A Book of Memories

by Peter Nadas

  And then the boy with the cigarette dangling from his mouth started walking toward us.

  Or, I should say, heading straight for Melchior.

  First I thought they must know each other, though considering the boy's appearance, that was not very likely.

  I felt uneasy.

  His feet made no sound; he moved with a soft bounce, thrusting his body up in the air with each step, as if in moving forward he also had to move upward as well, and the unpleasant impression he created may have had something to do with the way he wouldn't let the weight of his body drop all the way to his heels; he wore a pair of tattered, slipperlike shoes and no socks; the white of his ankles flashed with each bouncing step.

  Socially conscious empathy is invariably bundled up in a nice warm coat.

  His pants were tight, rather short, well-worn, and ripped around the knees; his synthetic red jacket was stiff, came barely down to his waist, and made rattling noises, as if frozen, with his every move.

  Until now he had been standing with his back to the boy; he reacted to this cold rattling sound, amplified in the vast space of the station.

  With a single, elegantly indifferent movement of his shoulders he turns toward the boy; but as he is turning, the boy stops and, with an inexplicably hostile and deranged look, seems ready to pounce on him.

  This may be the place to say something about city parks at night; about the shadows under the trees where it's blacker than black, and where strangers signal their hunger for a lustful touch with the intermittent red glow of their cigarettes.

  In becoming an animal you cannot sink deeper into yourself than that.

  It was hard to decide what he was looking at, maybe at Melchior's neck.

  He wasn't drunk.

  It seemed as if a tiny goatee blackened his chin, but a closer look revealed that this black spot wasn't facial hair at all but the chin itself, and that some horrible skin disease or blemish covered that entire area; or perhaps it was a black-and-blue mark, the traces of a well-aimed punch or a sudden fall.

  Melchior didn't turn pale.

  His features, reflecting a total lack of interest in the world around him, merely quivered as he shifted into an entirely different state of mind, yet I did see this as a sudden paleness.

  And this subtle shift in his expression told me he didn't know the boy, yet he seemed to discover something very important in him, something so important that realizing it, and the long-dormant joy that came with the realization, terrified him; it was like an irresistible inducement, an idea that could save him; but he didn't want to betray his excitement, and so he remained very controlled.

  How can you get deep enough into your memories so that you won't need to remember anything anymore?

  But then he did betray himself, because he gave me a quick, cold, withering look that said I was out of my depth, as if I had committed some grave offense, as if I had offended him personally; in a quiet and deep voice, hardly moving his lips, trying in fact to conceal with his mouth the meaning of his words from the boy's wide-eyed stare, he said, Get lost.

  Which in his language sounds even harsher.

  And I thought: This is how he's getting back at me.

  What did you say? I asked sheepishly.

  Get lost, get lost, he spat the words at me from behind his clenched teeth, from his throat, his face turning red; then he quickly pulled a cigarette from his pocket, stuck it into his mouth, and started toward the boy.

  The boy is waiting for him, on tiptoe, motionless, ready to fight, bending forward.

  I didn't understand anything; this new turn of events was already past any kind of surprise, but I was sure there would be a fight, and soon; we were still the only people on the platform, a wind smelling of dank cellars whipped through the empty station.

  He walked up very close, almost bending over the boy's burning cigarette, and said something to him that made the boy not only lower himself back on his heels but also take a few awkward steps backward.

  But Melchior goes after him, is all over him, and now I feel it's the boy and not Melchior who needs to be protected; but I couldn't see anything except Melchior's back.

  Like two madmen facing each other, one more insane than the other; when Melchior says something to him again, the boy leans aside hesitantly, quickly and obligingly snatches the cigarette from his mouth, and with a trembling hand offers its burning end to Melchior.

  But during the shaky contact of the cigarettes the burning tobacco must have been dislodged, it fell out and scattered on the concrete platform.

  Disregarding this little accident, the boy starts talking, rapidly, feverishly, going on and on; I couldn't make out what he said, something about being cold, he repeated the word "cold" again and again in the echoing darkness.

  From the tunnel we heard the rumble of the approaching train.

  And if until then there was something uncontrollable and maniacal about Melchior, it now suddenly snapped, got deflated.

  It was over, all over.

  He fumbles in his pocket, drops a few coins into the boy's open palm, then turns around, disappointed and weary, and starts back toward me.

  Now he is tossing his cigarette away, crushing it angrily with his next step.

  In the few seconds this unexpected confrontation had taken, he did turn pale, was humiliated, grew angry and desperate—and he came back to me in that state.

  And I kept staring at the boy, staring as if the sight itself would provide the explanation; with one hand holding the coins he'd just wheedled out of Melchior, with the other crumbling the cigarette that had gone out, the boy again raised himself on his toes and looked at me accusingly and insistently, disconsolately and reproachfully, as if this whole incident were my fault, yes, mine, and he was ready to rush me, knock me down, and kill me.

  And for a fraction of the next second it looked as if he'd really do it.

  That's right, look at me, go ahead, keep on looking at me, he screamed at the top of his lungs, managing to overcome the noise of the train roaring into the station.

