Parallel Stories: A Novel (124 page)

Sometimes he would run out of the house at the doleful sound of the horn, just as he had in his childhood, hurry down to the dock and from the old fishing-boat landing watch the slow passing of the
Carolina
.

Once he saw Chief Counselor Elemér Vay get off, on his way back from Belgrade; the Mayer boy lugged his suitcases behind him. The smartly dressed, severe-looking gentleman was conveyed from Fish Market Square in the Hotel Korona’s black, crest-adorned carriage, while simultaneously, amid much blowing of its horn, the ship set out upstream, taking its passengers leaning on the railing. And this not only pained Madzar but also made him dread the pain of longing to be off.

Which should not have touched him. He did not want to admit that his life had various mysterious processes and phenomena that he could not clearly see even in retrospect and that no sober reasoning helped him anticipate. He feared them the same way he did bodily contacts he considered improper. And when once again Bellardi did not show up in the afternoon, and Madzar was left with only the Danube’s enormous currents and muddy, layered whirlpools, he took off on a longer stroll to work off his anger with Bellardi.

He should pick up at least two bottles of good wine; that way he wouldn’t be going home alone.

At least they’d have good wine when Bellardi came.

North of the city lay ridges and series of hills, covered with loess and divided naturally by vales that seasonal streams had created, where even in Roman times grapes were grown and where, thanks to Levantine wine merchants, the very demanding viticulture survived the century and a half of Turkish occupation. At some places, the ancient wine cellars had long since caved in. Above the buried, walled-up medieval labyrinths sat small windowless grape-crushing sheds and proud, richly decorated houses belonging to rich Swabian smallholders, with wooden porches and tripartite wooden facades overlooking the river. He made his way up here on banked, carriage-wide roads between vertical loess walls. He was recalling in more depth and detail what once had happened to him and Bellardi. It felt good to go for a long walk after a full day’s work. As if he were thinking that with these pieces of furniture he might be able to make a present of his childhood to Mrs. Szemz
ő
. Recollection itself was not surprising to him; he has had ample practice in it. While working, one concentrates on the details of details, and parallel with them all sorts of other things come to mind, details and images from his life completely unrelated to his work. Except that now this was happening in the city of his birth as he walked along fences and stone walls, among raging dogs, or clambering upward in the grave silence and green dimness of the banked roads. Preoccupied with a technical detail, such as that something needed oiling, he would recall the giant willow that arched over the swelling river, in one of whose branches they had spotted the little cripple, look, there he is, reading, because he was always reading, taking his books everywhere with him, and in the next instant he would suddenly realize that the V-shape belt of the electric saw was loose, and so on; thus his thoughts kept chasing one another.

Or in the midst of having to deal with some quintessentially technical detail, he might think, we are the culprits, and he would brood on this if he could not suppress his memories.

Bellardi did not come.

He wanted to give up on him, but anxiety, aversion to the other man’s capriciousness, elemental wonder at the sight of this strange man’s behavior, and existential fear about the future remained much too strong in him. He won’t even have one car in America, let alone two. I’m a dreamer who doesn’t do anything. And why in hell did Gottlieb have to go to America of all places.

Why couldn’t the Gottliebs let him have that pleasure for himself.

He decided to wait for him anyway, to be prepared, and not to let Bellardi surprise him. And the telegram still hadn’t come from the head mason or the cabinetmaker telling him to come to Buda. He and his mother ate up, or gave to friends and relatives, the plum-jam tarts, morello strudels, and cherry pies; his mother kept bringing fresh fruit from the island. At night he drank the light white wines he had brought from the Süssloch or from the valley of the Csele river, from the Stricker relatives’ vineyard, sitting by himself on the veranda, in the dark. He wouldn’t turn on the light. But why should Bellardi come to see him. Bellardi’s life was nothing but a series of promises he couldn’t keep, not even for himself. What cause could they have in common, no cause at all. Yet Bellardi must have felt bad about having been so firmly rejected. But Madzar couldn’t imagine not rejecting him, how he could have been less rejecting, what he might have done so as not to reject Bellardi’s proposal. What part of the proposal should he accept. Still, the following day he walked out of the city again to get wine, taking with him an empty demijohn, sat around again with the old men he knew, sipped wine with them until it grew dark above the cellars.

If Bellardi comes now, he won’t find him at home.

Sometimes it rained for long spells and he could not go out for days.

Gradually he had to admit to himself that during the twelve years of his forgetfulness, he had not only guarded the safety and strength of his emotional attachment but also nourished it, kept it alive. He allowed his most secret images to return to him, repeatedly, mutely; he reveled and delighted in them. Even though, along with Bellardi, he wanted to forget Mohács. The place where unsuspecting people go to hoe their vineyards, tie up their vines or pound vine props in deeper, and then suddenly the ground opens up beneath them.

Collapsing medieval cellars swallowed up and buried many of them.

The Gottlieb boy sat on a branch of the willow tree, and they were throwing stones at him.

He could not remember which of them started it. First they lobbed small pebbles from the shore, and the boy kept jerking his sharp little head away from them, and the two on the ground laughed silently, writhing like snakes; they could not completely suppress their laughter but at least held back the sound of it. At first, the little humpback could not understand where the pounding pellets were coming from; both Madzar and Bellardi were good shots. Somehow, it was also part of the game that the two of them were so strong and well developed while the other boy was a pigeon-breasted hunchback. They left the little grub alone for a while, let him reimmerse himself in his reading. Then they bombarded him again with handfuls of pebbles, burst after burst, let him beware and feel the pain.

It became more and more serious.

Let him hold on to the branches so he’ll drop the book.

After a while they saw that the cripple understood but in his great Jewish pride pretended to care about nothing but his book.

They were no longer laughing.

