“Doesn’t your husband help you?”
“He hasn’t got the time. On Saturday afternoons he looks after the little one while I do the shopping in town. We can’t find everything we need in the village.”
I interrupt:
“There isn’t even a hairdresser. It’s a shame you’ve had your hair done. This hairstyle doesn’t suit you.”
She gets angry:
“That’s none of your business.”
“You’re right. Excuse me. Continue.”
“Continue what?”
“Your husband looks after the child on Saturday afternoon . . .”
“Looks after is overstating it. He takes her into his study and he works next to her. If she cries too much, he gives her some tea to drink that I have made up earlier. That’s it. He doesn’t change her, he doesn’t rock her, he lets her cry. He reckons it’s good for babies.”
Line lowers her head, she has got tears in her eyes. After a silence, I say:
“That must be very difficult for you.”
She shakes her head:
“It won’t be forever. We go home at the beginning of the summer.”
“No!”
I couldn’t stop myself crying out. Line, taken by surprise, says:
“What do you mean, no?”
“Excuse me. Of course you will go back. But I’ll be very sad to see you go.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story. You resemble a little girl I left behind fifteen years ago.”
Line smiles:
“I understand. I used to be in love with a boy of my age. One day, he disappeared. He went off to the city with his mother. We never saw them again.”
“Neither the boy nor the mother?”
“No, neither of them. Anyway, the mother was a woman of ill repute. I remember the day they left very well, because my father was attacked on the way home that evening. A vagabond stabbed him near the cemetery and took his wallet. My father was able to walk as far as home, my mother tended to his wound. She saved my father.”
“You never saw Tobias again?”
Line looks me in the eyes:
“I didn’t tell you he was called Tobias.”
We continue to stare at each other. I am the first to speak:
“You see, Line, I recognized you straight away. The first day you got on the bus.”
Line turns even paler than normal, she whispers:
“Tobias, is it you? Why did you change your name?”
“Because I changed my life. And I thought my name was stupid.”
The next morning, Line gets on the bus. She sits next to me, at the back. We are almost alone, there are only a few passengers. No one looks at us, no one takes any interest in us.
Line says:
“I talked to my husband about you. To Koloman. He is pleased I am not on my own at the factory. I lied to him a bit. I didn’t tell him about your mother. I said you were a distant cousin from the capital and that you were a war orphan. He would like to meet you, he wants me to invite you to our house.”
I say:
“No, not straight away. We need to wait for a while.”
“Wait for what?”
“Wait until we have got to know each other again, the two of us.”
At lunchtime, we eat together. Every lunchtime. In the morning we travel together. Every morning. In the evening too.
I only suffer at the weekends, because we don’t work. I ask Line if I can accompany her when she goes shopping on Saturdays. I wait for her in the main square. I follow her around the shops. I carry her parcels. Afterwards, we have a coffee in the refugees’ bar. Then Line catches the bus and goes back to her village, to her husband, to her child. I don’t follow her anymore.
I’ve had enough of seeing her go to bed with her husband every night.
That just leaves Sunday to fill. I tell Line that I will wait for her every Sunday at three o’clock on the little wooden bridge that leads to the forest. If she can get out to take her child for a walk, I will be there.
I wait every Sunday, and every Sunday she turns up.
We go for a walk with her little girl. Sometimes, as it is winter, Line pulls the little one on a sledge. I pull the sledge to the top of a slope, Line and Violette ride down together on the sledge and I descend on foot to meet them at the bottom.
So not a day goes by when I don’t see Line. I can’t do without her.
My days at the factory become days of joy, waking up in the morning is a pleasure, the bus a journey around the world, the main square the center of the universe.
Line doesn’t know that I tried to kill her father, she doesn’t know that my father is the same as hers. So I can ask her to marry me. Here, no one knows we are brother and sister, Line doesn’t know herself, there is nothing standing in the way.
We won’t have any children, we won’t need them. Line already has one, and I hate children. Anyway, Koloman could easily take the child with him when he goes back home. Then the child will have grandparents, a country, everything she needs.
I only want to keep Line here with me. At home. My flat is clean.
I clear out the second bedroom where I was intending to have my study and I install a child’s bedroom in case Line suddenly decides to come and live with me.
After our midday meal, Line and I sometimes play chess. I always win. After the fifth time I win, Line says:
“It’s good that you’re the best at something.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She is angry, she says:
“At school we were at the same level. Then we went our separate ways. I became a language teacher and you remained a mere worker.”
I say:
“I write. I keep a journal and I am writing a book.”
“Poor Sandor, you don’t even know what a book is. Which language do you write in?”
“In the language of here. You wouldn’t be able to read what I write.”
She says:
“It is difficult enough writing in your native language. So, in another language?”
I say:
“I try, that’s all. I don’t care whether it works or not.”
“Really? You don’t care that you might be a worker for the rest of your life?”
