will declare their loss. It’s a matter of days, mark my word. He’s willing to bet that Louis Joxe
‡
will make the announcement.

That’s how this whole bloody affair will end, but the real show will only start then.

And while Simon was holding forth in his loud and threatening way, flourishing his wine bottle, in front of him stood Ágost, Kristóf’s melancholic cousin, his arms folded comfortably so he could support his chin in one hand, looking very elegant and aesthetic in one of his well-cut tweed jackets and a cashmere turtleneck sweater, a
dandy
, with his straight black hair falling over his forehead and brow.

And Kristóf was there too, standing off to the side with his hatred, awkward and wounded, wearing Ágost’s hand-me-downs. Everything he had on had once belonged to Ágost, from the blue underpants to the blue socks, all in perfect condition, even the socks, because his cousin would never wear anything frayed or mended. And he liked blue in all its hues, so Kristóf had a chance to hate all things blue, even though he actually preferred blue to gray or black, to say nothing of brown.

You don’t have to be an oracle to see that now it’s the people’s turn, all oppressed peoples, you just watch, now they’ll be the ones to conquer the colonialists. That’s what the next fifty years will be all about. They’ll take everything back; he’s willing to bet his life on it. Sooner or later the war against the colonial powers and the communist movement will make contact, blend into each other, or just link up geographically, and then God have mercy on everyone because nothing will stand in the way of a world revolution.

The freckled boy stopped gesticulating; he gaped, and let go of his wife.

Everyone seemed deeply and seriously shocked, and they were mute about this drunken world revolution. What could anyone possibly say about such a hope. Kristóf watched them with disgust, just as Ágost kept looking at Simon with a certain revulsion, which was why he hadn’t noticed his cousin. Suddenly Kristóf wanted to turn away, maybe even leave the place. Because no matter how much he couldn’t abide Ágost, he had to admit that the quality of their attention when listening to a third person was very similar.

And if he stayed, he would come to loathe Ágost even more for that, or himself.

Just then Klára motioned to him with her hand raised before her lips.

The freckled boy spoke first; dreamily elongating his words, he said he was shocked.

Simon said that was exactly what he would have expected.

Klára moved a single finger.

But not the way you think, said the blond boy, whose eyelashes were also blond.

Klára’s one finger gesturing at him sufficed to make him endure all this. So that he could sidle away now, so that he wouldn’t have to see them or listen to Simon.

It’s been a long time since I’ve heard so much Stalinist baloney.

I’m not going to argue with you, you’re a born Nazi.

Kristóf had no choice; he had to accept that the two of them were not alone and would not be.

The chandeliers had been left behind in these big, vacated rooms, one opening into the other, their ceilings not too high—his great-grandfather would have liked them—but most of the bulbs had either burned out or been removed from the sockets. Kristóf very soberly decided to get down to some serious drinking, even though he had had plenty of booze already. He had to step across bodies sitting or lolling on the bare parquet floor, leaning on or entangled in one another in the most peculiar positions. If he could have had his way, he would have cut them all down, to the last one, with a single saber, while screaming his head off. He discovered some acquaintances among the crowd, some of his college classmates, but he didn’t feel like chatting with them about exams or anything related to his studies. And just when he seemed to have succeeded in getting away unnoticed or half-unnoticed, three giggling, chattering women in another room pulled him down to the floor with them—to make the pretty boy drink their sour-cherry brandy.

And does he know how cherry brandy is made.

How would such a mama’s boy know something like that.

They learned how to make it from their grandmama in Perth Amboy, though they don’t come from there.

But mama’s boy must be from Perth Amboy.

They bared their teeth, they were vampires about to eat mama’s boy from Perth Amboy.

Unless mama’s boy from Perth Amboy was a bonny lad from Leningrad.

They devour every pretty boy they meet.

And they are especially nice to disheartened pretty boys.

He should know he’s dealing with three vampires from Vienna.

Which he will feel immediately.

Give him the damn brandy already.

But they didn’t, not yet, first they had to touch him and grab his arms and thighs, check his flesh. They cooed in his ears and bit him.

Wait, sweet boy.

Bend your little head nicely into Julika’s lap, and I’ll start sucking your blood right away.

But he must close his eyes.

It was cognac, some lousy Albanian cognac that had nothing to do with Grandmama or sour-cherry brandy. But they tickled him while he tried to swallow some. He put up with the tickling so he could drink; he wriggled about, completely lost in their hands and enjoying it immensely. When he swallowed, they reached between his legs, making him snort and swallow the wrong way, scream with joy, writhe and beg for more.

They were common and sweetly innocent. But by morning he did not even remember how and when he had broken free of them or they of him. But he did remember his friend, that he should find his friend.

Completely drunk, he tried to make his way out among the many bodies and again he noticed Klára among them. And he saw that she noticed him too. Goddamn it, she had to see this too. Her radiant face darkened a little, because he too was such a drunken animal, that’s clear now, but what the hell else could he be without her.

But now he too raised his hand before his lips and with a single finger motioned to her.

Klára pretended not to see him; now why in hell did she do that.

That can’t be; no way, this is not happening.

Just then, from behind, exquisitely fine female hands planted themselves on his eyes so he could not see; not to see anything, let there be darkness at least, let his life end now.

