by Peter Nadas
Down in the valley, cradled by gently curving mountains, the city hovered in the bright summer mist.
And then, in a curious voice I'd never heard before, Maja began to speak.
The white shimmer of houses and the blurred outline of jumbled roofs and towers on the Buda hills were all so peaceful and distant.
But what kind of handkerchief did you use, my dear? Maja asked.
Beyond the gray strip of the lazy river, the mist of smoke and dust of the Pest side stretched into the horizon.
Maja's voice was sharp, offensive, a falsetto not her own.
What d'you think? Szidónia answered languidly, her voice deep; with her outstretched toes she was poking Maja's face.
That's just what I'm asking you, my dear, what kind of handkerchief?
A bloody one, Szidónia answered and on the next swing of the hammock shoved her foot into Maja's face.
So it was my little batiste handkerchief you shoved up in there, wasn't it, Maja said, her voice rising to a higher register, though her face was enjoying the touch of Szidónia's sole, and for a moment, full of pleasure and satisfaction, she closed her eyes; don't deny it, it was my little handkerchief, the one with the lace!
What was most peculiar was that the smile had vanished from Szidónia's face and Maja wasn't smiling either; they were content, pleased with each other, very much alike now, or maybe their sudden solemnity made them resemble each other; whatever was happening did not seem too serious.
Maja was sitting on the grass, her feet under her, thighs spread apart; holding her spine straight and throwing her head back a little, she kept pushing the soles of Szidónia's feet, not too hard, with steady, even movements; they were no longer looking at each other, so I couldn't tell what would happen next.
That afternoon, too, Maja was wearing one of her mother's dresses, an absurdly long, loose-fitting, lace-trimmed purple dress, whose shoulder pads hung down almost to her elbows; her distorted voice also reminded me of her mother's, though perhaps the dress made me think that; anyway, the two girls carried on their dialogue so rapidly and easily that I could see they were indulging in a familiar, well-practiced game.
The sun was beating down on my neck; it was their silence that made me realize I was there, too, and I was hot, as though until now I hadn't been aware of my own presence.
I had no idea how long or how cautiously I'd been hiding behind the hot green boxwood; there was really no need for all this spying and listening, actually, because at other times they felt free to discuss adventures like this right in front of me or even with me, asking my advice, which I gladly gave; I could have stepped forward at any time, and nothing would have happened if they had noticed me, the only reason they didn't being that they were too involved in the story; the ball-shaped shrub was so dense that if I really wanted to see anything, and I most certainly did, I had to stick my head out; nevertheless, I couldn't bring myself to leave my ludicrous hiding place; I would have preferred to disappear, evaporate, or maybe rudely disrupt the scene, end it by throwing a stone at them; I could have used the spigot only inches from me and the red garden hose lying right there in the grass like a snake, but it would have been hard to pull over the nozzle and turn on the water without their noticing; if I could just wreck that annoying strange intimacy of theirs! which I could share only by not stepping forward, by their not noticing me; I could deceive myself, but in every moment, and every little fragment of each moment, things were happening here that in my presence never could; I was stealing from them, though I had no idea what; and the excitement was also unbearable, the shame of acquiring something I could neither use nor abuse, for it was exclusively theirs; the confidence they'd shown me was illusory, fraudulent, they'd given me mere morsels of confidence but in truth deceived me; they'd never let me come into their real confidence, because I was not a girl, and now they were talking about themselves, among themselves, and it seemed that I was robbing them of something.
