Parallel Stories: A Novel (117 page)

If she could, she’d have run back to be with him on the bed in the maid’s room, this wonderful man who caused her those insane climaxes and whom not one of her nerves could get enough of. No, she couldn’t get enough of him. She encouraged her nerve endings: tomorrow, later, in a minute, next week, everything will come true, ripen, and she is very grateful to him for this, for this promising future. Everything she needed for singing, her heart, her mind, her lungs were full of him, her head and her chest almost exploded with the memory of his fabulous fragrance now emanating mostly from her own skin, her short-cropped hair and her dark, rich pubic hair.

A great singer should be more careful with such unbridled screaming sessions.

Good thing I’m not a great singer yet, she said to herself, and until I am I can fuck to my heart’s content.

As if she had a terrible, strong suspicion that she’d have to squeeze all her stupid artistry into this woeful world so as not to be just a coarse female, a stupid little bitch who doesn’t know what she wants to do with her life.

She wouldn’t even need men. That’s why she should reach the pinnacle of the art of singing, so she wouldn’t need them anymore.

Stay on the hilltop, Gyöngyvér, sweetheart, if you can’t climb Mount Everest, and you can see for yourself you can’t. No backsliding, no constant tripping up on little stupidities.

I’m not Médike’s sweetheart.

Except for her ambition, though, she has nothing; she can’t give up her ambition just because she lacks the necessary technical skills.

And the ugly old beast never tired of enumerating just how many skills she lacked. Once in Gyöngyvér’s presence she called somebody else a born dilettante, and Gyöngyvér was afraid that one fine day Médi would brand that on her skin too. I would never have thought this of you, Gyöngyvér, but you are a born dilettante.

And she had to have such an old fart for her singing teacher.

This was another reason she wouldn’t have dared disturb the merciless silence of the universe with practicing scales. She’d be found out as a born dilettante, born dilettante, it echoed in her head, born dilettante. But she did not go back to him either, to the bed in the maid’s room. She’d had enough of all those maid’s rooms and of men. Going back meant waking the poor man, whom she had brought up to the apartment despite Mrs. Szemz
ő
’s many bashful requests, and then they’d go back to doing it. Go ahead, sweetheart, rest; I’ll guard your sleep. They had no place else to go. They didn’t know how not to continue; they didn’t even have to touch each other for it. She felt as if they were still doing it. During those four days they had been to their family vacation house, to Visegrád, to the apartment of the man’s friend with the funny name in Ó Street, but no matter where they went every move of theirs was directed toward the same goal. The worst that can happen is that Mrs. Szemz
ő
will kick her out. I’ll just go somewhere else, a place with no piano, of course. One can’t go to bed only with men who have their own apartments. She didn’t go back to bed, because the other person would have crushed her ambition if they’d continued. She hadn’t acquired nice mink coats yet, I won’t be able to put together enough for a rotten little apartment, and with this constant fucking he will deprive her of her never-acquired jewelry.

I can’t ruin myself because of him.

The two-story villa, the villa with a sunny garden, the successive waves of applause from the balconies, along with insane cheering and frenzied ovations—she would have to give it all up in exchange.

She had better pay attention to developing her art.

Every previous occurrence had been arrested and stuck in the stale air within these dreary walls. She neither imagined nor fantasized but literally felt and lived through the entirety of past events, in the most minute detail, and all over her naked, shuddering body. While thinking she was daydreaming of her future or her opportunities, and it was not she but her audience who should be screaming with gratification.

Because occasionally, seriously and very quietly, Médike did reveal the secrets of singing.

And they will scream and carry on; Médike has nothing to worry about.

She was thinking about what this Médike demanded of her.

This is a very peculiar thing, Gyöngyvér, because you have to lead them to where you are headed, but you can get there only together with them. You don’t know them and it’s not advisable to get to know them.

Perhaps it’s not such a big problem, then, that men cannot satisfy her properly.