But he was so insane, so drunk, that in his agony he could think of nothing but Klára, only her. No one else. He could not imagine these were not her hands. No one else had such fine small hands.

Who is this woman, shouted the woman in the darkness, I am jealous of her.

Her fine fingers vibrated on his face; long fingernails dug gently into his flesh, into his lips, it hurt, which felt inexpressibly good, she could have tortured him more with those sharp nails.

Of course it wasn’t her but that stupid Gyöngyvér, who must have noticed what he’d been doing.

But this also meant that the old fascist was still alive, otherwise it wouldn’t have occurred to them to come to this place. And that brought them too close to each other, closer than they had ever been before. Not even when in the adjacent room Gyöngyvér was squealing for his benefit. They were both drunk too, but there was another reason: they both felt abandoned in every sense of the word. They grabbed each other’s hands, and dumb Gyöngyvér shouted into his ear, right in front of everyone, who is this woman, because she looks like a high-class lady and she won’t put up with high-class ladies in Kristóf’s company.

He told her he had to go because a friend was waiting for him outside, in the corridor, his best friend.

But he’ll be right back.

He should answer her question first, does he need these women, and he shouldn’t go anywhere, because she wants to tell him right away what’s happened.

She can tell him when he comes back.

No, she wants to tell him right now.

And not only did she not let go of his hands, holding them down between them, but with her groin she pushed against his genitals. With her pubic bone, she clung demandingly to Kristóf’s loins, and while they supported each other like this, they could do nothing else; she breathed her stupid words softly and slowly onto his face.

Luckily she was no longer screeching so loudly that Klára could hear her.

Somehow Kristóf let himself go; against his will he let himself be carried away by the tension that the ideal position of their loins had created for them.

Kristóf won’t believe this, but less than half an hour ago this lousy Ágost proposed marriage to her. That anybody could be so disgraceful. She had been drinking ever since, like a fish, but she wasn’t so drunk that she believed a single word of it.

He could feel on his back that Klára saw him yet he couldn’t get rid of Gyöngyvér. And then everything would be over. His drunken agony increased so much that he wanted to scream. And now he didn’t want to lose Gyöngyvér either. He wasn’t actually listening to what stupid Gyöngyvér was saying. The truth was, he felt an appetite for her loins, that was the honest truth. He had observed her before and felt that when he had, watching mostly her cunt, he was not mistaken. The way she ran all over the apartment in her short slip. Not to mention her squeals from the other room. So that he couldn’t sleep. Why not let her cunt scream a little for him. He wanted it to scream for him, he wanted her breath, and her long fingernails. These truly awful red nails with which she was digging into his clenched fists.

She laughed silently, her head thrust back dramatically.

But she’d rejected the proposal, that was the limit. That somebody should be such a louse. She chased him away, out of my sight, you animal, scram, back into the belly of your mother who spoiled you rotten. She did not say all this to him but she had chased him away. He’d missed the boat, he was too late. This Ágost thinks he can just do anything he feels like doing. For weeks he’d been torturing her. Now she’s completely drunk, but she wants to tell Kristóf quite soberly what she’s not yet told Ágost.

Go ahead then, tell me.

If he can hold his mouth, while he’s so drunk.

Why couldn’t he.

He should swear to it.

No, he won’t swear to it.

As they breathed these words into each other’s mouth along with the odor of alcohol and tobacco, and were simultaneously feeling that everything was in its best possible position even though they hadn’t wanted it but simply found it, Kristóf thought, the hell with Klára, let her go, who cares.

In two days, no more, she’s moving out. This she hasn’t told even that idiot Ágost. Now she should marry him, now, when she can’t even stay in the same room with him. But she will tell him this only at the last minute. Kristóf can’t imagine the things this pig has done to her, this monster. One day, she’ll tell Kristóf all about it. She is moving out. Today she’ll tell him, while they’re here, she’s just waiting for the right moment, when it would hurt him.

Once in his life something should hurt him.

As early as tonight, she will sleep in the maid’s room, together with Ilona.

How could she do that.

Ilona would sleep with her child and Gyöngyvér would sleep where the child usually sleeps, they had already arranged it. She is not a cruel or vengeful person, but Ágost had so debauched her that he now deserves the pain; he should hurt, feel the pain.

But where is she moving to.

She doesn’t know yet.

He was sure she did.

Kristóf did not understand himself, which at this moment meant that he did not understand Creation either; how could this be happening to him.

He would have liked to disappear in his shame, but he could not stop anything. With great zeal and vulgarity they thrust themselves against each other. They made contact on the suitable points of elevation for them to seem most promising to each other, while talking about something else.

Actually, what he really felt was contempt for this stupid broad who, head thrown back, was laughing as vindictively as an infuriated provincial prima donna. The contempt added something to his cheap thrill. He could not wholly deny it to himself.

He was toying with the thought that at the right moment he’d turn around, reject his contempt for her, and make a move for his own sake.

But not yet.

He won’t reject her yet but instead will continue to enjoy her a little longer.

He turned around, though, to see whether Klára could actually see him.

Kristóf shouldn’t be so cruel to her, should stop talking so harshly. And now he should tell her who the dame was he’d fallen for so hard.

Hearing this, Kristóf realized he must have convinced only himself that he had felt Klára’s eyes on his back.