Choosing the most shameful escape route, I was about to back away so I could sneak off, disappear, never to return, hoping to reach the garden gate unnoticed and be able to slam it shut really loudly, but just then, using both feet, Szidónia caught Maja's neck in a vise, and simultaneously Maja grabbed hold of those powerful feet and tried to pry them off her, and the hammock swung back, so that Maja lost her balance and was dragged along on the grass; it was now impossible to see just what was happening, and as they were pulling, pushing, clawing, and kicking at each other, with hands and feet, suddenly Szidónia tumbled out of the hammock right on top of Maja; Maja cleverly slipped out from under her, sprang up and started to run—by now they were both shrieking, letting out terrific screams—and Szidónia took off after her; they were like two rare butterflies, flitting and flashing into and away from each other, Maja's loose purple dress billowing against the wings of Szidónia's rising and falling waist-length hair streaming above the white undershirt as they plunged down the garden's steep slope, at the bottom of which they finally crashed into each other and, I did see it, kissed each other, but in the very next moment, grabbing each other's hands, their bodies arched, they were whirling round and round, and they kept it up for a long time, until one of them must have let go, because they flew apart and went sprawling; they stayed there on the grass, panting hard.
It wasn't me Maja liked but the mark Szidónia's teeth had left on my neck.
Later, when those lips began to stir on my neck, the unexpectedly coarse friction sent shivers down my back, the sudden chill making me feel how our bodies were intertwined.
I'm bleeding, said the lips resting on my shuddering skin.
And while curled in my mother's lap, my lips resting inside the crook of her elbow, where under the skin there were yellow and blue splotches caused by the frequent taking of blood samples and where the muchabused vein was such an invitingly tender place for the mouth, I should have told her about this, too, and somehow I had the vague feeling that I had.
Maybe the touch itself told her the story, for I gave her back what Maja's mouth had given me on the spot where Szidónia bit me.
But as much as I would have liked to talk about it, I could never put into words this painful confusion of touches, impossible even to begin the story, because each touch had to do with many other touches, and Krisztián's mouth was also part of the story.
Well, come on, I said, but we didn't move.
I could tell she enjoyed whispering into the skin of my neck; I shouldn't be angry with her, she said, the reason she was so nervous before was that she was bleeding and that always made her very nervous, as I probably knew, and that was another thing she'd never tell anyone else, ever.
On days like that she's very agitated, and much more sensitive than I can imagine, and she needs to be loved, otherwise she'd start crying again.
And I should have removed my finger from her underpants; under the weight of her body my arm fell asleep, and what I took to be sweat, moistness of skin, was probably blood; and my finger was in it, I suddenly realized, I was dipping it in her blood, but I did not move my finger, I didn't want to be rude, I sensed I had to guard a feeling in her which I myself could never feel, and I did envy her for that bleeding; I stayed the way I was, letting my arm grow more numb, and most of all, I didn't want her to know how much she had upset and terrified me, how I feared getting menstrual blood on my finger.
The truth is, I wasn't exactly sure how this whole bleeding business worked, and she might have been lying to me, for all I knew, making it all up just to be more like Szidónia.
I wouldn't want her to cry now, would I? so I shouldn't make her.
I had to be careful not to move, not to let her body feel that I knew it was all a sham, that whatever she was saying or communicating with her movements was not meant for me, and whatever I felt to be mine just seconds ago was not mine at all; she had deceived me again, and the only reason she had given anything to me was that I happened to be there, at hand, and the one she would really like
to do this with she couldn't, wouldn't dare.
I should love her, she said, the way she loved me.
And I was cheating, too, of course, because I'd come to her house not because of her, not to play detective, but in hopes of finding Livia there, yes, Livia, whose very name was now abhorrent to me, whom that afternoon I had waited for by the wall, in vain, since once again she didn't show up, and I couldn't stand it anymore, I just had to come, I had to see her, if only for a second, and if she would look at me again, the way only she can look! but with her it's different, I couldn't even bring myself to speak to her, let alone touch her.
At the same time, in spite of our cheating bodies—feeling in Maja what Kálmán should be feeling, and involuntarily giving of myself what I should have given to Livia—it was so good, so infinitely good to hear Maja whisper into my neck, to smell her body, to feel her blood, her weight, my arm growing numb, and our body heat, and in the dark joy of betrayal to know that again I was coming into possession of something that did not belong to me and that there was no deception from which I'd be able to spare myself.
That I could think of Livia at all just now, not of her so much as of her absence, made me feel that I had hurt her feelings irrevocably, dragged her into the filth in which I liked to wallow, and that I hated her for not showing up.