If only knowing this could satisfy her for once: that it’s not that important, nothing is that important, only her singing.

For all she knew they could go further, the two of them; this was the peculiar and painful feeling that was always on the surface.

And in this early morning hour it was clear to her that just as she didn’t love him, the man didn’t love her, but she would have been loathe to imagine that she hadn’t satisfied him, even though they had fucked so well together. She could not think of this, because at least in this she should feel herself to be perfect, in this big fuckfest.

Your audience must hear, my child, that even your highest notes are not strained, just as you can’t choke on the lowest ones.

She should sound as if she could go on, further, higher, so you shouldn’t be the one to strain, they should, because they are clambering after her last notes in a fashion that will take their breath away.

And she knew well where the final limit was.

Her vagina was burning, hurt from so much rubbing.

She could not choose freely among her sensations, and there was no musical note that, driven by a single controlled instinct, might have addressed and elicited a response from the enormous mass and weight of the impersonal past.

In the bluish-yellow early-summer night, transilluminated by moonlight, an aura of everything-has-passed settled on Mrs. Szemz
ő
’s rooms.

It settled stubbornly on Gyöngyvér’s shoulders; with the insanely yellow reflected light it settled on the entire quarter of the city, sunk in a nightmare. And the solitary semitone was not strong enough to address or lend body to the enormous mass of sensations of things past.

She could not muster enough strength to break through.

She has a singing teacher who never but never lets her sing. She tortures her, nags her, sadistic woman; how can she break through. Keeps making her stop all the time, in the interest of expression separately squelches every single note in her. So how can she sing effortlessly and naturally, how can she give form to her notes. This female frazzles my nerves completely; I don’t believe a word she says anymore.

There was no room to move in the historical thicket of objects, and she wasn’t getting anywhere with that damn F sharp either.

Those two F sharps, my child, you must really work them out.

I am not your child.

What I wish with all my heart is for you to be more patient with yourself.

Please note, I am not anybody’s child.

I know well whose child I am not, and I am not the child of Aunt Margit Huber.

I’m the child of my whore mother, whom somebody knocked up on the fly, if you understand this kind of talk.

You are susceptible to hysteria, dear child, and the question is whether you’ll be able to overcome this inclination of yours. And there’s another big question too: with what approach might I be of help to you. Giving a lesson to oneself requires self-discipline, that’s for sure. Now calm down, and let’s take it from the top. Like an ordinary technician, think of it that way, I’m an ordinary technician who ought to find the source of this damn breakdown in communication.

Let’s try it staccato.

We must hear what you deign to do with these two F sharps, for they deserve a better fate.

Please don’t tell me that I deign to do something.

You should put every note individually in its proper place, Gyöngyvér, not in general, do not sing in general. Try it staccato.

It won’t kill you, don’t worry.

There, you see.

If you can’t manage to bring out that sound when you sing slowly like this, carefully separating each note from the rest, what will it be like, for heaven’s sake, at the proper tempo.

Don’t hurry, where are you rushing to, for the love of heaven, don’t smudge it so roughly, don’t smudge it like that.

It won’t be nice if the high note is strained.

You have days, dear child, when instead of singing you try cleverly to avoid the notes; you want to get away with not singing. I know you’ll be offended again, but again you’ve failed to sustain it.

I’ll gladly lend you my ears, I’ll rent them out to you, but you must do the singing. You want to get away from the notes. A singer, my pet, should not sing in general, even though one’s stage instinct might suggest it, to pretend and pretend some more instead of playing for real, but please, don’t go that route. You have your own voice, yet you want to sing by cribbing from others.

That turns into self-complacency or self-pity. That is not your best voice, Gyöngyvér, it still isn’t your very best. It’s as if you are forcing it. To be sure to have every note, first you must bring your body into the right position and together with your emotions, we’ve talked a lot about this and in great detail. All along the way, one beat in advance, you should know what you want to do next. And don’t forget that in German the letter
ü
is short, even if the tempo wants it longer.

