Parallel Stories: A Novel (72 page)

They each failed to conjure up their own individual memories.

The window, swinging slowly in a current of air, made squeaky little sounds.

Gyöngyvér spoke first. Quietly yet very excitedly, as if being informed of her own existence by her own strange voice. This surprises her. She still cannot understand herself, because someone else within her is thinking faster or, rather, is thinking ahead of what she will say.

Listen, she said, though she had no idea of another person there or who it might be. Now, listen to me very carefully.

But the other one did not understand the request—neither its content nor who was making it in the dark. The strangely exciting instruction was a mere acoustic experience. He wanted to absorb it, but he had no idea to whom the excitement belonged. A piece of knowledge was missing. As if he were reaching down into a painful darkness where once, a long time ago, all this had already happened. The way pain shoots into well-embedded roots of teeth.

I’ll tell you quickly what I’ve been dreaming, continued the female voice, full of suppressed excitement and whispering from very close up. Listen, please.

As if she were speaking out of the warm inside of the darkness and with this strange voice of hers managing to reach and stroke the cool surface of flesh. But she couldn’t have said whose flesh had cooled and in whose flesh she sensed the voice’s contact.

This time I have it, she exclaimed hoarsely, now I can tell you. Which also made the man wonder—no, alarmed him, he didn’t know—who was this person, within or without him, who either knew or wanted something so much.

And she felt that in the unfriendly outside world her exclamation sounded stupid. How could the other person understand, if she herself had no idea what it was she had. On the contrary, there wasn’t anything, nothing, there were only these cold walls, much too close, this rotten little room. Nothing palpable. After all, I’m dreaming all this. I only feel there’s something I should be able to tell, share with someone, a wish, an empty longing.

She saw all around her a diaphanous yet brilliant and unfamiliar view, glowing with lights, which she had seen before yet could not identify completely with what she was feeling, given the sight before her. Thoughts and objects were incongruous, and so were the objects of her thoughts; everything was a little out of joint. The other one now admitted her into him, or she admitted him into her; she definitely felt this. While with open eyes she observed that they were admitting each other, she saw out from between the disjointed parts, and she found herself alone at the bottom of the water; the water was moving, running, smoothing over her body, carrying it along as if it would tear it apart and rip off her clothes. She was admitted by an enormous, caressing hollowness suffused and seared by the vibrating, glittering, midday summer sun. Something ominous was pulling, dragging her downward, no matter how strongly she protested. She did not protest. She was overwhelmed by happiness. And she could say of this, with absolute certainty, that it wasn’t a dream; she always knew it wasn’t, not a recurring dream. Still, she couldn’t speak of it to the other person because every time she opened her mouth to say something, the water rushed in and she kept having to swallow it.

I don’t know, said the man, and he also didn’t know what it was he didn’t know. I don’t know when we fell asleep. Which sounded a little more like a question than a statement. But he wasn’t certain there was someone else in this darkness, someone he could ask. He had doubts; maybe he was dreaming all this. Or maybe he was dreaming that he was dreaming, and then it would make no sense to ask questions. I can’t, I don’t know what I’m dreaming, he added more loudly.

His own voice made him more awake.

But he couldn’t be sure it was his own voice. Nagging doubt persisted. He found nothing that could convince him of anything.

I think I’ve finally figured it out, listen, I think we’re in a whirlpool.

Well, that’s interesting.

I mean it, a whirlpool, pulling you down, Gyöngyvér continued loudly, almost shouting, which made the other one feel ill at ease. This is a whirlpool, I figured that out, it can’t be anything else. That is to say, I keep on dreaming it again and again, you know, you understand, I keep dreaming that the water is burying me.

And while she was talking, myriad parts of the shining silkiness of the water flooded her, and its enormous weight pressed down on her, and still she managed to speak.

Yet it was gratitude that gathered and hoisted her up from the depths of the water, a feeling that made her float, a feeling that she would carry the other person away within her. Fortunately she didn’t say this aloud. That would have been like announcing that she wanted to drown the other person within her.

Funny, you’re saying it’s a whirlpool, the man continued, and his tone was as if he were rushing into her. And you say it is burying you. He heard his questions, simultaneously understanding and resisting them. No, that can’t be, he said aloud. Or perhaps I’ve gone mad, but this he did not say out loud.

