The Notebook + The Proof + The Third Lie

by Agota Kristof

  Lucas stares at the teacher. "You think that might improve the relations between Mathias and the other children, don't you? Yes, it's worth a try. It's probably a good idea."

  It is ten o'clock at night. Peter rings at Lucas's house. Lucas throws him the front-door key from the window. Peter comes up and enters the room. "Am I disturbing you?"

  "Not at all. On the contrary. I was looking for you, but you had disappeared. Even Mathias was worried about you."

  Peter says, "That's nice. Is he asleep?"

  "He's in his room, but how do I know if he's asleep or doing something else? He wakes up at all hours of the night and starts reading, writing, thinking, studying."

  "Can he hear us?"

  "He can if he wants to, yes."

  "In that case I'd rather you came to my place."

  "Fine."

  At his house, Peter opens the windows in all the rooms. He collapses into an armchair. "This heat is unbearable. Fix yourself a drink and sit down. I've just come from the station. I've been traveling all day. I had to change trains four times and wait ages for the connections."

  Lucas pours a drink. "Where have you been?"

  "To my hometown. I was summoned there by the local magistrate concerning Victor. He strangled his sister in a fit of delirium tremens. "

  Lucas says, "Poor Victor. Did you see him?"

  "Yes, I saw him. He's in an insane asylum."

  "How is he?"

  "Very well, very calm. His face is a bit puffed up because of the medication he's on. He was happy to see me. He asked about you, and the shop, and the child. He sends his greetings."

  "And what did he say about his sister?"

  "He said quietly, 'It's done now, we can't change it.' "

  Lucas asks, "What will become of him?"

  "I don't know. They haven't had the trial yet. I think he'll spend the rest of his days in the asylum. Victor doesn't belong in a prison. I asked if there was anything I could do for him. He said to send him a regular supply of writing materials. 'Paper and pencils are all I need. Here I can finally write my book,' he said."

  "Yes, Victor wanted to write a book. He told me when I bought the bookshop. In fact, that's the reason he sold it."

  "Yes, and he's already started writing." Peter takes a pile of typewritten sheets from his briefcase. "I read them on the train. Take them home, read them, and bring them back to me. He typed them next to his sister's body. He strangled his sister and then sat at his desk to write. They were found like that, in Victor's room, the sister strangled, stretched out on the bed, Victor typing, drinking brandy, smoking cigars. It was some of his sister's clients who called the police the next day. On the day of the crime, Victor left the house, drew some money from the bank, went to buy some brandy, cigarettes, and cigars. He told the clients who had an appointment for a fitting and were waiting outside the door that his sister was feeling poorly because of the heat and didn't want to be disturbed. The clients, obstinate and no doubt impatient to have their new dresses, came back the next day, knocked at the door, spoke to the neighbors, decided that the whole thing was a bit strange, and finally went to contact the police. The police forced the door open and found Victor blind drunk, quietly typing away at his manuscript. He let himself be led away without resistance, taking the finished sheets along with him. Read them. There are a lot of errors, but they're readable, and very interesting."

  Lucas goes home with Victor's manuscript and starts to copy it out into his notebook during the night:

  It is August 15; the heat wave has lasted three weeks now. The heat is unbearable indoors as well as outside. You can't get away from it. I don't like the heat, I don't like summer. A wet, cool summer, fine, but these dog days have always made me feel positively ill.

  I have just strangled my sister. She is lying on my bed. I have covered her with a sheet. In this heat her body will soon start smelling. No matter. I'll report it later. I've locked the front door, and if anyone knocks I won't answer. I've also closed the windows and pulled the shutters.

  I've lived with my sister for almost two years. I sold the bookshop and house I owned in a little town far away near the border. I came to live with my sister in order to write a book. I thought I would be unable to do it in the little town far away because of the solitude that threatened to make me ill and turn me into an alcoholic. I thought that here, with my sister taking care of the housework, the meals, and the clothes, I would lead a healthy, regular life, which would at last allow me to write the book that I've always wanted to write.

  Unfortunately, the calm and quiet life I'd anticipated quickly turned into hell on earth.