  You think you can buy me off, don't you, he screamed.

  In public, like that, he screamed, buy me off in public.

  There was no time to think.

  Between two screams, in a flash, Melchior tore open the door of the nearest car, shoved me in, jumped after me, and we continued to move away from the raving boy, though still staring at him, mesmerized.

  You think there's forgiveness.

  We were moving farther inside as the razor-sharp voice of madness penetrated the car with its quietly huddling passengers.

  You can't buy forgiveness for a few lousy pennies.

  A face marred by huge red pussy pimples; damp, sticky, blond, fuzzy hair of a child, and sensitive blue eyes untouched by his own rage.

  A strange god was screaming out of him, a god he had to carry with him wherever he went.

  While we kept backing away, seeking protection among passengers who were now raising their heads, the conductress, slovenly and looking bored, emerged from the next car, her hands resting on the leather bag that hung from her neck; she walked in a leisurely way down the platform, past the cars, remaining perfectly calm and unresponsive to this awful screaming; All aboard, she intoned apathetically, though besides the boy there was nobody on the platform, all aboard; how is one to explain the infinite sobriety and shameful orderliness of things?

  She shoved the screaming boy out of her way.

  He lost his footing and reeled back; but to chalk up a tiny victory, not much, just a modicum of satisfaction, something that even in his profound humiliation could comfort him, for a brief moment at least he rushed to the train, and just before the doors closed he threw into our face—no, not the money—the crumbled, cold cigarette butt; but he missed, and now the refuse ol this little scene was lying at our feet.

  When people in the speeding car finally calmed down and were no longer watching us with a reproachful curiosity that did not hide their eagerness
for a scandal, when they stopped trying to figure out what we must have done to the unfortunate child, I asked him what that was all about.

  He didn't answer.

  He stood there motionless, upset, pale; with his hand on the strap he was hiding his eyes from me; he refused to look at me.

  Nobody is so sane as not to be touched by the words of a madman.

  Holding the strap next to him, I felt as if the senseless mechanical clatter of the train was also jostling me to the verge of madness.

  Wheels, tracks.

  I'd get off at the next station, without a word, and end it all, leaving everything but everything behind me on those tracks.

  Fat chance; I couldn't even bring myself to swallow the pills.

  This was not madness, not even close.

  In those years the sense of any kind of perspective was missing from me; it was only inside or on the surface of other human bodies that all my words, movements, secret desires, goals, ambitions, and intentions sought fulfillment, gratification, and even redemption.

  Yes, I lacked these perspectives, like the awesome, magnificent perspective of madness manifest in a strange deity, because everything I perceived as madness or sinfulness in myself spoke not of the great chaos of nature but only of the ridiculous snags of my upbringing, of the sensual chaos of my youth.

  Or maybe it wasn't like that; maybe it was the perspective of the merciful, punishing, and redeeming deity, the one and only, that was missing in me, because what I saw as a touch of grace in me was not part of a grand, divine order but the work of my own petty machinations, spitefulness, and trickery.

  I believed that the sense of uncertainty could be eliminated from my life; I was a coward, the sucker of my age, an opportunist feeding on my own life; I believed that anxiety, fear, and the feeling of being an outcast could be assuaged or, by certain acts of the body, even be evaded.

  But how can one be familiar with the nearby affairs of men without a perspective on the remote affairs of the gods?

  Shit never reaches to the sky; it merely collects and dries up.

  Leaning close to his ears I kept repeating the question: What was that all about? was this what he'd been waiting for? was it? I wanted an answer, though I should have held my tongue and been patient.

  He'd had enough of the whispering and answered rather loudly: I could see for myself, he asked for a light, a light, it was that simple, except he didn't realize that he'd picked a raving lunatic.

  What I felt then inside me was my little sister, the one I'd never see again; I felt her heavy body in mine.

  I am like a house with all its doors and windows wide-open; anyone can look in, walk in; anyone can pass through, from anywhere to anywhere else.

  I can't take your lies anymore.

  He didn't answer.

  If he won't answer, I said, I'll get off at the next stop and he'll never see me again.

  He swung the arm that was raised to hold the strap and with his elbow struck my face.

  From the open window one could look out on a spring afternoon.

  And then, opening night, at last; snow began to fall in the afternoon, a soft, thick, slow snow, with only an occasional gust of wind buffeting and stirring up the big moist flakes.

  It stuck to the rooftops, covered the grass in the parks, on the roadways and sidewalks.

  Hurrying feet and rushing tires soon soiled it with black trails and tracks.

  We were on our way to the premiere.

  This white snow came much too early; true, our poplar had lost the last dry leaves of its crown, but the foliage of the plane trees on Wörther Platz was still green; a few hours later it was clear the snow had won: the city had turned all white; snow sat on the bare branches, slowly covered up all the dirty tracks and trails, and put a glistening white cap on the green domes of the plane trees now glowing in the light of streetlamps.

  She was the only survivor, so I went to see Maria Stein; I wanted to know which one of the two men I should remember as my father, though it didn't really make that much difference.