Whirlpool, yes, whirlpool, believe me, the woman insisted. The reason I can tell you about it is that—I’m telling you, you understand, I couldn’t tell it to anyone else—if I tell you, the water doesn’t come in my mouth when I talk.

What she heard echoing from her words was the gratitude she felt for the other person, and although she could see the outline of his face she did not remember exactly who he was, this person so close to her, so familiar. Which strengthened her gratitude and allowed happiness to grip her by the hair so strongly that she almost lost her breath. But this condition included all her insecurities.

She knew that now she’d be pulled out of the water. Everything grew dark and gaped before her. The sun shone into her face.

Interesting, this is indeed very strange and interesting, replied the other person in the darkness, a hoarse and familiar other voice. He remembered at last. Now I also know, he continued more loudly, using the strength of his own voice to convince himself. He was not dreaming, no. And he had not gone mad. They were telling their dreams to each other. I’ll tell you my dream too, what I’ve dreamed so suddenly.

No, don’t, the woman protested. If you do, I’ll wake up and then I won’t be able to tell you any more. I’ll drown then, she exclaimed desperately.

They were both startled at this, or rather, this too became part of their long, smooth, slowly unfolding awakening. They saw each other, heard each other’s laughter, noticed from close up the astonishment on each other’s face, and this calmed them both.

Hey, we’re completely nuts, laughed the woman. We imagine we’re dreaming when we just can’t wake up—or something like that.

I’m not clear about when we could have fallen so fast asleep, the man said, growing somber. I really don’t remember anything.

He was afraid that in his sleep he might have said something that betrayed him. Again he remembered the open garden gate as the powerful beam of his car’s headlights swept across it. I don’t understand when, he repeated aloud. And what was this strong buzzing, or someone’s loud shouting.

Laughter bubbled up from the woman. How can one shout and not be noisy. Maybe you dreamed of me shouting once. Oh, you’re so sweet, and how much I love you. But this made her laugh falter—it was the first time she’d uttered the phrase.

No, no, replied the man, as if not even registering the confession; he was like a gigantic engine coming ever closer.

How should I know what you dream. I don’t even know who I am or where I am.

No, I distinctly remember the buzzing, the man insisted, watching the woman’s features carefully, hoping to detect a telltale sign. He saw her enthusiasm and saw dread passing in front of her like a dark cloud. And on top of it all, he said, I’m sorry, forgive me for bothering you with this, but I have to pee; I’ve had to for hours, I really don’t know for how long.

Go then, my feet are quite cold too.

But where is the place.

And if that wasn’t enough, I feel mildly nauseated. Maybe I’m pregnant. I swear it feels like it. And as soon as she said this, not only did she instantly remember the man’s remark about how advantageous the position of their bodies was if he wanted to impregnate her, but she also realized she might forever have missed out on something when she failed to voice her wish, and by now she’d be trying the man’s patience beyond all limits, which meant she was messing things up again.

I startled you, the man giggled, I’m sorry.

I’m fucking it up again, the woman thought.

One feels nausea when forcibly startled awake, the man continued, as if he knew well what this woman reminded him of; but amply gratifying as they might be, such old-fashioned sentences had no validity. Which caused a sharp pang of fear to course through him. They might have no validity, but they might have abundant consequences, which women can feel after a few hours. No matter how much he had promised, he had not been careful enough. Not only had he been careless but he must have emptied himself of every drop of his sperm. It’s really mean to startle someone, he said aloud, and because the thought was depressing, his loud remorse sounded quite credible. You know, I also woke up because of shouting or something. And before that there was buzzing, he went on, it sounded like a big car coming closer, now I remember its headlights.

He indeed remembered the headlights of his car when they passed through the villa’s entrance gate hidden among tropical shrubs and trees, but he did not tell the woman that the reason he remembered was that he had had someone murdered in that villa, a person who happened to be a childhood friend.

To forget this, he’d need continuous strong stimuli. But ever since he’d been ordered home because of the murder, he’d found his surroundings unbearably void of stimuli, or rather, the unpleasant memory always surprised him precisely when he’d finally managed to find a bit of stimulus that might help him to forget. Murder seemed to cause a more powerful excitement than lovemaking.

