Parallel Stories: A Novel (144 page)

In any case he too had no choice; he had to pretend everything was just as it should be.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world that without any prior notice his wife simply brought along her latest discovery, her heart’s chosen one, who knows who else.

To give this impossibility some plausible form, theoretically he should have gotten out of the car to give his wife a chance to introduce me.

Without this formality I couldn’t feel right. After all, one can’t stay together in such close quarters when one hasn’t been introduced.

I could not resolve this embarrassment; I didn’t have the means.

Not only had he failed to return the most public form of cordiality, my hello, but he did not return my prolonged smile either. Granted, my smile was simply dictated by rules of etiquette and in that sense was empty, what else could I have done. Yet it can’t be said that he rejected either the conventions or me personally with his look; it was his inner self, agitated by repressed anger and constant discontent, that strained against me. We had not even closed the car door and he was already snapping, crackling, fluttering. That’s how he demonstrated his anger with his wife, as if he enjoyed being boorishly irritated, enjoyed violating every rule of good manners. He believed he had the right to find his own vulgarity charming. He could afford to behave like this with a complete stranger, said his face. He was in the driver’s seat, literally and in every other way. Or perhaps he let himself behave like this so I could witness his strength and authority, so I’d have no illusions regarding his wife. There was something unpleasantly puffed-up, swaggering, peacockish in his behavior. In his anger he let his voice rise, as if he were not sitting in a small closed space and the presence of a stranger did not bother him. I was deeply ashamed for the woman and for me too, that she belonged to such a handsome monster and insisted on staying with such a peacock.

And not surprisingly, everything crashed into pieces within seconds.

His voice was deep, stentorian, filled with threatening reserves. He was complaining about some booze, which they were supposed to have brought along for the party, but which his wife had forgotten. He should have known. They had arranged that she would bring it from the store, but she’d never ever kept a promise to do what they had agreed she’d do. And then, changing his tone, he proceeded with ominous, fussy, and cold precision to re-create the dialogue they’d had that morning, what he had said and what she had answered. And he kept interrupting himself, yelling, that’s how it was, wasn’t it, roaring into the dimness of the car. He received no reply. But he went on and on, expansively and with uncontrolled gusto, as if these uninteresting and unimportant details, his tiniest actions, his every word, had enormous importance. He probably knew no limit in this display of self-complacency; or rather, he seemed to believe that merely remembering all these details justified him and proved his incontestable claims. As if he needed every little proof because other people were always questioning his credibility, as if he had to prove himself before the world against ever-recurring hidden accusations. His wife was probably the greatest monster, suspecting his every word. Or could not retain a simple thing in that birdbrain of hers, he bellowed in the dimness, and she should try at least to find an acceptable explanation for her thoughtlessness.

Why can’t a woman ever listen to another person, ever.

Women are simply not yet human.

The woman replied to this with practiced and highly focused patience, that she didn’t know what women did or didn’t do and frankly hadn’t been thinking about the question of how far women had come in their progression toward full humanity because she’d been paying attention to important things.

I see.

This scene, for example, is not important enough to pay attention to.

And with that, something ended.

This is how she was paying no attention to her husband’s misery.

The wipers were grating and creaking on the windshield in front of us. One car door remained open, the wind was snapping outside, cutting, sending waves of spray inside. We were like a ship run aground and tilted on one side in the midst of the raging elements. I did get some air from the blowing wind, but it seemed as if air had been siphoned out from between the two of them. There was a mute, baleful, and deadly silence. From the backseat I could not see their faces, only two necks stiffened in stubbornness. I had no idea what I could do to help the situation. The car was an old sports car, a coupe, whose narrow backseat usually served as luggage space.

Probably the best thing in a situation like this was to acknowledge being unable to do anything and leave it at that. The two of them went on staring ahead of them; not even by chance would they look at each other.