Repeat after me, Glück.

Glück.

Gyöngyvér, please, shorter, shorter. You are happy, you understand, happy.

Glück.

Because of the tempo, you may double a vowel, but be careful, no strange sound between the two vowels. Please don’t get in the habit of that embarrassing spl-ee-ee-ee-ting of words. You’re singing about happiness, not cooing to a baby.

Of course others do that, but we don’t understand them. All you’re doing is imitating the weak points of others.

You’ve got enough of your own.

Glück, say it after me, one more time, and shine, make your voice glisten.

Not with your little mug, Gyöngyvér, with your eyes! Glitter and glow with your eyes, shine them out of your pretty little face.

You can indicate by miming what you’ll do in your great happiness, for all I care, the dramatic situation allows for it. But you, my dear, are doing it the other way around: you are demonstrating retroactively what you failed to deliver with your voice. You make faces, but I want to hear something about happiness.

As it is, it’s worthless, nothing, zero, nada. It’s as if you mixed up cause and effect.

We can’t mix apples and oranges either.

You can’t give me the visual instead of the acoustic.

And now I’d like to hear at last that you’ve put the notes in their proper place.

Glück, I want to hear this shorter, Gyöngyvér, shorter, and let your voice glisten.

Gyöngyvér Mózes, filled with doubts, kept hitting the F sharp while outside it was fast becoming light, and at the very same moment the tormented and humiliated Kristóf Demén, not so far from her, made good on his promise to himself.

He was trudging toward the Pest shore, not on the Margit Bridge but on the Árpád Bridge.

He did not pick this bridge just because it was closer and seemed to be the safest way to escape the raiding police.

The others, who did not manage to escape, were soon beaten with nightsticks, the blows falling wherever their bodies could be reached on their backs, heads, and arms raised in defense. He wasn’t sure that other police units might not be combing the interior of the island; he couldn’t flee that way. And if he had good luck, the incredible luck to slip through the dragnet, he still thought that on this bridge he had the best chance of not falling into a trap again.

It wasn’t advisable to meet other human beings in his condition.

The chances of this happening were greater on the Margit Bridge or Lipót Boulevard.

In another twenty minutes city traffic would slowly wind down, but given his condition he couldn’t have gotten on a streetcar in any case.

He picked this escape route because the surest way of throwing himself successfully into the depths would be from the Árpád Bridge. Before meeting anyone. He only had to hurdle the railing.

As if his entire life until now had been nothing but preparation for this lovely nightmare that, lo and behold, came to him while he was still awake.

Under the blows of nightsticks, several men fell or collapsed into the tarry pissoir; they screamed, but the police went on beating them, they cried and begged for mercy while the police yelled.

Headlights of a police assault van provided light through the open door.

Will he have the fortitude.

Now he can realize it; all his great hopes lay in this last, long-gestating plan whose every little detail had been worked out.

In the glimmer of dawn, which had not yet obliterated the deep grayness of the world, he was running headlong, all alone, on the bridge. His bodily contentment was panting along with him, deriding his sense of morality and disgracing his conscience. He carried his joy with him. He was fleeing from policemen who were not pursuing him. They probably hadn’t even noticed that someone had escaped or, if they had, they were glad to have one less faggot at the station.

He stopped for the first time on the bridge, and thought of those who had perished here before him in the icy current, but he suspected this sort of thinking was an infamy to be avoided; then he looked back at the island, but the thick foliage hid everything.

It was summer now, with all its living, powerful fragrance. The grove of young chestnut trees swallowed up the cries for help, or there never were any. The summer dawn was lovely and serene. The gas lamp shone passively through the branches. As if nothing had occurred in the night just passing, the first birds sang loftily. He was dragging himself, he could not actually run in his fine, pointed black shoes, which had gotten so wet in the puddles, and his socks made sucking sounds.