  Last year's weeds grew waist-high; sitting on the embankment, men stripped to the waist were enjoying the breeze in the hot afternoon sun.

  The river flowed lazily, forming tiny funnels under their feet; over on the shipyard's island the willows now showed yellow as the branches seemed to be drifting in their own reflections.

  It couldn't have been a Sunday, because across the river everything was clattering, hissing, creaking, a giant crane was turning slowly.

  First I took the well-trodden trail along the railroad tracks all the way to the Filatori Dam stationhouse; I knew that my father's body was brought here, and he was laid out on the waiting-room bench until the ambulance arrived.

  Now the waiting room was cool and empty, they must have used sawdust dampened with oil to clean the floor; a cat scurried by my feet on its way out the door; the long bench stood against the wall.

  The curtain moved behind the bars of the ticket window and a woman looked out.

  No, thank you, I said, I'm not buying a ticket.

  Then what was I doing here?

  She must have seen the corpse, I was sure, or at least heard about it.

  This is not a lounge but a waiting room reserved for passengers, and if I didn't intend to take a train, I'd better clear out.

  In the end I didn't have the courage to ask Maria Stein which one of the two I should consider my father, and later I tried in vain to compare features, to scrutinize my body parts before a mirror.

  In Heiligendamm, too, in the hotel room mirror, I was trying to establish my physical origin and intellectual identity; my own nakedness was like an ill-fitting suit; but the policemen weren't knocking on my door because they were interested in the circumstances of Melchior's disappearance; it was the hotel clerk who had found me suspicious, after seeing me come in at an unusual hour and with my face all banged up, and he decided to call the police.

  By daybreak the wind had died down.

  The only thing I kept thinking about was that I had to deny ever having known Melchior.

  They asked to see my papers; I demanded to know the reason for their investigation; they in turn ordered me to pack my things and then took me to the police station in Bad Doberan.

  I heard the raging of the sea, although outside there was hardly a breeze.

  While huddling in my cold prison cell I decided to face all the consequences of my action, and afterward I'd have the valet kill my friend.

  After they returned my passport, apologized for the inconvenience, and requested that I leave their country as soon as possible, I toyed rather wickedly with the idea that in parting I'd tell them all about Melchior's escape; and to make them even happier, I'd tell them that in the valet they'd put an innocent man to death, because I was the murderer.

  In the meantime, the sea had calmed down and was gently lapping the shoreline; I was all set and waited for my train.

  There was nothing much to see from that bench, so I left the cool waiting room for the warm spring sun outside.

  I knew I'd find Maria Stein at home; she was still too scared to leave her apartment, her neighbors did her shopping for her.

  She opened the door; the blue sweat suit she was wearing was stretched at the elbows and knees; she was holding a cigarette in her hand.

  She didn't recognize me.

  The last time she had seen me was at my mother's funeral.

  Five years had passed, yes, and I saw her again at Mother's funeral; she'd been let out of prison earlier, but she didn't come to see us.

  Or maybe she pretended not to recognize me so she wouldn't have to talk to me.

  She led me into the room where they had tormented each other all night long; the bed was still unmade, and from the window you could see the train station.

  My father, or the man whose name I carry, said to her. All right, Maria, I understand, I understand everything, and you are right; Maria, all I ask of you is to look out the window.<
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  I'm not asking this for myself, it's for you; I want you to be sure that I'm really leaving.

  Will you do it? the man asked.

  The woman nodded, though she didn't quite understand.

  The man got dressed, the woman put on her robe in the bathroom; without a word the man walked out of the apartment and the woman walked to the window.

  But not before taking a look in the mirror; she touched her hair and face with her finger; her hair was gray and looked strange to her, but the skin on her face seemed smooth and tight, and she realized she'd better put on her glasses.

  She found them under the bed; now she could see the man better.

  As if an empty overcoat were making its way through the waist-high rubble-strewn weeds, on the trail still frozen hard; someone was leaving, was gone, in that cold dawn in the light of a streetlamp.

  The first snow that year fell in January.

  The woman was happy to see it, was grateful for it, for she kept telling herself all night long in her messed-up bed that it was no use, no use; with every little scream and sigh, with every choked breath, she tried to silence this dreadful inner protest: no, no, no, she couldn't be the wife of a murderer, she just couldn't do it, she didn't want to.

  I'll still be your mistress, like before, that I can't deny myself, but nothing more.

  I have to raise two children, and I am a madman, he said.

  No, nothing more; we'll just make love like animals.

  That we don't need, the man said at the very moment he penetrated her, and not for the first time that night.

  The word was on her lips all night, but she couldn't say it; instead she said, I couldn't care less about your children.

  You're the only one I can say this to, child, she said to me; I didn't tell him that I couldn't be the wife of a murderer.

  And she turned her body so the man had no choice but to penetrate her even deeper.

  Besides, it wasn't you, it was never you I was in love with, him, always him, and I'm still in love with him, him and nobody else.

  János Hamar, with whom Maria Stein was so much in love, left a few months later to take up his post as chargé d'affaires in the Montevideo embassy; he left his light summer suit in our house.