The schoolteacher withdrew to a table with a small glass of white wine and wet his muzzle in that sourish liquid of village dances that infuses the stench of lust pantingly relieved with hot whispers and abandoned cries in fragrant orchards behind taverns or, when there isn’t enough tail to go around, that simply goes the way of all liquids, flowing into the stinking tarred troughs of caustic smelling tavern toilets and from there to cesspools and from there into the earth which purifies the liquid and transforms it back into the crystal flow of the spring in the valley. He raised his heavy, mean, bloodshot eyes to the dance floor and followed me with the resentful stare of an outsider as I danced with the Hungarian girl; he knew I was young and single and an intellectual from Prague, one who had mastered that vague miscellany of information that evokes the impression of erudition he too was striving to evoke, and so at night, in private, he would rail contemptuously against yokels who get together at recreation centers, dumb-ass shopgirls, mechanics who barely know how to sign their names, and it never occurred to him that he himself was capable of little more than signing his own name in the heavy-handed calligraphy that was a throwback to the days of the Austrian Empire, that he didn’t know much more than the four rudimentary operations of arithmetic, the solution of a quadratic equation and a brief review of Czech history (memorized a long time ago by rote in the so-called heroical-patriotic form of idealistic bourgeois stories about heroes and national spirit, and now confused with a Marxism he had failed to grasp), how to tell the male blossom from the female on a few plants and how to classify the common fauna of this planet into mammals, birds, and invertebrates, but he didn’t know a blessed thing about Dollo’s Law of Irreversibility or the amazing evolution of turtles’ shells, or the semi-legendary archaeopteryx; he wouldn’t believe you if you told him that the brontosaurus had two nerve centers in its spine and hence two brains, and if he did happen to half believe you he’d transform it into a crude joke. And yet he could stand in front of runny-nosed children at their schooldesks, and with an expression of extreme erudition lecture them how, according to an English scholar named Darwin, man is descended from the monkey, and over the years he had grown used to feeling intellectually superior to the six- to eleven-year-old pupils around him, to the weary farmers who dropped in to the tavern on Saturdays for a drink, and village blacksmiths whose hands, accustomed to the weight of iron sledgehammers, were unable to sign their names in the box marked “parental signature” in their children’s weekly reports without smearing the page with axle grease and without the uneven signature creeping beyond the narrow printed rectangle; he never considered that it is just as hard, if not harder, and just as worthy, if not worthier, and probably far more beautiful to be able to control the delicate mechanism of a precision lathe, to turn out silvery shining bolts and nuts, to observe the milky flow of oils and other fluids that flush and lubricate the cutters and drills, than it is to scratch out the natural expressions of childhood with red ink, molding them into uniform monstrosities of correct grammar and acceptable style, and to implant in children’s souls such deep-rooted subconscious convictions as “i before e except after c,” yet he did know that my erudition (even though it was only a glorified nonerudition, the kind of intellectual fraud committed by ninety-nine percent of all high school graduates with the exception of the one percent that become theoretical physicists, astronomers, paleontologists, paleographers, chemists and experimental pathologists) was greater, more impressive than his — as was my suit, made by a good Prague tailor, while his pudgy body, half a head shorter than Emöke’s slouched in a Sunday suit of a style beyond style that had never even been in style, aggravated by a necktie in that eternal pattern of indeterminate slots and slashes; and so with his baleful, helpless eyes, eyes of the weak, the outcast, the handicapped, he followed me around the dance floor as I danced with Emöke.
For a long time, we didn’t speak. I could feel her body, feverish with the inner warmth of young women, of the music, the stuffy room, the wine and the dance. We didn’t speak to each other, and then the fiddler cut loose with a wailing, rapid Gypsy melody in a spasmodic rhythm, first a long drawn-out note, growing stronger, finally exploding into a brief syncopation, almost a dead end, to continue on another note, and Emöke began to sing in Hungarian, a hard, beautiful, primitive song of her nomadic ancestors, she was transformed once again into what she really was, a young girl concentrating all her energy in the essence of her female life, and we wheeled in some wild Hungarian dance, smudges of faces and figures and silver musical instruments spinning past as when a camera turns too quickly in a movie panorama.
