A Book of Memories (111 page)

When the last shreds of the fog's silks and rags had lifted, the ideological significance of the vanishing fog-curtain also became evident. The rags-and-riches motif was now repeated onstage: rich and poor folk were whirling about and mingling in apparent confusion, though in still identifiable clusters. Princesses like golden puppets, drunken boyars wrapped in furs, merchants and lascivious priests frolicking with courtesans in flimsy silks, half-naked beggars, contortionists in dirt-encrusted rags, wounded soldiers writhing in blood-soaked bandages, peddlers hawking their miserable wares, and here and there, among gaping loafers and street people, provincial grandees in gaudy folk costume, demure maidens and handsome lads. All this abundance made me sick to my stomach. I felt like leaving. I felt like going to Pervomayskaya. Where I was expected. Where I wouldn't feel so out of place. Where in the morning three women in large pink satin bras and even larger pink satin panties paraded around the house and I could scratch and mope to my heart's content. Searching for a deeper clue to my discomfort, it occurred to me that for a disciple to sit in a theater just one day after his master's demise was an unseemly thing to do.

The whirling and dancing were still in progress when the bearded man put his paw on the girl's hand resting on the railing. He leaned over and whispered something into her ear. I could see they were accustomed to such intimate whispering, though it immediately made their two companions curious. They craned their necks, wanted to be in on whatever was going on. The bearded man, without letting go of the girl's hand, began to explain something to them. And my friend, after catching only the first few words, quickly moved closer and over the bearded fellow's shoulder whispered something to the girl. They both laughed. But the girl tilted her head so that I could catch a glimpse of their merriment, and at the same time she pulled her hand out from under the bearded man's paw. And that gesture, too, was meant for me. She made up my mind for me: I couldn't leave now. But all this fidgeting and chuckling and carrying on made me extremely uncomfortable. I belonged to this group yet had nothing to do with it. I understood their game but wanted no part of it. Because from this point on, everything that happened onstage made them laugh. I couldn't completely ignore the solemn atmosphere in the theater, but from then on I was compelled to see the stage with their eyes.

No doubt it isn't a particularly brilliant artistic concept to use irreconcilable class struggle and the conflict of social classes as the basis for a ballet piece within an opera. It's also true that the opera's overture didn't quite work as ballet music. Yet the group's judgment of it rubbed me the wrong way. I was also afraid they might create a scene. And I was right. After a while the interpreter, startled out of her patriotic rapture, tried with alarmed and cautious touches of her fingers to make them come to their senses. But this only added fuel to the fire. The poor woman was like a kindhearted schoolmistress who is herself terrified that the principal might get wind of the rowdiness of her charges. They didn't dare look at one another, and probably didn't much look at the stage either. The interpreter didn't understand any of this, she kept hushing and admonishing them in her softly accented Hungarian. Their backs and shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. Now and then the laughter would pop, erupt, and be immediately stifled, but that only hastened and amplified the next explosion.

I don't know how many dancers were on the stage
—a great many. It's rare to see so many dancers all at once. But when after the overture the victoriously entering soloists were followed by fresh throngs singing away jubilantly and carrying church banners and military insignias, creating an incredible mass of bodies, and when, to top it all off, to the accompaniment of booming church bells a red sun rose, pulled by. wire, over the crenellated walls of the Kremlin, all hell broke loose in our box. They began punching one another, their laughter turning to snorting and belching. Trying to calm them, the frightened interpreter was also punching them. In neighboring boxes a counter-movement was brewing; general consternation now found expression in indignant hissing, muttering, and muffled cussing. I lost my head, sprang up, and fled.