“With you, no, I don’t care. Without you, I’m indifferent to everything.”
“You frighten me, Tobias.”
“You frighten me too, Line.”
Every now and again, I see Yolande on Saturday night. I got fed up with watching Line and her husband in the same bed, now I am more than fed up with the bar.
Yolande sings as she cooks, she brings me a whiskey with ice, I read the paper. Then we eat facing each other, in silence. We haven’t got much to say to each other. After the meal, if I can, we make love. I can manage it less and less. I think only of getting home as quickly as possible to start writing.
I no longer write my strange stories in the language of here, I write poems in my native language. These poems are written for Line, of course. But I don’t dare show them to her. I’m not very confident about my spelling and I can imagine Line making fun of me. As for their content, it is still too early for her to know about it. She would be capable of forbidding me to sit at her table in the cafeteria and canceling our Sunday walks.
One Saturday in December, Yolande says to me:
“At Christmas, I’m going to visit my parents. You could come and share our Christmas dinner with us. They’ve been wanting to meet you for ages.”
“Possibly. I might come.”
But on Monday morning, Line tells me her husband suggested they should invite me around on Christmas evening.
“Bring your girlfriend.”
I shake my head:
“If I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t be spending my Saturdays and Sunday afternoons with you. I will bring a friend.”
I tell Yolande that Jean and I have been invited by some fellow countrymen. Yes, I take Jean with me, just to
see the look on the face of the great physicist as he shares his festive fare with my friend the scruffy peasant!
I was mistaken.
Koloman receives us with open arms. He immediately puts Jean at his ease by sitting him down in the kitchen and offering him a beer.
I have seen this house so often from the outside that I am very happy at last to see the flat close up. One room on the side of the street, one room on the side of the garden and forest. Between the two, a kitchen. No bathroom. No central heating either, the rooms are heated by coal fires and the wood stove.
I think that Line would be much better off at my place than here.
She is busy preparing the table in the front room where Koloman usually works. He has cleared the table and stacked his books away.
The tree is decorated, the presents are arranged underneath. Next to the tree, the little girl is playing in her pen.
Koloman lights the candles and the little girl receives her presents. Of course, she isn’t interested, she is only six months old. I have brought her a furry cat and Jean a wooden top he made himself.
Line feeds the baby with a bottle:
“We’ll eat when the baby goes to sleep. It will be quieter.”
Koloman opens a bottle of white wine, pours and raises his glass:
“Merry Christmas, everyone!”
I think that I have never had a Christmas tree. Perhaps Jean is thinking the same thing.
Line puts the child to bed in the back room, then we eat. Duck with rice and vegetables. It is very good.
After the meal, we give each other our gifts. Jean gets a knife with several blades, a corkscrew and a tin-opener. He is very pleased. I get a quill pen, and I’m not sure what Line means by it. I don’t take kindly to it, I treat it as a bad joke.
Koloman turns to me:
“Carole told me you write.”
I look at Line, my face feels warm, I must be all red. I say stupidly:
“Yes, but only with a pencil.”
To change the subject, I quickly give Line the present which Jean and I brought together, a set of liqueur glasses and a carafe. Naturally, I paid for it.
Line starts to clear the table. I help her. We heat some water, Line washes up, I dry. As we work we hear peals of laughter from the room. Jean and Koloman are telling each other jokes.
I go into the room:
“Jean, we have to leave. The last bus is in ten minutes.”
In front of Koloman, I kiss Line on the cheek:
“Thank you, cousin, for a lovely evening.”
Jean kisses Line’s hand:
“Thank you, thank you. Bye, Koloman.”
Koloman says:
“See you soon. I really enjoyed it.”
Between Christmas and New Year we have a week’s holiday from the factory. No more traveling together, no more eating lunch together. Before the holiday, I had told Line:
“I’ll be there, on the bridge, every day, at three o’clock.”
When it is not too cold, I go on the bike. When it snows, I take the bus. I wait on the bridge for a few hours, then I go home and write some poems.
Unfortunately, Koloman must be on holiday too, for he accompanies Line on her walks with the baby. So I hide behind a tree and, once they are out of sight, I leave. I’m sure Line recognizes my bike.
Not once during the whole holiday did Line come. Not once was I able to talk to her.
Had Koloman noticed something during the Christmas meal?
I now prefer work days to days off. I get very bored. I call around at Yolande’s but there is no reply, she is still with her parents. They don’t live far away, but I don’t know their address.
The refugees’ bar is closed.
One evening, I call around at Paul’s. It is Kati who opens the door.
“Good evening, Sandor. What do you want?”
“Nothing in particular. Just to talk a bit with you and Paul.”
“Paul isn’t here. He’s gone. Disappeared. Perhaps he’s gone back home, I don’t know. A few months after Vera died, I found a letter on the kitchen table. He said that he had loved Vera, that he was in love with Vera, and that he would always regret having gone on holiday with me. He said that Vera loved him too, and that’s why she killed herself when we went off on a holiday together and left her on her own.”