I don’t know for how long. For quite a while. Then toward midnight they began to play a tearful and sentimental slow foxtrot, from his alto sax the saxophone player drew the most heartrending sobs that could ever be wrung from that most perfect product of instrumental inbreeding, and Emöke stopped singing and I began to talk, from somewhere out of my subconscious memory of the innumerable blues that have never failed to thrill me came lines of verse, in triads, as they must come to black guitarists high like I was high on wine, and into Emöke’s happy, lovely little ear I spoke line upon line of the only blues I ever composed in all my life, colored by that rural sax player who didn’t even know the secret of black syncopation and who transformed the saxophone into a wailing instrument of cheap saccharine emotion made beautiful by the primitive and eternal beauty of that convulsive, alcoholic moment, when the alcohol, man’s enemy but a greater friend, reveals to him the truth about his own self, the truth about Emöke. First time, first time, baby, last time, only time too. Short time, short time, baby, first and last time too. We wait such a hard long time for this time, what else can we do? and Emöke stopped short, in the smokescreen of nicotine and spotlights above the tables I could see her long charcoal lashes and I said, Like a dying fire we wait to die, die in the flame. In a living death we burn, burn in the cold rain. Fire and ashes everything changes, still is the same. Now is the time, I continued, for us to meet somehow, Just this time, lady, can we meet somehow? Listen, little darlin’, to the sweet sound of now, and Emöke’s lips, usually wilting, a convent rose of frosty asceticism, had broken into a smile, I said, Let me see you smile, laugh the whole night through. Smile for me now, smile the whole night through. Nobody for years, now he’s here to save you, she looked at me, the smile on her lips, her eyes smiling the same smile, the saxophone wailing and moaning. Listen! See that flame glimmer in the night, see in infinite black, love’s flickering light, Dark rain’s over, love’s season is in sight, and then Emöke laughed aloud and said, That’s a nice poem! Who wrote it? But I shook my head and continued, This time, baby, this is my this time song. Coming at you from nowhere, it’s here and then it’s gone. Sing it for my little lady this time, this time song. Emöke threw her head back, the saxophone sobbed and groaned and the words flowed through me, on and on, from a strange inspiration never before and never since encountered, at that moment as beautiful as the Song of Solomon because this girl had never heard the like in her life, no one had ever called her the Rose of Sharon, no one had ever addressed her with that Pythagorean axiom of love, O thou fairest among women, because for all her short life she’d been no more than purchased property, a hot-water bottle of flesh and blood and bones, but now she was hearing it, a poem composed just for her by a man, a poem flowing from a man’s heart, borne by the strange magic of this crazy age of telecommunications from the heart and throat of a half-stoned black shouter of the Memphis periphery to the vocal chords of a Prague intellectual in this social hall in a recreation center in the Socialist state of Czechoslovakia, but then she didn’t know anything about the picturesque genealogy of the song, she perceived it only in the ideal manner of perceiving poetry, because every poem is created ad hoc, for some woman, and if it isn’t, it’s not a poem, it’s not worth reading or hearing since it doesn’t come from that unique, genuine and true inspiration of all poetry; it seemed that she was happy and she said in a whisper,
May I believe you? Do you really mean it? Yes, Emöke, I said, and my soul or my heart or whatever it was, brought forth more and more verses of those alcoholic, triadic blues. I don’t know, but at that moment I entered into matrimony with her, at that moment I gained a wisdom long forgotten by this age, an awareness that marriage — the life of a man with a woman — isn’t, can’t be, must not be that odd jumble of passion and sentimentality, smut, and gastronomic indulgence, complementary souls and common interests, since it isn’t a matter of understanding, equality of intellect, dovetailing personalities and support and a balanced diet and the way to a heart through a stomach, and it isn’t that ludicrous relationship canonized by Hollywood in the twenties and still adhered to in socialist-realist novels of the fifties — a relationship valid at best for the instinctive eroticism of adolescent infatuations or for the fossils of middle-class Victorianism — and that winds up in loathsome divorce proceedings claiming the no less ludicrous relationship of conjugal incompatibility, but it is the relationship between a male of the species and a female of the species, the primal cave couple of two equal but totally different individuals, one of whom has mastered the club and the other the fire, one of whom brings home the game and the other kneads the bread, together bringing their young into the world according to the primal laws of the species, for the unique beauty of perpetual regeneration, the joy of sunlight on naked skin and of digestive juices and the poetry of the blood and that finer joy of hearts obedient to the law that man must again attain the level of animals, but higher by one twist of the spiral, and rid himself of the psychoneurotic dross of conventional sentimentality that has been sloughed off on the relationship of the human pair by centuries of war and thievery and perverse mysticism and male servitude and male dominance (Frauendienst ist Gottesdienst).