This row of boxes did not give directly onto a corridor but onto a brightly lit lounge with red silk wall hangings. I was incensed, indignant, but also relieved to know that whatever happened to them, I was out of there. I got my coat. But just as I was putting it on, the silk-covered door of the box was flung open and, with a resounding bass aria serving as background, the four Hungarians, clinging to one another in their uncontrollable fit, literally fell out of the box. For a second I could see the interpreter desperately gesturing behind them, but then one of them slammed the door on her. The four continued laughing and pushing and shoving and stumbling into one another, in turn shrieking and whimpering, with tears in their eyes. Four unruly children sent out of the classroom. As far as I was concerned, I wanted to put an end to this impossible scene, the sooner the better. The girl and her bearded friend fell holding on to each other, against the wall. After the impact, the man sank to the floor. I would have made my getaway then if my friend, on purpose or by accident, hadn't let go of his partner in a way that had him fall against me. I had no choice but to catch him. For long seconds we stared into each other's eyes. I couldn't hold back the contempt and hatred that loomed out of the shadows of our remote childhood, as the joy of our reunion had only an hour earlier. I felt my own hand
—or rather, I realized I was—grabbing his shoulder. I shook him. Clowns! I was yelling at him, bunch of buffoons, that's what you are! Miserable buffoons! His face relaxed at once, and he glared back at me with the same implacable hatred. And you are a lousy opportunist gone sour, he said. A shitty little Julien Sorel, that's what you were and that's what you still are. A filthy playboy. And he said something else, too. The hatred was still in his eyes, but his voice had a phony cynical ring I hadn't known before. It came hissing out of him. In the sudden silence the others could hear it, too. I couldn't have picked a better time to tell you, he hissed in that odd voice, but I was madly in love with you, you chickenshit.

The girl regarded my defenselessness with indulgent contempt. Well, well, she said, and as she headed for the exit, she gave my arm a pitying touch. She meant it as a coup de grâce. She even pursed her lips. Only the muffled sound of music could be heard. Four of us were standing in the lounge, facing in four different directions. And then she took the pins out of her bun, letting her long hair fall down. She shook her head and walked out the door.

What followed strikes me now as something phantasmal, out of a fairy tale. With slow, measured steps, she was going down the red-carpeted stairs. Her shapely, stockinged legs were going down, down. Silently, a bit dejectedly, we followed her, leaving the last strains of music behind us. On the second floor, the glass doors of the onetime imperial reception hall were wide-open. Under glittering crystal chandeliers, breathtakingly opulent tables were waiting for the guests at the gala performance. The U-shaped table followed the curve of the room. Except for us, not a soul was in sight. Without betraying the slightest sign of surprise or embarrassment, she sauntered into this room. Timidly the others followed. She walked around the table laden with cold meat, fruit, drinks, and sweets, decorated with garlands and flower baskets and gleaming with silver cutlery, crystal, and china. Then she picked up a plate, took a fork and napkin to go with it, and served herself. The others chuckled and, somewhat flustered, followed suit. Within a few moments they were continuing where they had left off in the lounge. Except now it was all silent. They guzzled and stuffed themselves. I found a bottle of vodka, filled a glass, and gulped it down. Then I walked over to her and asked whether she'd like to come with me. Actually, she was the most vicious of them all, because she wasn't stuffing herself but, moving methodically from platter to platter, only sampling things, digging, poking into every dish, ruining everything. And all the while her face remained perfectly straight. When I spoke to her, she looked up. No, she said, staring at me steadily, she was having a good time right here.

The snow would not let up. The streets were full of lively, happy sounds, but the slackening traffic, muffled by the heavy snowfall, made it evident that the big holiday had already begun. There were staggering drunks on the streets, too. I walked back to my hotel, took the vodka out of the refrigerator, and put it next to the telephone. I drank and waited for her call. Later I called her, and kept calling her at ever shorter intervals. A few minutes after midnight she called me. By then she was alone.

And this is about as much as I am able, or prepared, to tell about myself.

After this accidental meeting in Moscow, I didn't see my friend for a long time. Now and then his name would crop up. Reading his pieces about alienated, anxious, and feckless young men was like eating sawdust. A little over five years had passed when a few days before Christmas I had to fly to Zurich. Since I'd be away for only two days, I left my car in the parking lot of Budapest's Ferihegy Airport. When I returned and walked out of the terminal, as usual I couldn't find my car keys. They weren't in my coat or in my pant pockets. I kept feeling for them all over. They must be in my bag, then. Or I had lost them; it wouldn't have been the first time. My possessions don't stick with me either. All I had was a small suitcase stuffed with shirts and papers, and a large shopping bag full of presents. Putting my things in a luggage cart, I began searching for the keys.