  My sister watched over me, spied on me constantly. Right from my arrival she forbade me to drink or smoke, and whenever I returned from an errand or a walk she would kiss me affectionately, solely, I realized, in order to detect the smell of drink or tobacco on my breath.

  I abstained from drink for several months, but I was quite incapable of giving up smoking as well. I smoked in secret like a schoolboy. I would buy a cigar or a pack of cigarettes and go off for a walk in the forest. On the way back I would chew pine needles or suck mints to get rid of the smell. I also smoked at night with the window open, even in winter.

  Many times I sat down at my desk with some sheets of paper, but my mind was a complete blank.

  What could I write about? Nothing happened in my life, nothing ever had happened in my life or in the world around me. Nothing worth writing about. And my sister disturbed me all the time; she came into my room on the slightest pretext. She brought me tea, dusted the furniture, put away my clean clothes in the wardrobe. She would also lean over my shoulder to see how my writing was coming along. Because of this I had to fill in sheet after sheet, and since I didn't know what to write on them, I copied out excerpts from books, any books. Sometimes my sister would read a phrase over my shoulder that pleased her, and would encourage me with a contented smile.

  There was no chance of her seeing through my deceit, for she never read herself; she possibly never read a book in her life. She never had the time—since childhood she has worked from morning till night.

  In the evening she made me come into the sitting room. "You've worked enough for one day. Let's chat for a while."

  As she talked, she did her sewing, either by hand or on her old pedal-driven sewing machine. She talked about her neighbors, her clients, about dresses and fabrics, about how tired she felt, and all the sacrifices she had made to ensure the success of the work of her brother, me, Victor.

  I had to sit there, without being able to smoke or drink, listening to this drivel. When finally she went to her room, I went to my own, lit a cigar or a cigarette, picked up a sheet of paper, and filled it with insults directed at my sister, her narrow-minded clients, and her stupid dresses. I hid the sheet among the others containing random excerpts from some book or other.

  For Christmas my sister gave me a typewriter.

  "Your manuscript is already quite thick. You'll soon be reaching the end of your book, I imagine. Then you'll need to type it up. You took typing lessons at business school, and even if you've forgotten some of it through lack of practice you'll soon pick it up again."

  I was in the depths of despair, but in order to please my sister I sat down straight away at my desk and, somewhat clumsily, began copying out various pages, themselves copied from some book or other. My sister watched me, nodding her head with satisfaction.

  "You're not too bad at it, Victor. I'm surprised, you're actually quite good. You'll soon be typing as quickly as you used to."

  When I was alone, I reread what I had typed. It was nothing but a series of typing errors and misprints.

  A few days later, on my way back from my "constitutional," I went into a local bar. I only wanted a cup of tea to warm myself up a bit, for my hands and feet were cold and completely numb because of my poor circulation. I sat at a table next to the stove, and when the waiter asked me what I wanted I said, "Tea." Then I added, "W
ith some rum in it."

  I don't know why I said that; I didn't intend to say it, but I did nevertheless. I drank my tea with rum and ordered another rum, without the tea this time, and then a third rum after that.

  I looked around anxiously. It isn't a big town, and almost everyone knows my sister. If she found out from one of her clients or neighbors that I'd been in a bar! But I saw only the faces of tired, indifferent, distracted men, and my anxiety subsided. I had another rum and left the bar. I was a bit unsure on my feet. I hadn't drunk for several months, and the alcohol had gone straight to my head.

  I didn't dare go home. I was afraid of my sister. I wandered around the streets for a while, then I went into a shop to buy some mints. I put two in my mouth immediately. When I went to pay, without knowing why, without wanting to say it, I casually told the assistant, "I'll also have a bottle of plum brandy, two packs of cigarettes, and three cigars."

  I put the bottle in the inside pocket of my overcoat. Outside it was snowing. I felt perfectly happy. I was no longer afraid of going home, no longer afraid of my sister. When I arrived back at the house she called out from the room which serves as her workshop. "I've got a rush job, Victor. Your supper is in the oven. I'll eat later."