I just know I'll be a whore, Maja said.
But this sentence wasn't hers either, she was merely echoing one of Szidónia's exclamations; like a lifeless stone that drinks up the heat of the sun and then breathes it back into the night, she had drunk in and breathed back into my neck echoes of the words of Szidónia, whom she desperately wanted to resemble, whom she clung to, whom she kissed, whose every move she adored, and this indecent behavior reminded me so much of Krisztián, and the memory was so painful, that it was like someone sticking me with a pin; last night, she went on in the same breath, because she didn't want me to interrupt and say something hurtful, well, maybe it wasn't night yet, but pretty late, everybody had gone to bed, and Kálmán again climbed in through her window; just imagine, he must have been crouching under her window all that time until the lights were out; and he scared the life out of her, she had almost fallen asleep, and she couldn't even scream she was so terrified, and he was begging her right here by her bed that all he wanted was to sleep here for a little while, sleep by her side, nothing more, and she must believe him, would she please let him in; imagine waking up to somebody wanting to get into your bed with his cold feet; but she didn't let him in, she pushed him away, and Kálmán just cried and cried, so much that in the end she had to comfort him, rotten bastard! she had to promise that one day she'd let him in, except that she never will, never, did I understand? yes, she'd be a whore, but she'd never do it with him, never! still, she'd promised she would, but only to get the hell rid of him, because he kept crying and she wanted to be nice to him; she stroked his head and his face, while he held her hand and cried some more; she told him she'd scream if he dared get into her bed, and would he please stop kissing her hand, because she really hated that; and she wanted him to get lost, her hands were a mess, tears and snot, he was really bawling something awful, and she had to swear she loved him; she said she'd scream and then her father would come running and would beat him up, so he should be reasonable and leave like a good boy and then she would even love him a little.
And I felt as if my brain had been flooded by a hot surge of blood blotting out her voice, turning me deaf, peeling away her arms, sweeping away her whole body without a trace, and all the while the touch of her lips and her breath kept sending cold shivers through me, one shuddering wave after another.
Now that she'd confessed this whole thing to me, she said, because I had a way of forcing things out of her, she hoped I was satisfied.
But now I hated her as passionately as I hated Livia for not showing up, hated her for being Maja and not Livia, as much as she must have hated me in her bed the night before.
I know you kissed him, I said to her, and I heard my voice rising out of this hatred.
No, she didn't, and would I please stop tormenting her.
She couldn't possibly understand that at that moment I thought I was kissing Krisztián, because once again I wanted to be Maja kissing Szidónia on the mouth, I saw it, and I was being consumed by a terrible envy, because she led a more daring life, yes, and Szidónia kissed her back and at night Kálmán climbed into her bed; she squirmed in my arms, grateful for my assumed, definitely misunderstood, jealousy; but it wasn't Kálmán I was jealous of, it was her and Szidónia; I hated her for aping Szidónia so shamelessly; perhaps because I never imitated Krisztián so shamelessly I could never know what was true and what was false, never know whether good things are born of truth or falsehood, never know what was permitted and what was forbidden.
Just before I drowned in that dark abundant flood of blood, Livia's pale little face flashed before me again, or rather, her absence made me recall that March morning when I promised myself not to look at her anymore yet kept glancing at her even after Hédi Szán had begun to watch us, when it seemed that my stare made Livia teeter, crash through the ranks, and fall headlong to the polished gym floor; the girls started screaming, but nobody moved, we just kept watching her; then came the sound of pounding feet, people rushed in and quickly carried out her limp body, her feet in white socks dangling in the air.
It all happened so fast, we hardly had time to notice it, and then there was really no moving in the ranks, not a sound uttered, but this silence no longer had to do with the solemn ceremony.
And even if no one knew it, that gigantic eye did, knew it and saw it: I was the one who caused it all, I was the culprit.