While rummaging in my suitcase, I noticed that somebody just an arm's length away from me was sitting on the concrete guardrail of the steps. I took a good look at him only after I'd found the keys in one of my socks. He sat so close I didn't even have to raise my voice.

Did you just arrive or are you leaving? I asked, as if this were the most natural thing to ask, even though I saw that something was wrong. Neither the season nor the place nor the hour was right for anybody to be sitting there. It was getting dark; in the fine, drizzling fog the streetlights had been turned on. It was unpleasantly cold and clammy. He looked up at me, but I wasn't sure he recognized me. Until he began to shake his head I had the feeling that I might have made a mistake.

Are you waiting for somebody? I asked.

He said no, he wasn't waiting for anybody.

Then what are you doing here? I asked, a little annoyed.

He again shook his head silently.

In the intervening five years he probably hadn't changed more than I. I was still surprised to see his face so narrow and dried out, his thinning and graying hair. He looked as though the last drop of moisture had been squeezed from him. He was dry and wrinkled.

I stepped closer, showed him my key, and told him I'd gladly take him into town.

He shook his head no.

What the hell did he want to do, then?

Nothing, he said.

He was sitting between two large, well-stuffed suitcases. On the handles I could make out the tags of Interflug, the East German airline. Which made it clear that he wasn't departing but had just arrived. I simply thrust my valise in his lap, grabbed his heavy suitcases, and without saying a word headed for the parking lot. By the time I found my car and put his luggage in the trunk, he was standing there with my bag. He was handing it to me while his face remained inert, frighteningly expressionless.

Yet, strangely enough, his face was more determined-looking than ever. For all its softness, almost forceful. Gone, too, was that odd ambivalence that had so surprised me at our previous meeting. A clean face, free of shadows. And yet it was as if he himself did not reside in his own face. As if he'd sent himself away on some vacation. He was dry. I can't find a better word to describe him.

My car is usually pretty messy. I had to make room, toss things on the back seat. I tried to be quick and decisive, because I had the impression that he might slip away any moment, leaving his luggage behind. Or I should say I had this impression because he remained totally impassive. He was standing there but wasn't really there.

We were already on the highway when I offered him a cigarette. He declined; I lit up.

I told him I'd take him home.

No, not there.

Where, then? I asked.

He didn't answer.

I couldn't say why, but I had to look at him. I wasn't waiting for an answer. I knew he couldn't answer because he had nothing to say. He had no place to go. And anyone without a place cannot talk about that. At regular intervals we passed under bright arc lights, and therefore after a while I had to turn again to make sure I saw what I thought I saw. He was crying. I'd never seen a crying man look like that. His face remained dry and impassive, as before. Still, drops of water were coming out of his eyes and trickling down along his nose.

I told him to come to our house. It's Christmas tomorrow. He'll spend it with us.

Oh no.

I wanted to say something simple and comforting. We might just have a white Christmas. Which sounded pretty inane, so after that I kept quiet for a long time.

I never before had the feeling, except with my children, that someone was so completely dependent on me. It was a feeling I probably wouldn't have experienced even if I had to save him from drowning or cut a noose off his neck. But he gave no indication that he intended to part with his life. The empty shell of his body was still alive. There was no need for heroic gestures. I couldn't have known what had happened to him and wasn't eager to find out. I didn't have to save him. Besides, one can sense when it's all right to ask questions and when it isn't. He was only entrusted to my care for now, and it didn't seem such an unpleasant burden. Many of his passions had burned out in him, and the void made it possible for my simple, pragmatic abilities to come to the fore.

We reached the city. I always have to cast a glance at the huge building of the Ludovika Military Academy, where my father had spent so much of his life. Then came the Polyclinic on Ull
ő
i Road, where, in a second-floor ward, my mother had died two years earlier. And right there, while driving between those two buildings, I felt an urgent need to decide just where we were going. I didn't look at him.