  I ate quickly in the kitchen, retired to my room, and locked the door. It was the first time I had dared to lock my door. When my sister tried to come into my room, I shouted, I dared to shout, "Don't disturb me! I've had some brilliant ideas! I must get them on paper before I lose them."

  My sister replied humbly, "I didn't want to disturb you. I just wanted to wish you good night."

  "Good night, Sophie!"

  She didn't leave.

  "I had this very demanding client. She wanted her dress finished for the New Year. I'm sorry you had to eat on your own, Victor."

  "It doesn't matter," I replied nicely. "Go to bed, Sophie, it's late."

  After a silence she asked, "Why have you locked the door, Victor? You didn't need to lock it. That wasn't really necessary."

  I drank a mouthful of brandy to calm myself. "I don't want to be disturbed. I'm writing."

  "That's good. Very good, Victor."

  I drank the bottle of brandy—it was only a half-liter—smoked two cigars and numerous cigarettes. I threw the butts out the window. It was still snowing. The snow covered the butts and the empty bottle, which I had also thrown out the window, out into the street.

  The next morning my sister knocked at my door. I didn't answer. She knocked again. I shouted, "Let me sleep!"

  I heard her go.

  I didn't get up until two o'clock in the afternoon. My sister and her meal were waiting for me in the kitchen. This was our conversation:

  "I reheated the meal three times."

  "I'm not hungry. Make me some coffee."

  "It's two o'clock. How can you sleep so long?"

  "I was writing till five o'clock this morning. I am an artist. I have the right to work when I want, whenever I feel inspired. Writing is not the same as sewing. Get that into your head, Sophie."

  My sister looked at me admiringly. "You're right, Victor, I'm sorry. Will it soon be finished, your book?"

  "Yes, soon."

  "How wonderful! It will be a very fine book, if the bits I've read are anything to go on."

  I thought, "Stupid cow!"

  I drank more and more; I became careless. I left packs of cigarettes in the pocket of my overcoat. My sister brushed and cleaned it in order to search the pockets. One day she came into my room brandishing a half-empty pack. "You're smoking!"

  I answered defiantly, "Yes, I'm smoking. I can't write without smoking."

  "You promised me you'd stop!"

  "I also promised myself. But then I realized that I couldn't write if I didn't smoke. It was a moral dilemma, Sophie. If I stop smoking, I also stop writing. I decided that it was better to carry on smoking and writing than to live without writing. I've nearly finished my book. You should leave me in peace, Sophie, to finish my book and not worry about whether I smoke or not."

  My sister was impressed by this. She went out and came back with an ashtray, which she placed on my desk.

  "Go ahead and smoke. It's not so bad if it's for your book. . . ."

  As for drinking, I adopted the following tactic. I bought liter bottles of brandy in different parts of town, taking care not to go into the same shop twice in a row. I would bring the bottle home in the inside pocket of my overcoat and hide it in the umbrella stand in the corridor, and when my sister went out or went to bed

  I would grab the bottle, lock myself in my room, and smoke and drink late into the night.

  I avoided bars, I came home sober from my walks, and everything was going fine between my sister and me until the spring of this year, when Sophie began to get impatient.

  "Won't you ever finish that book, Victor? This can't go on. You never get up before two o'clock in the afternoon, you look terrible, you'll make yourself ill, and me besides."

  "I've finished it, Sophie. I now have to correct it and type it up. It's a big job."

  "I never thought it would take so much time to write a book."

  "A book's not the same as a dress, Sophie, remember that."

  Summer came. I suffered terribly from the heat. I spent the afternoons in the forest, lying under the trees. Sometimes I slept and had confused dreams. One day I was awakened by a storm, a huge storm. It was August 14. I left the forest as quickly as my bad leg would allow. I sought shelter in the first bar along the way. It was a workingmen's bar. Everyone was glad about the storm, as it hadn't rained for several months. I ordered a lemonade. They all laughed, and one of them offered me a glass of red wine. I accepted. Then I ordered a bottle and offered it around. And so we carried on as the rain continued to fall. I ordered one bottle after another. I felt exceptionally good, surrounded by this warm camaraderie. I spent all the money I had on me. My companions gradually drifted away, but I didn't want to go home. I felt alone; I didn't have a home to go to. I didn't know where to go. I would have liked to have gone back to my house, my bookshop, in the faraway little town that was my ideal place. I knew now, for certain, that I should never have left that border town to live with my sister, whom I had hated since childhood.

