Parallel Stories: A Novel (195 page)

Those who stayed gathered strength to bear up decently, that’s what they told themselves, decently, though decency had nothing to do with it.

First they turned on the tape recorder; the poet stayed at the piano, his hands in his lap, but for a long time Elvis failed to make anyone move.

As if no one could return to the former lightheartedness in front of the others. There was also a feeling of shame that the earlier lightheartedness had been nothing but an illusion of guilelessness.

Not much time went by.

Kristóf was struggling with his own little misery; everything would be miserable, whether he stayed or left. Then suddenly he heard Klára screaming from somewhere. It couldn’t be anything else. All he had to do was reach the wide-open door. Could he be mistaken. Many people were there, standing or sitting on the floor, and he was not alone with his fear, for the distressed screams made others move too, or at least get up.

In the middle of the next room the crowd instantly thinned out.

Klára was there by herself; some people fled while others wanted to rush to help her or stood paralyzed; Kristóf did not immediately manage to break through the human ring made helpless by this double tension.

They all saw what was happening, a single look sufficed. But the improbability of the occurrence frightened some of them away and paralyzed others. It was not fear, indifference, or curiosity that worked so powerfully but modesty. Perhaps they shouldn’t see what they were seeing.

Empathy and willingness to help need time to overcome modesty.

Earlier, Klára had been among those who, defying the communal helplessness, had begun to dance. She was a rebel, after all. That’s how we’ll respond, we’ll dance. Finally she took her faith into her own hands. Now let’s dance and leave no stone standing.

Yes, Almighty, let’s see what the two of us can do together.

She was standing in the middle of the room as if frozen while waiting for a partner before taking her next dance step.

With her legs apart in the middle of the parquet floor inside the human ring and no longer screaming. As if she were listening intensely to something, to an inner voice. Her lips had parted and remained parted, her huge eyes opened wide onto the silent universe. Not only was blood dripping down her stockinged thighs—she must have started screaming when she noticed it—but in the next two pulsing thrusts, in front of everyone, blood clots came pouring out of her. Perhaps they could hear the clots plashing down, perhaps the sound could have been heard, but no one who heard it wanted to hear it.

Elvis continued to wail his melody to himself and then someone unplugged him.

Someone handed a kind of black wrap to Simon, who was moaning, moaning to keep himself from howling. He had elbowed his way to her from another room. What somebody handed to him was one of those big, soft, warm knitted shawls that peasant women put on their shoulders when going to church on cold Sunday mornings.

Still moaning, he quickly bundled her in it, covered her mute body, spoke to her, and held her so others could not see her face, she should not be defenseless, telling her she would be all right, he was already taking her, but how should he take her, he asked himself out loud.

As someone who usually does not deal in blood or loss of blood.

I’m a physician, someone said.

We’ll call an ambulance, shouted someone else.

Hold on, my sweet, if you can, hold on to my neck, my darling, and there won’t be any trouble, I will lift you up, I’ll carry you, where is your bag, where is the car key.

By then Kristóf was standing there too.

Go find her coat. Don’t call an ambulance, he shouted.

Several people followed them to help, the physician among them, he was the one who opened the door, and people in the stairway supported Simon’s arms, following him with physical contact, women and men ready to cushion his fall should he trip with his burden. But there was no need for help because he was taking her quickly and securely, as if carrying no weight at all.

In his nervousness Kristóf could not find it. Because he forgot he was looking not for a regular coat but a mink coat, he should be looking for the mink. And that was really his only task. Yet he could not find it, though he remembered where to look. Klára might catch cold because of his fecklessness. He shoved all the coats off the racks, but could not find the mink coat. Not on a hanger, not anywhere. Of course he found his own coat with no trouble, it just came to his hand, and he shoved it aside. Rummaging among the coats on the platform, he called to one of the vampire girls; she probably wasn’t from Vienna and she was now fearfully following his every movement; he told her what to look for. A long mink coat, that’s what she should look for.

While they were throwing coats about and people watched them in alarm, there passed a small segment of his life in which he was not certain he was a person. Or maybe he was a person who imagined himself in a situation like this, and then he would have to find a truly existing object in the realm of imagination.

The girl who loved to laugh was helping him, she too kept throwing coats in all directions, but they didn’t have much time.

As if he had lost his mind, he kept shouting to everyone, asking where else were there coats in the apartment and that everyone should look for it.

Let me get by.

The frightened and somewhat reduced crowd let him by, naturally, and tried to help, but he must have changed his mind because then he ran after Simon and Klára. Klára had been put in the backseat, bundled in the large shawl; her hair shone in the darkness.

Kristóf fell against the car, which was surrounded by people, and told Simon, who had been waiting for him, that he could not find it, couldn’t.

Then we’re leaving, Simon shouted, and you’ll find the coat.

The next day, when startled to wakefulness by his nausea, he realized he hadn’t found the coat.

He was still drunk and there was still no mink coat.

Or he’d gone mad and then, luckily, was only imagining this entire shocking idiocy. Even so, he should get dressed to look for Andria Lüttwitz’s mink coat and look for Klára.

Actually, from the first moment of wakefulness he could not shake the thought that Pisti had stolen the coat.

Not because he had no coat, he probably did. And if a man with no coat steals, he wouldn’t steal a woman’s mink coat.

Pisti did this to him, but not because of the money.

He found Ágost’s room empty.

The bed was untouched, left the way Ilona nicely turns it down every night, folding the quilt back.

He knew where to find money.

He had done this on other occasions, did not even call it stealing but rather a satisfying revenge, and he was indeed content with this amount of revenge. He took back what was his due. These two, his aunt and Ágost, had systematically stolen his inheritance. He, on the other hand, had only helped himself to petty amounts until now. Now, however, he had not a penny to his name.

