by Peter Nadas
Her curious comment that she would understand even if I hadn't blasphemed in such an elaborate and roundabout way—if I related the story without making a moral judgment, that is—still stung a little.
Nevertheless, it made me realize that neither Melchior's story nor any other could be traced directly to historical circumstances or biological determinants; the moral onus cannot be shifted onto anybody or anything; to think so would imply a certain narrow-mindedness, a poverty of reason; in every story one ought to accept the power of an indivisible whole that pervades its every detail; this is by no means easy if one is used to focusing on details and one is not even a believer.
I had to look at her, almost as if to check the physical state of the person who put such a question to me.
But she seemed not to have heard the rumbling of my stomach, and appeared untouched by my searching look.
Her comment also struck me as curious because never before or after that day had I ever heard her utter God's name, either in prayer or as a curse.
I could interpret her silent features as impassive and indifferent, or as signs of being sympathetic and deeply touched by Melchior's story.
And the closer we got to Wörther Platz, the more impossible it seemed that this day was drawing to a close and something else was about to begin, something inconceivably different, and that she and I had to part until tomorrow, so terribly far away.
The feeling was not totally unfamiliar, though; when I was with either one of them, I was very much present, and the more I managed to be present in the in-between place, the better I could answer their needs, exactly as they wanted me to, and the harder it became to give up my place.
On such nights, for example, after getting out of Thea's car, I'd walk up to the fifth floor to see Melchior, annoyed by my lateness, open the door, and open it wide, and then not only his controlled, almost impersonal smile would seem strange to me but everything about him: his attractiveness, his smell, his skin, the stubble on his chin, his cool blue eyes peering out of his smile, and—I'd almost be ashamed to admit it—his sex, his maleness, though not his essential self.
It seemed I was always closest to the things and people I had just left and had to leave them to stay close; perhaps that was the source of all my errors, I thought, although it couldn't really be called an error, because it wasn't I but my experiences that went this way: in my stead, my own story was doing my thinking for me; I was alive yet continually kept saying goodbye to life, for at the end of every experience a death loomed; as a result, saying goodbye became more important than life itself.
Some such thoughts were going through my mind when we stopped in front of Melchior's building; with her head thrown back, Thea managed somehow to be looking down at me, then she took off her glasses and smiled.
This fast-spreading, expansive smile must have been lying dormant in the muscles of her mobile face, but she hadn't let it out before, held it back, out of tact perhaps, or guile, so as not to distract me, to be able to absorb the story as an undisturbed whole, the way I'd wanted to present it.
And I asked myself again, delving into the mystery of my cultural conditioning, why I was constantly inching away from the life of my most private self, why this readiness to conform to other people's image of me? was it because death lay in wait at the end of every memory? and wouldn't that be the most primitive historical experience rather than divinely inspired destiny?
Softly she put her hand on my knee, her fingers spread and wrapped around my kneecap, but she did not squeeze; in the darkness of the car I looked at her eyes.
Maybe she wasn't holding my knee at all; with that gesture she was holding together our bodies, our silences, and I could tell from her eyes that she wanted to say something, or rather, that she couldn't say anything because she was feeling precisely what she had to understand.
And to give voice to this feeling would be an exaggeration; certain things should not even be hinted at, life must not be interfered with, but still, if it hadn't been so dark in the car with only the light of streetlamps filtering in through the foliage, if we had been able to see each other's face clearly, if what we felt had not remained on the border of anticipation and consciousness, if it had turned into words, then, chances are, everything would have turned out differently among the three of us.
Later she did start talking, but by then that charged moment had passed.
Yes, she said, everyone had their life story to tell, and had I ever noticed they were all sad stories? and why was that? she wondered; yet it seemed to her that what I was telling her was the story of my own life, which she really knew nothing about, or perhaps the story of my personal hurts.
My hurts? I asked, because the word surprised me.
Without responding to the surprise in my voice, the smile on her face broke into a laugh, and out of that she shot a question at me: Did I know she was Jewish?
And then she began to laugh in earnest, probably because of the surprise and puzzled incredulity that must have been written all over my face.
All right, she said, still laughing, I should go now, she squeezed my knee and immediately withdrew her hand; that story she'd tell me some other time.
I said I didn't understand.
No matter, I was a smart boy, I should think about it; besides, one didn't have to understand everything, it was enough to feel it.
But what was there to feel here?
Never mind, I should just feel it.
She wouldn't get away with this, I said, this was a dirty trick.
I won't, eh? she said, laughing, and leaning across me, she pushed open the door on my side: time to get out.
But I didn't have the foggiest; what was she talking about?
She was no longer interested in what I was saying, what I did or did not understand; pressing her hands against my shoulders and chest, she was bent on squeezing or pushing me out of the car; hesitating slightly, I grabbed hold of her wrist; I hesitated because I felt I shouldn't respond violently to her violence since she was Jewish, she had just said it, hadn't she, she was a Jew; still, twisting it slightly I pried her hand off; we were both laughing at our awkwardness, and at the same time we both wanted to end it.
