by Peter Nadas
For years we waited for Father to come home; after all, the car was empty.
I've got a picture of him, sent from the front. An endless field of sunflowers under a perfectly clear sky. In the middle of the field a tiny figure waist-deep in flowers.
Quite early on the morning of the second day, when I took a taxi back to the hotel, I could hear the persistent ring of my telephone even before reaching my room. Such rings are unmistakable. There was really no need to pick up the receiver. But we are such fools. We pick it up to find out when exactly the thing we knew was going to happen did happen. An hour and a half later the talks were resumed. In a curious atmosphere. The Russians were emotional and quick to express their condolences, yet we all tried to sit down at the negotiating table as if nothing had happened. The slight hesitation over the agenda, the preoccupied air with which we shuffled and exchanged and leafed through our papers helped to preserve the semblance of normalcy. However, when it was my turn to speak, I couldn't keep myself from briefly eulogizing my colleague. And these men, all of them much older than I and for the most part hardened war veterans, listened in stunned silence as I spoke of our morning bathroom ritual.
For us Hungarians, death evokes stark terror. For Russians it is like the softening sign in their language: silent in itself, it cannot be voiced, but it softens the letter preceding it. My instincts perceived this difference during the two nights I spent on Pervomayskaya. My blond friend was the first and for a long time to come the only woman on whose lips my own mouth came alive. After the brief commemoration, I immediately got down to business. I don't think my motives were improper in any way, yet I didn't follow my director's instructions. There was nothing in me but this terror, and it made me stubborn. The session lasted all of ten minutes, and the Russians accepted every one of my proposals. We spent the rest of the day working out the details, even skipping the usual lunch break. The man from the embassy's commercial section did not dare reproach me, but he was fuming. Both parties were anxious to get the whole thing out of the way, if only because all this was taking place on November 6, the eve of their most important national holiday. Nobody felt like working anymore.
It was late afternoon when I got back to the hotel. I was tense, wound up from lack of sleep. In such an overtired state one always feels energetic somehow. I was dying to get rid of my necktie and that impossible black suit and head for Pervomayskaya. I couldn't really enjoy my little breakthrough at the talks, even though it was something of a coup. It came at too high a price. And it was really the dead man's coup, not mine, and the breakthrough was death's breakthrough, not mine. I was pretty sure my director wasn't going to give me a hard time. And even if he did, our commercial people had no choice but to back me up. One thing was certain, the way I handled the matter would evoke his fierce displeasure. I'd be considered some kind of liability for quite some time, which meant kissing promotion goodbye. That's the kind of mood I was in before stepping into the hotel elevator.
It was nearly full and the operator waited for me to get in. But I hesitated. Deliberately slowing my last two steps. I didn't feel like squeezing in. I also noticed that all the passengers were Hungarians. Which turned me off rather than attracting me. But standing among them in a long fur-collared coat was a dark-complexioned girl with curly hair who caught my eye. In response to a question they must have just asked, the disagreeable elevator operator was saying no, no, not allowed, room reserved for banquets. Hearing this, they began to laugh as if they had just heard a priceless joke. Banquet, banquet, they kept shouting. I had walked into an infantile cacophony, and I can't say I liked it. My compatriots tend to feel lost when they are abroad alone, but in groups they can act quite silly and rowdy. I had the feeling that they also sensed the compatriot in me and their reaction was the same as mine, so they finally quieted down. I positioned myself so that I could be close to the girl and watch her from the front. Her slightly old-fashioned coat, tapered at the waist, outlined a slender figure, and the face framed by the upturned silver-gray fur collar was ruddy from the cold. On her hair, eyebrows, and even her lashes half-melted snowflakes were glistening. The first snow of the year had fallen that day, and it hadn't let up since morning.
In my callous simplicity, I thought she was what I needed. And I could see in her eyes that she not only caught my glance but understood my meaning. She didn't think I was pushy, but she wasn't going to respond. She was noncommittal without turning me down, she was holding on to my offer without making one herself, she was impassive but not without a certain amount of curiosity. There was even a hint of impudence in her look, as if to say, Well, big boy, what else can you show me, real quick? We must have ridden about three floors like this, staring in each other's eyes.