You didn’t wake me up, not at all, said the woman, but she was influenced by her bad conscience, it was probably thirst. Believe me. That’s why I probably dreamed so much about water, I was dying of thirst and my feet were so cold. There was dead silence under the water.

Come on, let go of me, said the man.

But I’m not holding you, said the woman, amazed.

Their torsos barely touched; in fact, they were leaning away from each other, keeping each other captive not with their hands but with their strong thighs.

The realization was strange in this darkness stabbed through with reflected darts and specks of city light while they stared at the dim outlines of each other’s features, lengthening along with the shadows.

As if they were late in becoming aware of their bodies’ existence. Or as if they couldn’t properly match the sensations of their bodies with the sight of them or with their words. Only now did they notice that they were lying almost crosswise on the bed, all but falling off under the weight of their numb, intertwined lower parts. One of the man’s legs, hanging down to the floor, was supporting their combined weight, the entire mass resting on his heel. This meant that in their sleep they’d had to find their balance by holding on to each other at the edge of the bed. They couldn’t understand how they had done that. With one hand the woman grasped the painted bed frame.

Their cool skin glimmered in the draft; on the intricately convoluted surfaces of their noses and ears their zeal cooled off.

It now became clear that they must have fallen asleep in the middle of a semi-consciously executed involuntary movement.

The man felt that he was not merely pressed against her but in fact still inside her; he had, by chance, with righteous indifference, overstayed his welcome. Humiliating. Frightened at having been unconscious, his entire body shuddered. The woman realized he was still stiffly inside her not because of the movements that rippled through her body but because of his odor. As if for the duration of their sleep she had sinfully forgotten the acrid fragrance of the man’s body, now permeated with the scent of his sperm intermingled with cooled-off exudations, saliva, and vaginal secretions. She was filled with them again. Which is what made her realize that the man was still taking up her inner space. She had not let go of him. She won’t let go of him. And she quickly promised herself—very quickly because she feared she was losing her mind—that at the first opportunity she would seek out the source of this fragrance on his body, she would smell and taste every little pore, bend, and curve of it.

So we must have fallen asleep like this, but this is wonderful, she whispered rapturously, her voice expressing contentment. Something like this had never happened before. And she was frightened too, that with her enthusiasm she’d do something wrong, lose him.

It would be interesting, wait, don’t be in such a hurry, the man responded, though he’d have liked to withdraw himself, stand up, and at last go to the toilet. But that would have required his cock to set out on a long, complicated journey. I’ll just explain this one thing before I go.

He fell silent and did the opposite of what he wanted to do: he pushed and penetrated a little bit more deeply.

Which was part of his explanation. At least that was the impression he gave for the other person and for himself.

Yet he had no explanation. The strong sensation of his cock was disturbing him in many ways. Not so much the enduring pleasure, of which he had become aware a moment before, but the fact of his erection, for which he saw no reason or motivation. And this, in turn, reminded him of their profound gratification, left behind somewhere in the depth of time, which someone might even have heard when it occurred. He attributed his enduring erection to the need to urinate—the most convenient explanation—but it made him a little ashamed. Why was he lying to himself. Why was he defending himself, or going on the offense; why couldn’t he give himself over to the feeling that this is how things are right now and no other way, and his cock couldn’t be calmed down. And he was misleading the other person too, but certainly not intentionally. Put another way, he had an organ that had decided to be independent or at least was behaving unexpectedly. And contemplating this, he concluded that in all their playacting, the leading role had been assigned to a deceptive maneuver. Nothing surprising would ever happen again, everything would simply repeat itself. He made contact with the woman only at a tiny point, though he wished it were otherwise. He did not feel her on his cock, not even close to it, but rather at the spot where he should be feeling his cock; through a single point, he felt the entirety of the other person. Through the little point, no larger than the head of a pin, everything streamed into the other person. He was taking in everything from the other person that until now he could not have seen or felt or had sensed only dimly. But starting now, he would be aware of everything that had happened or was happening in the other person, including things of which the woman was unaware or about which she was not yet ready to talk.