Parallel Stories: A Novel (70 page)

They built their secret language with different dialects of their shared imagination.

He also wanted to see what I was doing with mine; that’s why he kept standing on tiptoe. It would have been terrifying to think that in this very instant everything would be decided. I was gripped by my empathy for him, but my burning excitement completely vanished because my interest was not directed at him. I had nothing more to do. It was enough to see how his arm and shoulder moved, to discover in the position of his white, fuzzy-haired neck the pleasure of his erection, and my imagination disloyally abandoned the older giant and willingly followed the boy.

It grew stone-stiff in my hand, rearing up impetuously, aggressively and painfully, I was holding the beak of the foreskin so as not to let it slip back in, for the sensitivity of the naked bulb would inevitably have resulted in an ejaculation. For the same reason, to hide it from him no matter how hard he tried to see it, I covered it with my other hand. Which was an exceptionally important expression in the ritual language. He was requesting an advance from me, so the sight of my cock would strengthen his erection, which my presence would make perfect when the most propitious moment arrived and he revealed his to me. I should feel the strength of my seduction in him, and be completely unable to avoid the perfection of his penis.

I was striving for unconditional mutuality, however, nothing else, and therefore imagined that the ceremonial introductions should occur not separately but simultaneously. I could not give him an advance that he might forge into a business advantage.

The lack of mutuality offended my taste. I wanted him to understand that.

Otherwise I was going to leave.

In the words of the sign language, the relationship would then still retain an exciting business condition. I would not budge from my position.

This in turn created a shared question: which of us could impose his will on the other, or, to put it in my terms, would my sentimental desire for fraternity prove stronger than my primitive curiosity. This turned out to be such a nerve-racking question in the motionless summer night—which of us would first show his to the other—that I could feel my suicidal intentions evaporating along with the black-haired, dark-skinned giant.

The hyperemia in my mind left no room for him.

I grew so weak it no longer mattered whether I showed it to him.

Look at that, look what a pecker he’s got, he cried enthusiastically, goodness gracious.

His reddish fleshy lips, a little offended and excited, trembled in amazement.

Jesus, he prayed, how lovely your pecker is.

His voice sounded as if it came, flutelike, from a third person trying to hum and sing in various falsettos.

His surprising adjective touched me because until then I’d never thought of anybody’s pecker as lovely, least of all of my own. As if he were speaking not to me but to a third person like me, perhaps standing behind me; or the whole thing wasn’t true at all, only flattery. Something crackled in the thicket, letting me know we weren’t alone, somebody else had also heard what had been said, somebody or somebodies had been spying on us.

Not only did he not reciprocate my confidence but he used the crackling sound as an excuse to hide his own instantly.

He was doing everything too fast. He stepped out from behind the bush while still buttoning his fly. His movements made clear that he was only a dumb little faker who couldn’t get it up.

He couldn’t possibly have put it away so fast if it had been stiff.

He whispered into my face that we should get out of here but quick.

His breath was as sweet as that of a suckling babe. These dumb fairies, he said, as I could hear for myself, won’t leave us alone, such a rotten bunch. I was eager to hide my own too, but it took some doing. He reached for it while sweetly whispering into my mouth, but I wouldn’t let him.

They’re so jealous, believe me. They always want what somebody else has. He laughed.

There was something explosive about him, merry and playful. I probably know that rotten jerk from Újpest—such a dumb fairy, he thinks he’s queen of the whole place. His name is Pisti. He must be the one who managed to wind up somewhere behind us, come on, hurry up, damn it. I think he wants to separate us. He always wants everyone to suck him off, but don’t think he ever comes.

And I mean never, he said indignantly, with nobody.

He asked me if I had a place to go to, which I did not immediately understand because I was having trouble buttoning up my fly. I did not answer him.

Because he had no place of his own, he added by way of explanation, he was only on leave. He did have a grandmother in Pestimre, but we can’t go there even if the streetcars are running. His grandmother found out about him a long time ago when she caught him with one of his buddies, and then he quickly added that with him I could do everything but absolutely everything I was used to doing with girls.

I was amazed, watching his face, his eyes and his lips; how would he know what I was used to doing with girls or whether I had done anything with them at all.

He liked Mohács more because there you just go to the upper sandbank or even by the lime-burning factory and somebody will pick you up. Several times his grandmother made a fuss, throwing things around, slapping and beating and breaking everything she could get her hands on. He wants no more scandals, and not because of the neighbors, they can kiss his ass, but the old girl really has nobody in the world except him. I should understand.

Unexpectedly he sniggered, interrupting himself to say he shouldn’t have told me the whole story, because at this time of night there isn’t a single rotten streetcar to take them to Pestimre. We could walk, but by the time we get there, his short leave will be over.

For some reason, this too he found irresistibly funny.

There I was with this total stranger in the middle of an early summer night, his sentences bubbling out cheerfully and I not believing a single word. And not because he was lying; he wasn’t. What was unbelievable was how convincing I found his whole being; yet I had to refuse him, and I would too.

As it turned out on that early summer night, I simply could not believe that this might possibly be my life, or that such a strange being as this boy could be part of either of my lives or share any part with me in any way, or that I could fit him into one of my lives just as he was, along with his entire life and his grandmother, without upsetting my other life. But neither could I imagine, nor was it morally acceptable, that I’d abandon this man just like that, when he’d shown such enormous confidence in me. Frankly, a man of this sort was all in all too much for me. Even if I decided to take him home to my room on the boulevard, how could I navigate him past Balter without being seen.