We were caught up in each other, but she was playing to the others a little, too, not wanting them to notice just how caught up she was. What I also felt then was that someone standing next to me was staring into my face, with a persistent, unmoving look that suggested he knew full well what I was up to. I had to find out what that was all about, yet I hesitated, for if I turned my face it might appear that I couldn't take her stare, though in truth I couldn't take his.
It would be very hard to describe the feeling I experienced when, turning my head, I looked into the face of this obtrusive stranger. As adults, we always maintain a certain distance, which we determine, from the face of another adult, and the extent and nature of the closeness or distance is invariably regulated by our own interests and aims. But this adult face, suddenly cropping up from our long-gone childhood—no matter how much it may have changed—wound up intolerably close to mine. A melting tenderness came over me. As if I were seeing not a person but the passing of my own lifetime. Everything had changed, and yet nothing had changed. I sensed transience in myself and permanence in another man's features. At the same time I was so shocked to see the features of a child I'd known so intimately in the face of a man that a feeling of repugnance also began to stir in me. I didn't want this. Our glances scanned each other's features. He hadn't made up his mind either. And with that we irrevocably exposed ourselves in front of each other. There was no going back. Even though we both would have liked to avoid this meeting as much as we wished it to happen. There's nothing more humiliating than a chance encounter. But not giving in to it is even more humiliating.
I couldn't possibly benefit from this chance meeting. On the contrary, it could only work against me. I wanted to be already in my room, open the refrigerator, take a good long swig from the iced vodka bottle, and then leave this place as quickly as possible. Anyone seeking solace in alcohol knows what these moments are like. He reminded me of things I didn't want to deal with at all. And I was in such a state that my body would not tolerate delay. Still, I couldn't prevent what had to happen. I think our hands moved simultaneously, and in the gesture two very different weaknesses met. It couldn't turn into a real handshake, we were standing too close for that, it became more of a crude grasp. Hesitantly, eagerly, two hands seized and then immediately let go, almost thrust away, two hands. Just touching fingers was too little, but anything more would have been too much. And through it all, clumsy, stammering questions about what the other was doing here. Here of all places. As if "here" had some special meaning. I mumbled my own little story, and I blushed, which rarely happens to me, while he muttered something about a delegation of artists, and with a silly grin pointed to the others. We must have been on their checklist this year, he said. His tone was unfamiliar, alien.
But all this was surface; our tone, our blushes merely the appearance to provide some protection. Because what the moment was really all about was that our lives had turned out to be so very different, yet neither he nor I, neither before nor since, had ever loved another human being as we loved each other. Back then. Yes. This was our confession. And even now, when we are still so different, even now, although in a different way. And since then, too. This is an enduring part of our lives. It can't be helped. This love has no purpose
, no meaning, or motive. Nothing can be done with it. I blushed because I wanted to forget it, and did. He was acting silly because he didn't forget, and probably couldn't.
His features seemed so indistinct and blurred that each line or curve or angle could mean three different things at once. And there was a danger that he might just ignore the glances of these strangers and mawkishly revert back to our lost time. In the end, however, it was his grim self-discipline that averted my always obliging though noncommittal bear hug. I saw brittle coldness in his face, dread in his eyes, though he was making lighthearted, cynical noises. Still, he, not I, was the one who stayed outside the situation. For if I cannot be guided by sober reason, if I cannot comprehend the meaning, direction, and purpose of a signal or a gesture, I freeze. I can yield to no person or situation. He, on the other hand, had it in him to act, to put his feelings on display. He burst into laughter. I wanted to shut my eyes. I showed up just in time, he said, as if we had last seen each other only yesterday. They had just come from a holiday reception. And now it was off to the Bolshoi for a gala performance. It promised to be quite an event. He sounded as if he were inviting me to his grandmother's for noodle pudding. Galina Vishnevskaya was singing. They had an extra ticket. Just for me. Box seats, too. Wouldn't I join them ?