Their shared life has ended; they have torn it apart, it tore apart. But then they couldn’t go anywhere together. I had no way of knowing that they did this kind of thing several times a day. There’s nothing left, let it end. And their reciprocal anger was thrusting me into mortal danger; there was no exit through which I could leave. They were aflame, their flesh smoldering in the heat of their breakup. In a moment I had learned more about them than was permitted by any rule of etiquette. Although they brought different edges, different moods, to their mutual decision, they each reserved their individual sensual strength for the other—and for no one else.

According to his original impulse the man would be silent for only a moment, only a brief pause, after his rhetorical question. Yet he wasn’t surprised by the woman’s cruel remark—on the contrary, he seemed to consider any further words useless, superfluous, and he let the rest of what he had to say drown in him—for he had anticipated her insolent indifference. His entire being slackened, although startled; in the end he was gratified by the woman’s disregard.

I retreated to the dark corner of the backseat.

I was close to the man’s boyish, thin neck, but he was closer to me not just in the physical sense. Dense, thick, shiny black hair covered the nape of his delicately slim neck. A startling gratification radiated from it. Not only did his leather coat have a strong smell but the deep odor of black-haired men emanated from his entire body. I envied and felt sorry for him; I hated the woman for having done this to him. I did not understand anything about what they wanted from each other or what might happen to me. I had no door through which I could leave quietly, taking my empathy for the man with me; I was wedged in by my attraction to the woman. I’d have been happy to get out, more for their sake than for mine. If nothing else, I grasped that the man had received proof of one of his ill-omened suspicions, and this made him happy. He was losing something else, but this palpable proof was more important to him—the truth, complete and undisguised truth, which he now had to face.

Not happiness but truth was more important for him. True, the woman was stronger and more powerful, but truth was at his side, he was right, and therefore he would not yield. They could both perish now; the complete truth was already in his hands for all eternity.

And what only moments earlier had begun as empty haughtiness, bullying, or showing off was now, in the long silence, being transformed. They weren’t thinking of me as a person before whom they had to display or conceal anything. I actually think they completely forgot that I was sitting behind them in the dark. There was something unfamiliar and unusual in this, nothing like this had ever happened to me before. And the man had no fury left in him; still sizzling, they both quickly retrieved their emotions. Huddled on the backseat, I could not help thinking that this had happened because of me. Now they were left to themselves in the darkness, continuing their inner altercation within themselves. The original subject of the argument had become unimportant or, as happens on such occasions, every movement, or the other person’s motionlessness and unbearable silence, became the subject of further inner debate. They forgot not only me but also the wind that kept slapping them with bursts of spray through the open door.

The thought that the woman had done this to me made me angry. She must have known what would happen. And why should I put up with this, not to mention that I couldn’t tell what else might happen between the two of them. Which of them would be the lucky one to squeeze a word out of the other; who was the winner; who’d be more nimble in finding a hiding place for the emotions accumulating in the silence.

The street shone black in the dim light. Gently, wearily, yellowish light penetrated the car’s drizzle-speckled windows. Someone closed the church gate from the inside; it clanged and I could hear the key turning in the lock. From my place I could somehow make out the woman’s profile; she shuddered at the gate’s clanging and followed the sound with her eyes; she was saying good-bye to her brother, to her missed opportunity, to theology. That was the day’s portion of philosophy. She would not look at the man for anything, not to mention her ignoring me completely. I could be as angry as I wished about their insolence. For their not waiting until I was gone to have their domestic spat. But how in the world could I leave. I continued my own idiotic inner debate. I wanted to hurt the woman; to myself, I accused her of using me to make her husband jealous. It would have been good to say this aloud. She probably had much to confess. Mainly her disgusting double-dealing and hypocrisy; she was behaving like a sly gentlewoman, like a well-educated young lady. She begrudges me ten minutes, her husband is not enough for her, but she has time to go to church, spend time on theology, even though the slut is living in sin, to use her own words; now, who the hell could understand that. Why did I have to run into such a stupid woman like this again. Of course, this sort of inner conversation leaves one even lonelier, entangling one more deeply in the seaweed of emotions. It was also strange that I had more physical feelings for the unknown man’s neck than for the woman, for this whore, and yet I still measured everything by the way she might respond to what was happening.