Don't, don't, she whined in a dull, artfully painful voice, at once the mature woman's crumbling defense and the erstwhile young girl's endearingly inept playacting: Let go, let go now, that's enough.
But perhaps it wasn't enough, not yet, because she jabbed me in the chest with her head; she wanted more, so I squeezed her hand harder, she winced, and for a moment her head rested on my chest, nice and cozy, as if she'd been looking for just that spot, and this tense meeting of our bodies meant that I was the broad-chested he-man and she the weak woman; she wasn't giving in, not yet, she'd push a little more and then she would yield.
I won't let go, I said out loud, expressing a feeling that was flattering because it conformed to the generally accepted sexual role-playing; and I gave voice to this feeling of male superiority eagerly, as if declaring that I had no intention of passing up the chance this feeling gave me.
I may have gone too far, however; insulted, she yanked her head back, accidentally knocking it against my chin, hurting us both a little.
Her offended withdrawal meant she was unwilling to concede the obvious difference between us, or at least was not about to make use of it, even if the pain thus caused was undeniably mutual.
What's wrong? I asked.
Wrong? she said brazenly, nothing, nothing.
But at the same time she was looking into my eyes so tenderly, imploringly, retreating into the role of the weak woman with girlishly sly and coy humility, illuminating the role with the mastery of a real professional; and this mockery, making our involuntarily assumed roles look ridiculous, was so much to my liking that slowly, gradually, I eased my hold on her wrist, though I didn't let go of it completely.
What was she trying to tell me? I asked, and the sound of my voice told me how reluctantly I was making my
way from promising silent touches toward false and loud words.
But in fact I started to speak because I didn't want my mind to let go of my instincts; at the very least the mind should follow closely and understand what these instincts are after and why, and instincts and feelings should operate neither against nor instead of the mind; if there was something between us, if such a thing was possible, it shouldn't be some sort of supplement, a working off of other emotions, or a round of common sexual gymnastics; and she must have felt the same way.
Everything that had happened between us so far could still be seen as friendly banter, though it was hard to tell where good-natured rough-housing ended and the pleasure of amorous touching began; the borderline was carefully guarded by sober intelligence, even if the situation itself, precisely because of its delicious inherent possibilities, seemed irreversible; we'd either crossed the line already or simply didn't know where we were.
She'll tell me another time, she said dryly, now I should let her go.
No, I won't, I said, not until she explained what she meant, I don't like this kind of nonsense.
But reason could no longer help our feelings, because the words themselves were trying to decide about something startling and final, yet we no longer had any idea of what we were talking about—again an unmistakable characteristic of a lovers' quarrel.
Angry and impatient, she jerked her head sideways, hoping perhaps that a change of position would also change the situation.
Come on, let go, she said, almost spitefully, Arno had no idea where she might be, he was waiting for her, he'd get all crabby from so much waiting, it was very late.
As she jerked her head away, a ray of light fell on her face, the harsh light of a streetlamp; it was perhaps this light that defeated me.
Pretty funny that she should think of Arno right now, I said with a laugh.
Because in the harsh light from the street—and there is no other way I can put it—his face appeared on hers.
For a moment her face did seem to resemble Arno's long, dry, mournful face, yet it wasn't so much his features that showed through as a feeling, or the shadow of a feeling, just a trace of sadness belonging to that strange man to whom she felt she belonged, and whom, simply by pronouncing his name, and therefore not unwittingly, she now placed between us; he wasn't just the old husband she had to think about even at the moment she was unfaithful and whom she treated like a father or a son; no, it was this man's sadness to which she had to remain faithful, so she could remain faithful to the abiding, all-encompassing sadness that was the basis of their life together—could this be the reason she mentioned being Jewish?—a sadness that was not only his but hers as well, it would appear; was there something between them that was truly unbreakable? could their common bond be the fact that she was a Jew and he a German?
I should have overcome, wiped away, or at least banished temporarily this hitherto unfamiliar, never-before-seen sadness, except that Arno's sadness confounded me; it was the sadness of a man I didn't feel close to, a man I couldn't touch, and I couldn't pretend I didn't see that they shared this sadness—hence her victory, or theirs, over me.
And now I knew even less just where my place was in this somber situation, but the stark sadness that broke through all her possible masks and faces, now illuminated by the harsh streetlight, was like a sudden violent discharge, a clash of the most opposite forces.
All right, I'll let her go, I said, but first I will kiss her.
It seemed that by simply saying it, the act had become impossible, and then we could consider it done.
And then that famous whole that should pervade all details of a relationship must also include what in the ordinary sense does not take place yet is a reality.
She turned her face back toward me slowly and with a surprised look on it, as if she were amazed on behalf of that other person as well, I was faced with the astonished gaze of two people.
As she turned, the light vanished from her face, but I knew that the strange face would not leave her, and the half-open mouth said or rather moaned from behind that face, No, not now.
I let go of her; some time passed.
This moan issuing from their shared sadness did not mean what it seemed to mean, it had to be translated: in the language the two of us had in common it meant just the opposite, it meant that she felt as I did, and if not now, she did mean maybe later.