I could only mumble:
“I’m so sorry. How will you get by without Paul?”
“Very well. I’m still working at the hospital and I am living with a man from here who has no chance of falling in love with my little sister, since she is dead.”
Kati slams the door. I stand on the doorstep for several minutes. At the time, I had thought that Vera was in love with me. I was wrong. She was in love with her brother-in-law, Paul, her sister’s husband. On the other hand, I feel relieved: Vera didn’t expect anything from me.
On 31 December, I go to the refugee center. I take several pounds of food with me. I go into a big room. People of all colors are busy decorating the room and laying the table. Paper napkins, plastic cups, and cutlery. Pine branches everywhere.
As soon as I walk in there is a commotion, everyone surrounds me, shouting:
“Jean! Jean! It’s your friend!”
Jean leads me to the place of honor, next to the kitchen.
“It’s a real joy to see you here, Sandor!”
So I join in a huge party celebrated by people from countries both known and unknown. Music, dancing, singing. The refugees have permission to celebrate until five o’clock in the morning.
At eleven o’clock, I slip away. I take my bike, I go to the first village. I sit down at the edge of the forest. All the windows in Line’s house are dark.
Soon, the church clock strikes twelve. It is midnight. A new year begins. I am sitting in the frozen grass, my head falls on to my arms, I cry.
Finally, the holidays are over. Line is mine again, for almost the whole day. Even when we work, there is only one floor between us and I can go and see her whenever I like.
The first morning, on the bus, Line says:
“I’m sorry, Sandor, I couldn’t get out of the house on my own. Koloman worked all day and as soon as I was getting ready to go out with Violette, he would announce that a bit of fresh air would do him some good too.”
“Yes, Line, I saw you. It doesn’t matter. Luckily it’s all over now. Everything is as it was before.”
Line says such wonderful things:
“I missed you. I was very bored at home. Koloman virtually never said a word to me. He buried himself in his books. Even when we went for a walk, he hardly spoke. So I thought about you. And I felt sad when I saw your bike. What did you do during the holiday?”
“I waited for you.”
Line lowers her eyes, she blushes.
During lunch, she says:
“I’ve never asked you where you left your mother. You went away together, didn’t you?”
“No, I left before her. I don’t know what has become of her.”
“She was seen in the city, in the street. I’m sorry, Tobias, but I think that your mother carried on the same sort of life as she did in the village.”
“She had no choice. But that’s a part of my life I prefer to forget, Line. Here, no one knows where I come from, what my background is.”
“Poor Tobias. Forgive me. You don’t even know who your father is.”
“You’re wrong, Line, I know very well. But it’s a secret.”
“Even from me?”
“Yes, even from you.”
“Because I know him, perhaps?”
“Yes, because you know him, perhaps.”
Line shrugs he shoulders:
“You know, I couldn’t give a damn if your father is one of those peasants. I can’t even remember their names.”
“Nor me, Line, I can’t remember their names.”
Line and I can now start to talk about the past during our walks or when we are having lunch. Line tells me:
/> “The year you went away, we finished compulsory education. In the autumn, I went to the city, to stay with one of my mother’s sisters. My older brother was already in the city, on a free place at boarding school. We saw each other every Sunday at our aunt’s. And my parents often visited. They brought some food from the village, because in town there were shortages of everything after the war. Two years later, my younger brother also got a free place, at the same boarding school where my father intended to send you. Later, all three of us went to the Capital to complete our studies at the university. My older brother became a lawyer and the other one became a doctor. You could have become someone too, if you had listened to my father. But you chose to run away and become a nobody. A factory worker. Why?”
I reply:
“Because by becoming a nobody you can become a writer. Besides, that’s just how things worked out.”
“Can you honestly say that, Sandor? That you have to be a nobody to be a writer?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“I think to be a writer you have to be very cultured. Then you need to have read a lot and written a lot. You don’t become a writer overnight.”
I say:
“I’m not very cultured, but I have read a lot and written a lot. To become a writer you only have to write. Of course, sometimes you might not have anything to say. And then sometimes, even when you do have something to say, you don’t know how to say it.”
“And in the end, what’s left of what you write?”
“In the end, nothing, or next to nothing. A one- or two-page piece with my name written at the bottom. Rarely, for I burn almost everything I write. I don’t write well enough yet. Later, I will write a book, I won’t burn it and I will sign it Tobias Horvath. Everyone will think it is a pseudonym. In fact, it is my real name, and you are the only one who knows, Line, aren’t you?”
She says:
“I, too, want to write. When I go back home and Violette is at school, I will write.”
“What will you write?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the story of a great and impossible love.”
“Why should this love be impossible?”
Line laughs:
“I don’t know. I haven’t started yet.”
Yesterday Page 5