Balter would come out with his dislocated hip, open the gate, moaning aloud, checking out both of us; a single glance would be enough for him to assess the situation and seal my fate. My upbringing gave no instruction as to what one was supposed to do in a situation like that, but I did have instructions that the best thing to do with unusual situations was to avoid them. Hearing about his grandmother sent me reeling to the edge of madness, if only because of my own grandmother. I shuddered at the thought of two people meeting in a summer night who had never had and never would have anyone in this world except their grandmothers, and that this was far from a coincidence.

This thought hurt, and it also filled me with painful hope, but the hurt was stronger.

Standing before me was an entire man with his irresistible warmth, unfathomable indifference, intrusive odor, living grandmother, obviously unwashed hair, and everything else that was his, presenting me with his unbelievable exhortation that I should go with him because with him I could do everything I had ever done with girls, and I did not understand, it made no sense.

Perhaps all these things together in a single human being was what was too much for me.

I wanted to say something to him, something encouraging that would also help me extricate myself from the situation, but I couldn’t think of anything. According to social conventions, I needed to respond, so as to remain the master of my predicament. I felt my entire upbringing had been nothing but a framework that, although it specified the character of verbal responses to various events, hadn’t given specific instructions as to their true and genuine content. My grandmother was whispering to me even now, as she had until the last minute of her life, passing on to me and doing for me everything she could, though her words had made no sense when she uttered them. Not the least sense in the world. Neither her son nor her daughter took her seriously, though the pattern and structure of what she had to say enthralled me and never left me.

So I set off again on the creaky promenade; I had no idea what to do with such a strange human life as this boy’s.

For lack of direction I headed toward the Árpád Bridge, as if one could begin again at the beginning. Which the boy of course interpreted according to the rules of the secret language.

If you haven’t got a place, he said flatly, as he came along, keeping up with me like a sweet child, we can go to the water tower. Really. I know a nice little spot there.

He wanted to take my hand.

Whenever he has no other place to go to, because nobody has a rotten pad to himself, he holes up there with anyone until dawn.

Much as I wanted to, I didn’t give him my hand. He responded to this by putting his arms around my waist and coiling around me, holding back my hurrying steps a bit, steps that turned out to be very long, so we’d be like lovers strolling on clouds, so he could kiss me.

I felt an instant disgust when he looked up at me, his lips open in a circle, like one film star staring at another. He not only did something but overdid it, as if he wanted to announce, loud and clear, that he was doing this or that and doing it according to this or that model. I didn’t let him lean his head on my shoulder and I brushed off his arms too. My own cruelty hurt me. I didn’t want to see his falsities. He wanted to withdraw some emotional capital from me until we reached the place where he hoped we could really run wild, but I kept walking steadily, I’d had enough of this playacting, and how would he guess that I wasn’t letting myself be led anywhere.

He has to be back by six in the morning, that’s when his leave is over.

But what kind of leave, I asked in an unreasonably irritated tone, for God’s sake, from what place are you on leave.

He was quiet for a moment, looked at me, seriously wondering what I hadn’t understood or to what I was objecting so strongly.

Well, this is where they dock, he answered eagerly, his head motioning to the very spot.

He serves in the river forces branch of the army, stationed in Mohács, he’s reenlisted. Once a week they come up with their ships, sometimes twice, but instead of tying up at the flotilla docks in Újpest they tie up at that something-or-other square.

In other words they dock at some square.

He can find it from anywhere, but damn it, he always forgets the name of the fucking square.

I didn’t have a place to take him to either, no matter how much I pitied him, and that’s the truth. I should have realized I had no place here, in the city of my birth.

I asked him if it was Bem Square.

No, but the fucking square was on the Pest side.

The irritating noises our steps were making were not only too loud but also senseless, completely senseless.

Maybe the Belgrád pier.

Not really, that’s where passenger boats dock, you know.

Then Dimitrov Square, I replied, irritated, maybe Vigadó Square.

I hated the black sand under my dirtied-up shoes and all the drivel we were hurling at each other.

He has this thing with Dimitrov; it’s like doing a crossword puzzle. What pops into his mind every time he comes across the name is that the man was a Communist martyr. He grinned. Eight letters. He memorized it so he wouldn’t forget the name of the square, but then he forgets this fucking martyr. Every week he buys a copy of
Füles
, the crossword magazine.

Then his face became serious.

Do you do crossword puzzles, he asked.

I did not reply, but I felt insane willingness and devotion emanating from his body.

He was putting me through various tests, licking me all over with his words and gestures.

Actually he was behaving like a normal, lovable human being.

I was the one who wasn’t normal; never in my life had I solved a crossword puzzle; and he hadn’t yet realized that he would find nothing lovable about me.

He was easy, light, his words smooth and caressing; he altered his gestures and turned them all inside out yet remained helpless with me. I was rather intrigued as to why he’d put away his cock so quickly and what it must be like. Just as, in his eyes, I had won my exceptional position in the unfathomable hierarchy of the night with my cock. But it was senseless, completely senseless—the way I was making obnoxious sounds at the side of such a profoundly witless stranger. This depressing knowledge was stronger than my curiosity. I didn’t want to hear that our irritating jabber had anything in common. To my left I saw a path among the trees leading back to the thicket where I might find the giant with his mustached assistant. I can’t imagine what I wanted from the giant; he too probably had a disgusting life.

A little farther off I saw the paved promenade that would lead me, in a more civilized way, back to the interior of the island, where at last I could drink and urinate, but I didn’t think I could endure a long stroll with this loquacious little idiot by my side. I figured that at the next well-trodden but not too clear split in the trail, I’d lose him with a single fast turn.

As if fleeing I left him without a word because I couldn’t think of anything to say. After such a brief, odd acquaintance I didn’t know how to take my leave; I knew no formula for such an occasion. I turned at a virtual run into the dully thudding path, where the gas-lamp light still managed to penetrate the dark.