  The bartender said, "Closing time!"

  Out on the street my left leg, the bad one, gave out under me, and I fell over.

  I don't remember the rest. I woke up bathed in sweat in my bed. I didn't dare leave my room. Slowly it all began to come back to me. The vulgar, laughing faces in a local bar.. . later, the rain, the mud ... the uniforms of the policemen who brought me home ... my sister's horrified expression... the insults I hurled at her . . . the policemen's laughter . . .

  The house was silent. Outside, the sun was shining again; the heat was suffocating.

  I got up, took my old suitcase from under the bed, and started packing my clothes. It was the only solution. Leave here as soon as possible. My head was spinning. My eyes, my mouth, my throat felt raw. I felt dizzy and had to sit down. I decided I would never make it to the station in this state. I rummaged around in the wastepaper basket, found a virtually full bottle of brandy. I drank from the bottle. I felt better. I touched the back of my head. I had a painful bump behind my left ear. I picked up the bottle, lifted it to my mouth, and my sister came into the room. I put the bottle down, and I waited. My sister also waited. There was a long silence. She finally broke it, speaking in a weird, calm voice.

  "What have you got to say to me?"

  "Nothing," I said.

  She screamed, "It's so easy! It would be, wouldn't it! He's got nothing to say! He is picked up by the police, blind drunk, lying in the mud, and he has nothing to say!"

  I said, "Let me be. I'm leaving."

  She snorted, "So I see, you've packed your case. But where will you go, you stupid fool, where will you go without money?"

  "I've still got some money in the bank from the sale of the bookshop."

  "Oh, really? I ask mys
elf how much money you have left. You sold off the bookshop for a pittance, and the little money you made from it you've squandered on drink and cigarettes."

  Of course I had never told her about the gold and silver pieces and the jewelry I received as well, which were also deposited in the bank. I simply replied, "I've got enough left to go away."

  She said, "And what about me? I haven't been paid. I've fed you, housed you, taken care of you. Who'll repay me for all that?"

  I fastened up my case. "I'll pay you. Let me leave."

  Suddenly much softer, she said, "Don't be childish, Victor. I'll give you a last chance. What happened yesterday evening was just an accident, a relapse. It will all be different when you've finished your book."

  I asked, "What book?"

  She picked up my "manuscript." "This book, your book."

  "I didn't write a single word of it."

  "There are nearly two hundred pages of typescript."

  "Yes, two hundred pages copied from other books."

  "Copied? I don't understand."

  "You'll never understand anything. I copied these two hundred pages from books. I didn't write a single word of it."

  She looked at me. I raised the bottle and drank. A long drink. She shook her head. "I don't believe you. You're drunk. You're talking nonsense. Why would you do that?"

  I snickered. "To make you believe I was writing. You disturb me, you spy on me constantly, you prevent me from writing; seeing you, your very presence in this house, prevents me from writing. You destroy everything, degrade everything, annihilate all creativity, life, freedom, inspiration. Since childhood you've done nothing but watch over me, guide me, annoy me, since childhood!"

  She remained silent for a moment, then she said, she recited, staring down at the floor, the threadbare carpet, "I sacrificed everything for your work, your book. My own work, my clients, my last years. I walked on tiptoe so as not to disturb you. And you haven't written a single word during the two years you've been here? You do nothing but eat, drink, and smoke! You're nothing but a good-for-nothing cheat, a drunk, and a parasite! I told all my clients that your book was about to appear! And you've written nothing? I'll be the laughingstock of the whole town! You've brought dishonor on my house! I should have left you wallowing in your dirty little town and your filthy bookshop. You lived there, alone, for more than twenty years, so why didn't you write a book there where I wasn't disturbing you, where no one was disturbing you? Why? Because you couldn't even write one word of a third-rate book, no matter where you were or how you were living."