What Maja told me, what I had supposedly forced out of her, didn't make me at all happy; on the contrary, I felt humiliated by her openness and thoughtless confession, and though the betrayal of their secret increased momentarily a sense of closeness with her and she was palpably in my arms, what I really wanted was to come between them, to oust the other boy, to squeeze him out, and in a way I did; I also wanted to know what it was that Kálmán did to her, hoping to learn from that what I should be doing, and further, to find out what was going on behind my back all the time! were those boys really as irresistible as they'd have me believe with their lewd chatter? the way they talked about girls always seemed false; and all Maja could convey now, with the desperate tones of her revelation and the heat of her coarseness breathed onto my neck, was that Kálmán, though in some ways more daring, loved her with the same hopeless devotion with which I loved Livia—trying to have her always in sight while she kept me bound to herself by permanent rejection; she was only toying with me, I was sure, and when the time came she would betray me—affecting an air of self-conscious, shameless superiority—to someone she didn't even much love; in my jealous rage, and it was choking me, I imagined that while I lay cozily with Maja in her bed, Livia was lying somewhere with Krisztián, talking about me.
It was as though Maja's mouth were whispering Livia's treacherous words into Krisztián's neck.
I told Maja she'd better be careful, her darling little Kálmán might be crying and all, but she ought to know better than to believe him; and I enjoyed hearing how soft and calm my voice sounded.
Just what did I mean? she asked.
Oh nothing, I said, nothing special, only she'd better be careful.
But why?
That I wouldn't tell her.
That wasn't nice of me, since she'd already told me everything.
She just shouldn't go into the woods tonight, that's all, I said.
But why not?
She shouldn't, that's all I can say, I said, I had my reasons.
Who was I to tell her what she should or shouldn't do? but she didn't say that, by now she was shouting, and she pushed me away.
My finger slipped out of her panties and I could finally free my arm, numbed by the weight of her body.
Of course she could do as she pleased, I said, I mere
ly meant to caution her, because Kálmán had told me a thing or two which I wouldn't care to repeat just now.
We both sat up quickly and, without moving, began staring at each other, letting our looks do the wrestling; it was impossible to parry the dark sparks of her eyes, smoldering with hatred and indignation, and I didn't really want to. Our legs were still entwined, but her upper body, thrust toward me, was stiff and arched with fury, while mine stayed relaxed and apparently calm, because I meant to overcome her ferocious stare with the gentle superiority of treachery; at last I was master of the situation, or so I thought; I could finally vanquish, both in her and in myself, something that had long been tormenting me; true, my shrunken moral self whispered, it would take an act of base betrayal, but I could triumph! still, I was surprised by the sudden reversal in the situation; it made me falter, lose confidence, for what I had meant to divulge about Kálmán, moments earlier, in the heated intimacy of our closeness, what I'd hinted at so insidiously, slyly, as if I had nothing less than absolute knowledge of the facts, now, as we sat and looked at each other face to face, no longer seemed possible to say out loud; it had become hideous, unnatural, shrinking back into itself; in the ordinary light of that average-looking room of hers, I couldn't have told myself what it was: a momentary, careless flash of memory in the darkness of my own inner dialogue, a seemingly innocent image waiting to be revealed, one for which there were no words and which had quickly to be forgotten, the whole thing resembling the way my body deceived me then, in that situation; and today, when looking around from the high ground of my age and experience as I write these lines, it is with no small pleasure that I recall that very special, one might say fateful, early confusion of body and soul; I see this little boy, deceived by his soul and lured into a trap by his body, who only moments earlier, lying in the arms of a little girl, felt so strongly the blood rushing to his head and throbbing in his temples—what a strange coincidence that she was just then speaking of her bleeding!—but deafened by the bloody pounding of the little girl's words hadn't noticed, still wouldn't notice, that the process itself, the urge to dominate the other, the fevered struggle to gain true inner power as well as to overcome the true inner forces within him, had heated his blood and not only flooded his brain but just as strongly reached down to his groin; between the girl's lap and his own hand, his member stiffened, referring back to that sudden flash of an image he would have liked to blurt out as a clincher but simply couldn't bring himself to utter.