With bigger stones they were more certain to hit him. The stones thudded on his body, then splashed into the water. No other noise disturbed the grand summer landscape.

He was still pretending not to notice the impending danger, as if he were absorbed in his reading, and he did not hold on to anything. But he waited for the next missile with his thin little neck pulled in, risking much. With the hard cover of his book, he tried to protect at least his face, but of course he was always late; they hit their mark well. He not only made himself ridiculous but ran the danger of losing his balance and falling out of the tree.

They’ll get tired of their lousy prank and go away; that is what he must have thought.

But they did not go away, out of spite, because they figured that eventually he would climb down.

He uttered not a word from where he sat.

Then let him stay up there, up where he’d climbed by himself.

We’ll see who can hold out longer.

If he made a move to sit more comfortably with his book, they right away fired at him. And they did it when he stayed too long in one position.

When another gang of noisy boys arrived to fish for driftwood, their enterprise could no longer be kept secret and these newcomers were certainly not going to let the hunchbacked little Jew climb down from the tree.

He might have begged the two of them for mercy, but not the newcomers.

He and Bellardi might as well go home.

And when he returned one evening from the vineyard hills, a bit tipsy, not only was his supper waiting for him in the immaculate kitchen fragrant with freshly baked morello pie but his excited mother held out an unopened telegram, which reminded him of Bellardi’s long letter from the Trieste Naval Academy, every sentence of which had also surprised him.

Sometimes, Madzar left home so as not to be there if Bellardi showed up unexpectedly; it was a way to ensure his own surprise—to return to find Bellardi there.

Although the possibility of such a visit had never been mentioned, in the telegram Mrs. Szemz
ő
announced her arrival the next day.

Telegram in hand, the text much too long with too many detailed explanations, Madzar stood, overcome by the news as if hit on the head. He managed to read the first sentence all right, but he gave only a cursory glance to the rest. How could he prevent her. He turned red right under his mother’s watchful eyes. Bellardi must love him greatly, after all. There was no possibility of replying; the post office was closed at this late hour. He did not understand what this meant or what he had read in the telegram, because he hadn’t expected Mrs. Szemz
ő
to be interested in his work; this was too much for him. What did each word mean in the sentence about needing to clarify unresolved questions, and his mother wanted to know, and quite loudly too, who, when, and how many guests might be arriving. Or perhaps he had to go to Pest. Just to be on the safe side, as soon as the mailman left she had quickly slaughtered a chicken. Should she add another one. She had cleaned the vegetables for the soup and she would put it on the stove at dawn, but would her little boy tell her whether she should pick more carrots and turnips. It was as though each of his mother’s words reached him from a great distance, along with one of the telegram’s words hovering before his eyes, or as if the words had not reached him at all.

She already has nice new string beans in the garden. It’s a good thing they don’t grow just on the island.

They should pick some before it got completely dark; she’d make some bread-crumbed beans.

As if in her convoluted explanation Mrs. Szemz
ő
could conceal why she was coming and why so suddenly.

His first thought was that he should get some water from the soda man who had an artesian well; finicky Mrs. Szemz
ő
should not have to drink the stinking water from the Madzars’ well. With all those expensive words in the telegram, Mrs. Szemz
ő
revealed that her pride and standoffishness had collapsed; she couldn’t bear being without him, and putting aside propriety and decorum, defying the social differences, she was on her way.

He became inordinately cheerful and excited.

What came promptly to mind was Mrs. Szemz
ő
’s laugh, showing her big ugly horse teeth and bare gums.

Well, then, it’s happening after all.

At the mere thought, his prick stiffened and his sphincters contracted. But how would he tell his mother that she should expect the visit of a married woman. He quickly folded the virtually unread telegram and shoved it into his pants pocket. Because it occurred to him, and the possibility truly alarmed him, that tomorrow, on the very same day, Bellardi might also make his appearance.

Both of them might show up on Wednesday.

And in that case, responsibility for the death of the Gottlieb boy rests with them. Which neither of them would ever admit and Mrs. Szemz
ő
would never forgive if she knew about it. Luckily, it was only an accident. There was no summer without somebody drowning in the Danube. And why would the two of them have talked to each other about such matters. The water around Mohács is unpredictable enough.

They turned away from each other when other people spoke of the accident.

What time is it, Mother, he asked, a little sobered from his good mood.

He even asked if today was Tuesday.

Outside it was becoming quite light; birds began to chirp in the trees on Pozsonyi Road, though the first streetcar had not yet come.

I’ll go out for a walk, Madzar said, while thinking, no, I can’t do this to my mother, she’d die of shame. She’d start shouting about why should they host a rich Jewess and how could I even think of bringing a married woman into her house. And to do this in full view of the town too; she’d never live it down.

Maybe I’ll reserve a room for her in the Korona, then.

He imagined such a room, the kind he would reserve for Mrs. Szemz
ő
in the Korona and where the next day everything would happen between them.

But who is coming, son, his mother called after him hesitantly yet desperately.

Gyöngyvér’s hand rose properly above the keys as if she were certain what she must do with the conjured-up phrase. But everything happened differently. Could she accompany the sounds issuing from her on Mrs. Szemz
ő
’s piano.

Mrs. Madzar grumbled a bit more but then decided that she’d pick the string beans no matter what. She would prepare a good tomato sauce, brown the roux nicely no matter who came to visit; she’d serve that with boiled chicken and steamed string beans. In the seventh-floor apartment, it grew light earlier and dark later than down in the street, under the shade of the elms and above the insanely yellow pavement. With her keyed-up imagination she was moving forward in the pale light of Madzar’s remaining lamps, her flawless naked body caught up in the momentum.

In the end, she had the courage to hit only the lonely F sharp, waited patiently for the F sharp to address her body and then let her voice sing out, nice and round.