The maddening artificiality of his tone made it easier to decline the invitation. By then we were on the thirteenth floor, standing in the narrow hallway, in front of the dezhurnaya's table laden with keys. The others passed us in silence on their way to their rooms. I told him I had no time, unfortunately. And looking over my shoulder, I involuntarily followed the brown-haired girl with my eyes. I'd already made plans for the evening. The girl opened her door slowly and disappeared without looking back. In the meantime, we kept laughing at the discovery that evidently the Russians always reserve the thirteenth floor for Hungarians. We should meet for breakfast, though. But no later than eight. They'd have to attend the parade on Red Square. We'd open a bottle of champagne.
I'd have to say that as soon as I closed the door of my palatial suite, I forgot this accidental meeting, as one might forget a fleeting unpleasantness. I didn't want a champagne breakfast. I didn't turn on the light. The strange rooms were glimmering faintly in the reflected light of the snow. I heard the soft murmur of the city below. Compared to the events of the past few days, what could these fleeting moments mean to me? Nothing. An embarrassment, at most an annoyance. Anyway, while I struggled here in vain, they were having fun. Still in my overcoat, I sank into an armchair. I had never before felt such a heavy, all-pervasive fatigue. It wasn't my bones or my muscles but my heart that seemed to give way. As if my blood had stopped flowing. I felt drained, empty. I didn't even want that drink of vodka anymore. Or I should say I did, but didn't have the strength to get up. That's not precise enough either. What I felt was that I must gather strength. But you need some strength to gather your strength, and I didn't have any.
No, I won't go on like this, I won't. That's what I kept saying to myself. I didn't know what the denial was referring to, or what it was I didn't want to go on with. I simply kept repeating the words. And let my head drop, my arms dangle. My legs were thrust out in front of me. Still, I couldn't let go completely, couldn't yield to my own exhaustion. A stern pair of eyes judged me self-indulgent, a show-off. As if I were playing in some cheap melodrama, with my limbs dangling, puppet-like. And I wasn't playing my role well and would have liked to get out of it. A fever was coming on, I was sweltering and shivering in the coolness of the enormous room. I fell into a deep sleep.
I was awakened by the horrible thought that I'd been left behind. As if they had yelled "Fire!" and run away. It wasn't even a thought or a cry but an image that I recalled, sharp and detailed, of that girl opening her door slowly and, contrary to my expectation, not looking back. For a moment I didn't know where I was. I jumped up and tried to figure how long I'd been asleep. Not too long, I decided. I can't get this woman out of my mind, I must see her. I'll run after them if I have to. Or sit and wait for her in front of her room. I wasn't thinking of my childhood, revisited just now in the features of my friend. Yet the feeling was definitely a childhood feeling. As when everybody went off to play but didn't tell me because they wanted to exclude me. If this is my room number, I figured, and the numbers keep going up, then hers must be such and such. While dialing the discovered, or inferred, room number, I looked at my watch. It was six-thirty. I'd slept for twenty minutes.
Hello.
There was just a hint of hesitation in that hello. As if she didn't know what language to use. But this one word made my heart leap with fright. It began to function. It was made of pure joy, in the shadow of an unknown fear. I heard her voice for the first time. From the moment I had gotten onto the elevator she'd said not a word to the others. I had no way of knowing what her voice was like. She had one of those female voices that have a very strong effect on me. It seemed to come from deep inside her body, a voice with a very strong, solid center, whose surface was nevertheless smooth and soft. It wasn't gentle, for that it was too proud and assertive. When I think of it, I see a dark, hard marble. A marble can fit snugly into the palm of your hand, a marble is something you can lift easily. But a marble is nearly impossible to penetrate. And if you do, it's no longer a marble.
I introduced myself, apologized, was very courteous, and very elaborately explained that I'd changed my mind and would like to join them. I rattled on. She listened patiently. She remained a silent island I lapped around with my words. I said I didn't know my friend's room number, that's why I called her. Though that wasn't the only reason. If she'd be kind enough to give me the number. I should hurry up, then, she said by way of reply. Yes, do hurry up. I used the familiar form of address, she stuck to the formal one. When I tried again, she pretended not to hear the more intimate form. She meted out her silences as reservedly as she did her glances in the elevator. She let me go on, but she was brushing me off.