He had to leave.

Logically he should have called them at home; at least he should have tried. But this occurred to him only when he was already on Teréz Boulevard. In the meantime the storm had passed, everything seemed back to normal, and the sun was even out, as though for two days nothing had happened in the city.

Superintendents had already cleared away from the sidewalks the traces of damage caused by the storm, but the streets were still strewn with debris.

He found their telephone number under Klára’s name in the phone book, but no matter how many times he tried, and he spent a long time in the stinking telephone booth, no one answered. So he’d go to every hospital and clinic. He went first to the gynecological clinic on Üll
ő
i Road, but no patient by that name had been brought in during the night. They looked carefully in their register, very carefully. They suggested he try the clinic on Baross Street. She was not there either. They sent him from there to Bakáts Square. This was not close, but he walked, he knew the way. This turned out to be an error: it was not a hospital but strictly an obstetrics clinic, and even in emergencies they were reluctant to deal with abortions.

It was late afternoon by the time he arrived at this cheerful, pleasantly fragrant place.

Please believe it.

He does, but has no idea what to do next.

The female porter wanted to help him because theoretically it was very simple. There was no need for him to traipse around half the city.

She asked if he was a relative.

He said no.

Then she couldn’t help.

He asked her to, please.

The woman gave him a long and sympathetic look. She was interrupted by some inquiries, she had to make a phone call, she had to go out to the entrance to arrange something; these interruptions gave her a chance to think about the matter. When she returned and found him still waiting, without another word she called the central hospital bed registry. They told her that the previous night no patient by that name had been brought to any of the city’s hospitals or clinics.

But that’s not possible.

Calm down. Accept it.

He stayed for a while longer because he could not compose himself well enough to leave.

And then he asked this woman where, despite everything, he might keep looking.

Very cautiously, the woman asked him to tell her what had happened, was it a spontaneous abortion.

Yes, a spontaneous abortion.

And where was she taken from.

He told her, and while he spoke he saw on her face that this woman knew everything about them, she’s simply reading all of it off him, and that’s how people read other people, off each other’s face.

Was she taken in an ambulance.

No.

Then it’s harder, because she can’t ask the ambulance services, but she took a frayed notebook out of her desk drawer. She named all the places where he might still look. Kristóf went to the Rókus Hospital, and when he did not find her there either, he walked the streets aimlessly for a while, among people. He was walking into another person’s life; whether or not he finds her, from now on this will be his life. This new life of his has nothing to do with any of his former lives, with his birth or with his family or with anything. They had all become like strange objects. Because he would not venture outside his new life, not even with a single thought. Which was neither good nor bad, but after so much walking and absorbing so much of the streetscape, his legs began to grow tired.

He called again from a phone booth stinking of male urine, the phone rang, he held on for a long time, nobody answered.

He did not find her in the hospital on Szövetség Street either, and by now it was evening. From there, he should have gone to the hospital on Sándor Péterfy Street; he stood on Rákóczi Road, staring longingly at a slow-moving illuminated streetcar, thinking he could take it to the hospital. He could not give up the search yet he did not continue. He didn’t want to ruin his last chance of the evening by not finding her on Péterfy Street.

When he returned to the apartment on Teréz Boulevard, at first he thought that for some reason everyone had left the place and every object was frozen in place along with his family’s life.

He went to look for something to eat and found his entire family sitting silently around the large dining table under the baroque chandelier. They all looked at him as if they had just been talking about him. Their eyes were filled with reproach. They must have finished eating earlier, and it seemed unusual that Ilona had not cleared the table. Nínó sat at the head of the table, under the 1848 battle scene, Ágost on her right, with Gyöngyvér facing him. Beautiful Irén was also there with her grown daughters, Lilla and Viola, and at her side the little Bellardi boy, the most favored pupil; facing him glowed Irén’s utterly bald husband, and next to him were the relatives from Transylvania, Ildikó and Mária Lehr.

Even if Ilona had not been standing by the door, her eyes red and tear-stained, he would have known what had happened.

But Kristóf said nothing, not even hello, took his place at the empty chair at the far end of the table, opposite Nínó; he looked at each of them separately, these faces that, yes, were familiar from somewhere, poured himself some water and drank it.

When he put his empty glass back on the table, Nínó spoke.

I am not certain this interests you, Kristóf, she said sternly and solemnly, but at twenty minutes after three o’clock this afternoon your uncle István died in my arms.

Kristóf could not help thinking that Nínó should have left her arms out of it, along with the sentimental hogwash.

But she could leave out nothing, her lips trembled, she sobbed with pain because the pain was real, which immediately made Gyöngyvér cry too. Just then the phone rang in the living room—luckily, because Nínó’s stern solemnity affected him quite strongly, the sentimental hogwash with which she doused her listeners. It was possible that Nínó’s ridiculous behavior would have a stronger influence on him than the death of his uncle. But the ringing telephone was too distant a sound in the apartment for anyone to answer at this tense moment. While Nínó is rendering her account of the great man’s death and perhaps announcing Kristóf’s disinheritance.

They were all waiting for this great event.

You have probably only come for supper, Nínó continued at the head of the table, but we are mourning, if this doesn’t bother you while you sup.

The event was too recent for anyone to be wearing black yet.

Yes, Kristóf replied, and began spooning the soup put before him.

He was truly hungry.

In grave silence they watched him.

He asked Ilona for seconds.

Accompanied by their reproof, he ate a second portion of soup quickly.

Nínó had not been mistaken, after all, her insight into human nature stood on a firm basis.

It was a quite superb cream of mushroom soup, and while spooning it, Kristóf glanced at the little Bellardi boy, this most favored pupil, who in return was watching him rather slyly.