But when I returned to the room (I had left for a moment, and in the corridor to the toilet — where I was singing blues without words, the way youth since the beginning of time has given voice to the joy of motion and rhythm by chanting unintelligible nonsense syllables in rapid succession — I got to talking with the leader of the jazz band who was making his way there too, fiddle in hand, and who recognized in me a brother in the international brotherhood of rhythmic, antiracist, antifascist syncopated music) I found Emöke dancing in the arms of the schoolteacher, who was telling her something with great urgency, and when he caught sight of me (I had stopped and was leaning against a column, watching them) the expression on his face changed unwittingly to that of someone caught doing something he shouldn’t; when the piece ended he bowed to Emöke and went with untoward willingness over to his table and his white wine, fixing on me the black hate-filled eyes of a man avenging a defeat in the eternal struggle. I went over to Emöke and asked her to dance; she came but she was suddenly different, the membrane of monastic reserve once again obscuring her pupils. What is it, Emöke? What happened to you? I asked. Nothing, she said, but she was dancing lifelessly, passively submitting to my movements like an indifferent dance partner casually asked to dance in some dance hall into which a lonely young man has wandered foolishly seeking diversion, seeking to fill a lonely city afternoon with a casual dance with a partner he doesn’t know and who doesn’t know him, they dance a set of foxtrots together, in silence or exchanging a few conventional phrases, neither appeals to the other, they nod a bow and he leads her to her table where there is a glass of soda-pop and he says, Thank you, she nods again, they part and forget each other’s existence and he just sits there looking at the half-empty dance floor of the half-empty dance hall and he doesn’t dance after that and he goes home alone and lonely and goes to sleep, devoured and torn by the indifferent isolation of big cities. What happened to you? I insisted. Something happened. There’s something on your mind, Emöke, tell me what it is. Then she turned to me, and in her eyes, around her eyes, in the configuration of the fine lines that comprise immediate expression, there was painful surprise, the sorrowful self-deriding reproof of a woman who suddenly realizes that she has once again done something she swore she would never do again, and she said to me, I’m sorry, but could you show me your identity folder? For a millisecond I was startled, not painfully or offendedly, simply startled by that almost official request, whereupon I felt a surge of fondness for the simplicity, the straightforward, ordinary, honorable way in which she took my offer of marriage so matter-of-factly, the only right way, without the movie mysticism of fragile emotions, and instantly I knew it was the schoolteacher, that in his impotent rage the schoolteacher had convinced her I was a cheat, a married man taking a vacation from his marriage, and his dirty mind had transformed the fictional tale of my forthcoming marriage to a widow and the legend of Emöke into this ugly and yet logically credible tale, and immediately I felt a wave of tenderness toward Emöke, who had encountered that kind of man in her own marriage and was now terrified that I might be the same. I said, Emöke! Who gave you that idea? Of course I can show you my identity folder, and I reached into my inside breast pocket for that document that would confirm the truthfulness of my actions, my countenance, and she said, with an inexpressible sadness in her voice, Why are you lying to me? You don’t have to show me anything. I know everything. But what? What? Emöke! There isn’t anything to know! I said. Why do you deny it? she replied. I thought you were different, but you aren’t. You aren’t. You aren’t. You’re just the same as all the rest, she said. But Emöke! No, don’t say anything, I know it all. Why don’t you at least consider your fiancée’s feelings, if you don’t consider mine. Basically, I’m just a stranger, you’ve only known me a few days. But her feelings … Emöke! That’s nonsense! I exclaimed. It was that