The shining edge of her face showed no response to anything, not to doubts and not to accusations. Her immobile eyelashes, strong nostrils, full lips, and soft chin were like a moonlit mountain range that the outside world could barely touch; and her response remained a sustained indifferent muteness.

Anyway, each time I looked at her it was as if seeing her for the first time. She had many faces. I had to get used to being able to see only one of her faces at a time, and that was not even close to a physical feeling. Not even an attraction, because I had no way of knowing which of her many unknown faces would be waiting for me. Attraction, theoretically, must be based on some sort of certainty. The woman I was seeing here, in the car, was not the woman I had seen behind the steam of the coffee machine in the shop, or the one I’d wrangled with a short while ago on the street. I don’t know how she did it. I was preoccupied with berating her to myself and studying her from close up; and her beauty still made my chest expand, though I had not the vaguest idea what I could possibly learn from such beauty, and even less of an idea why I was so defenseless against it. What kind of nonsense is this, what stupidity. My situation looked hopeless; I couldn’t imagine how I’d get out of it.

Now I could look at her, irresponsibly and carelessly, and smell her to my heart’s content, something I had deeply desired, but I felt I was being locked into this insurmountable, laughable desire of mine. Something you’d want to break out of, but your gratification lies in your inability to break out. Thus, my body truly understood the man, who could not abide this woman, and that is why, against his own decision, he had to abandon his motionlessness. He did not capitulate completely, but he began rummaging in his pocket—a movement that hinted at weakness, vulnerability, and inconsistency. I was no less vulnerable, and I had no reason for it; she completely paralyzed me with her arbitrariness. He put something in the woman’s lap, an object or some secret gift I could not see.

Have you gone crazy, you’ve gone completely mad, the woman cried.

I think so too, responded the man.

Then he had to reach across the woman’s knees to find something in the glove compartment. He probably wanted to light up but found not one lousy cigarette there, and to do something anyway so as not to humiliate himself more, he angrily stopped the windshield wipers.

Well, maybe we should get going then, Simon, said the woman, and she made the mysterious object disappear into her pocket.

The man was frankly admitting his weakness, to which the woman probably always responded with a new cruelty.

What do you mean, maybe we should get going, what is that supposed to mean, tell me.

That we should go instead of keep sitting here.

If you’d be kind enough to close the door, Klára, we could really get going.

You don’t have to tell me twice, Simon.

And since they were still calling each other by their first name, this was obviously a kind of revenge. As if they were saying that no matter what happens, we must not lose patience, and we won’t. Even though they had lost it ages ago; besides, they were the ones who were trying each other’s patience. This must have been a well-practiced game. One of them pretended to have inexhaustible patience, and the sustained deceit made the other one lose patience completely. To make matters worse, the man did not find a cigarette, but the woman nicely vented her anger by slamming the car door shut very hard. Yet nothing happened. The man did not start the car.

Impassive and motionless, they both kept looking straight ahead. Now the woman should have made up some of her losses, or given up, but neither of them could give up anything.

And if I may ask, Klára, he asked very quietly and stopped.

And then at the top of his voice he yelled into the dark, where, you cheerless cunt, would you care to go. I am at your service, awaiting your command. You know your wish is my command.

In response the woman quickly turned around and gave me a quick glance; she obviously hadn’t forgotten me and in this impossible situation wanted to be sure I was still there. I had never heard nor could I imagine a man saying such a thing to a woman. And I’d never come across things like this even in movies or novels. Actually, the woman was not preoccupied with me, though with her glance she betrayed her regret that I had to witness this scene with no chance to escape, and shamelessly she continued her campaign of gentleness.