If it had meant next week or tomorrow perhaps, that would have meant not now and not later either; but that's not what she meant.
Our faces began to undulate between yes and no, between now, the next moment, and any time.
With my casual statement I seemed to have awakened our mouths, and now we had to look at them.
Yes, the features of our faces were undulating, wavering, the skin trembled as our faces relaxed and tensed again, and the next moment did arrive, but without turning into now or anytime, what remained was the uncertain later, yet what was vibrating on her lips was a definite yes— only its when was unknown.
But this began to be painful, because if it didn't happen now then the yes must have meant no, after all.
Like a pendulum, our faces swayed between the subtle pain of tentative rejection and the equally subtle joy of tentative consent; I might even say that our faces oscillated between self-defense and self-surrender; and because this was true oscillation—when pain flitted across one face, the other flickered with joy, and when one was suffused with joy, the other showed pain—even when the long-awaited decisive moment seemed at hand, yes and no could still not be separated.
So to avoid having to wait for the next moment, I cut through our shared time by making a move; and I did it simply because I was in pain, and while one escape route was closed to me, the car door behind me was open; the pain, unable to turn into joy, sought relief at any price.
But true to the movement of the pendulum, Thea was ready to swing forward as I was about to pull back; and she wouldn't allow her joy to turn into pain either—this was her yes moment—and with her hand she had to turn the anytime I created with my move into a now.
When we are awake and fully alert, our jaws are conditioned to keep the mouth closed, the upper teeth resting on the lower set, and the upper lip lying neatly on the lower one; at this point, however, the jaw relaxed and reverted to its original, preconditioned state, easing the alertness and discipline which, except in the hours of sleep, maintain tension in the facial muscles; regulating the extent and nature of this tension gives character to the face, which, in turn, causes the tongue inside, arching sensitively from the rim of the lower teeth, to hover, and the saliva collecting on the tip of the tongue and around the impeding row of teeth to trickle back into the hollow of the mouth.
Heads tilt sideways, if one to the left, the other definitely to the right, because when two human mouths seek each other out they must avoid the collision of noses protruding from the facial terrain.
Once the eyes measure the distance, from the features of the terrain estimate the angle of the tilt, and from the speed of the mutual approach can also determine the moment of contact, then the eyelids slowly and softly drop over the eyes—seeing at such close range becomes impossible and unnecessary, which of course should not lead to the conclusion that everything impossible is also unnecessary—but the eyes do not close completely, a narrow slit remains, so the long upper lashes need not descend and mix with the lower, shorter ones; in this way the eyes put themselves in a perfectly symmetrical position with the mouth; one is fully conscious now, but not quite aware; the amount of tension relinquished from consciousness equals the loss in awareness; whatever opens up here, but not completely, will shut down there, but not completely.
If one wished to say something specific about a kiss, the joining of two mouths, about the moment when the direct sensation of two sense organs turns into direct bodily sensation, it might be best to step into the open mouth, between the vertically grooved, tender skin of the barely touching lips.
&
nbsp; If this were at all possible without the aid of a scalpel, the peculiarities of the living organism would force one to choose among several alternatives: should we follow the facial muscles rippling toward the interior of the mouth, or the intricate network of neurons, or the crisscrossing veins perhaps? in the first case we'd have to cut through the cluster of salivary glands in the lips and cheeks, traverse some connective tissue to reach the mucous membrane; in the second instance, it would be like being absorbed by the tiniest capillary roots of a tree and from there to reach the trunk and travel on to the nerve center of the crown; in the third case, depending on whether we took the red or the blue trail of blood vessels, we'd reach either the ventricle or the auricle of the heart.
Fortunately, it's only in fairy tales that out of three possible paths we have to choose the one that will lead us to safety; but since we don't need to be rescued and are merely yielding to simple, most likely superficial curiosity, we shall choose yet a fourth option and slip through the grooves of the barely touching lips; it won't be a smooth glide, though, because at this moment the surface is almost completely dry; the glands are producing saliva in abundance, but the insecurely hovering tongue is not wetting the surface; consequently, the longer it takes for the lips to meet, the more parched they become; sometimes they look like cracked soil in a protracted dry spell, even though in the hollow behind the lower teeth, under the tongue, a proper little lake of saliva has formed.
If we proceed along the craggy ridge of the lower teeth and, avoiding the little lake of saliva, clamber up the slippery back of the tongue to take a look at the distance covered, the sight greeting us there promises to be quite remarkable.
The undertaking is not without dangers: if we don't cling fast to the taste buds, we might easily slide down into the gullet, but it's all worth it, and where we are is actually a well-protected cave: over us stretches the palate's lovely arch, and looming before us, in the form of an obtuse-angled triangle, is the great orifice of the mouth itself; if we hadn't purposely invaded this spot to catch this breathtaking sight, we might cry out in astonishment, because from this vantage point the anatomical view of the orifice bears a striking resemblance to the conventional representation of the eye of God.