I wouldn't attach importance to this brief conversation if what followed had been merely another one of my moderately gratifying adventures. But what followed was a bitter four-year struggle. I could also call it an agony, a series of hopeless quarrels, the low point of our lives, certainly my own darkest period up to that time. It would have been all that if it hadn't also been filled with the hope of newfound happiness. Yet the joy we found in each other only reached us unexpectedly, catching us by surprise, sometimes for weeks, at other times only for days, hours, or brief moments. We strove for it but could never really achieve it. What remained was the agony. The agony of missed happiness, or perhaps the joy of agony.
Yet we had no greater desire than to preserve for a lifetime the profound feeling of having found each other. Compelled by painful need, we set conditions for each other and failed to notice that we were breaking, crushing each other with them. She demanded absolute faithfulness from me, while I would have liked her to accept my infidelities as proof of my faithfulness. In vain I explained to her that I had never loved anybody as much as I loved her, but to counter these feelings of unfamiliar quality I needed at least the semblance of freedom. I could no longer live without her, but with her I turned into something like a faulty communicating vessel: if, with the greatest effort, I gave up my freedom and, complying with her condition, didn't even look at other women, my alcohol intake promptly shot up; if, however, I reduced my alcohol consumption by getting entangled in meaningless affairs, then the tension between us became simply unbearable. Our mutual degradation was greatest when she should have felt most secure, for that's when she used the most underhanded methods to spy on me, to probe and snoop, for which I beat her up. I did this twice, and it took a great deal of self-control not to do it more often. But her suspicions even at these times were not completely baseless. What made her jealous were not my occasional lapses but my enforced fidelity. Similarly, I didn't raise my hand to her because she got her girl friends to spy on me but because I couldn't comprehend why she didn't understan
d me. She sensed and felt everything. I couldn't make a move without her sensing its subtlest meaning. And she knew that the fidelity she forced on me caused intolerable tension, that it turned my behavior false and unnatural, because I wasn't used to giving up anything. But whenever her jealousy managed to drive both of us to distraction and I couldn't help seeking relief in some silly affair with no strings attached, then she wanted to break with me for good. She was capable of uttering not a single word except a morning hello, for weeks on end. Of letting all my questions go unanswered, pleas, threats, pledges, and promises. As if punishing me just for being alive. As if playing only to lose triumphantly, so that I'd have to play to win, though she'd never let me. Her real victory would be to push me out of her life completely, though she knew I could never push her out of mine.
The distorted values of my youth came back to haunt me with a vengeance. Because my actions were determined not by aesthetic or ethical principles but by sheer necessity, for me the line between freedom and license became forever blurred. Then, after four years like that, in the lull of one of our cease-fires, we quickly got married. Since then another six hopelessly difficult years have gone by.
One thing I know: that November evening, in a most curious way, I entered a very dark period in my adult years. The meeting turned me into an insecure, anxious adolescent, which I had never been. And the reason had obviously to do with my character and natural inclinations, but also with an accident of fate. A complete life must include lost or stolen time, but what one doesn't actually live through cannot be made up afterward, and there's no point blaming yourself or anyone else for it. Until the age of sixteen I wasn't all that interested in girls. I found their admiration as self-evident and natural as I did the uncritical adoration emanating from my mother. If for some reason I lost one girl's admiration, another one would take her place. And if necessary I could easily have a third or fourth. I accepted the aggressive signs of my biological maturity with the understanding that I'd neither resist nor make too much of them. It still seems odd that my brand-new manhood called attention to itself not in dreams or even in relations with girls but while riding on public transportation, on bumpy streetcars, and buses taking sharp and sudden turns. I wasn't ashamed of it, didn't even try to curb it, at most I'd put my briefcase in front of me. But at times the excitation came on so suddenly and was so acute that to prevent a minor accident, I'd have to get off in a hurry. And this was enough, because the physical tension, the body's excitement, wasn't directed at anyone in particular; it seemed independent even of me and had to do only with the bumpy ride.