idiot schoolteacher who made you believe that. But he’s lying! Can’t you tell he’s just a dirty old man? Don’t call him names, she said. It was honorable of him to call my attention to it. But it’s not true! Emöke! Don’t lie, please. You showed him her photograph. But … (I had shown the schoolteacher a picture of Margit and her two-year-old son, Peter, I don’t know why, maybe out of stupid male vanity). Then show me your identity folder if you say it isn’t true, said Emöke, and that was when I remembered that the picture was in my identity folder; I had taken it out to show to the schoolteacher, and he had even told her that — Margit with the flirty bangs, the cleavage in the neckline of her summer dress, and with that sweet little blond two-year-old in the grass among the dandelions. I can’t, I said weakly. But it isn’t true. Don’t lie, said Emöke. Please, don’t lie at least. I’m not, I insisted, I’m not lying, but I can’t show you the identity folder. Why not? I just can’t. Because … Why? said Emöke with a penetrating look, and once again it was the little animal looking at me, but this time it was as if someone really had taken something away from it, an illusion of forest freedom, as if it were staring into the maw of a wild beast it hadn’t known existed in its green and sunny world. Why can’t you? she said urgently, in an excited voice that I hadn’t heard her use before and the eyes of the little animal grew large as in the final, ultimate flash of comprehension beneath the yellowed fangs of the beast, and then the monastic pallor of her cheeks flushed an unnatural crimson and nervously, painfully, almost weeping, Emöke said quickly, Let me go, I have to leave. I’m taking the train at one o’clock in the morning. Goodbye! and she tore herself away and left the room swiftly, she disappeared while I stood there, she vanished.
I turned and saw the schoolteacher, squatting at the table, his face smoldering with wounded righteousness.
I was waiting for her at half-past midnight in front of the building, but she came out with her roommate, another Hungarian girl, in a group of about five Slovaks who were all taking the night train. It was obvious that she had asked the other girl not to leave her alone with me because she stayed close beside us the whole way. So I couldn’t say anything to Emöke, I just asked her if I might write to her. Of course, she said, why not? And will you write to me? Why? she said. I lowered my voice so the other girl wouldn’t hear and said, Because I love you, Emöke. Be
lieve me. I don’t believe you, she replied. The other girl had stepped aside a bit but she was still within hearing distance so I had to keep my voice down. Believe me, I repeated, I’ll come to see you in Košice. May I? Why not? she said. But will you speak to me? May I visit you? Of course, she said. Then will you believe me? She didn’t reply. Will you believe me, Emöke? She was silent a while longer. I don’t know. Maybe, she said after a pause, and by then we were at the station, a little village station with the train already waiting, and the uniformed stationmaster standing beside it. The vacationers boarded, a Slovak helped Emöke get her suitcase inside and then she appeared like a black silhouette at the carriage window. Emöke, I said, aiming my words upward as if I were casting a spell on her, as if I could draw from her an answer to the eternal and monotonous question of my life, so empty with its eternal variations on the love ritual, so sleazy, so lacking in values, in honesty, in love, and yet so bound up in the self-indulgent habit of illusory freedom that I was unable to make up my mind. Emöke, I said in the darkness, upward toward that silhouette, that legend that was ending, and I heard her Yes softly and from a great distance. Believe me, please, I called weakly. Emöke! Yes, she said. Goodbye, but it was no longer the call of a lonely animal in the forest wilderness but the voice of disappointed and skeptical wisdom, the voice of a woman who is being transformed into the image of time lost, and the engine started to rumble, the train moved, and a slender white arm waved to me out of the window, the arm of that girl, that dream, that madness, that truth, Emöke.
THE BASS SAXOPHONE Page 6
