A Book of Memories

On an Antique Mural

The picture I had been keeping tucked away in my notes, the one I would have described in my planned narrative as the multisecret world of my presentiments and presumptions — had I the necessary talent and strength to do it, of course — depicted a delicate, lovely Arcadian landscape with a gently rising clearing among hills that stretched into the horizon, sparse thickets and silky grass, flowers, storm-ruffled olive trees and weather-beaten oaks, a skillful copy of an antique mural I had had the opportunity to admire several years ago during my travels through Italy which, in the full splendor of its bold colors and formidable dimensions, captured the landscape in the very moment when morning slowly rises out of Oceanus to bring light to mankind, and with its infinitely fine light illuminated the dewdrops perched on blades of grass and settled in the hollow palms of leaves, the time of dew, a time when the wind does not rustle the leaves but seems to have abated, a time we think of as eternity, when night has already laid its silver egg but Eros, according to some tales the son of the wind god, cannot yet emerge from this egg and is still in a state of Before, before something, before anything we might call an event, in the moment just before that event but already after the noble act of impregnation and conception, when the two powerful primordial elements, the wild wind and the dark of night, have already coupled; this is a time when as yet there are no shadows, we are still before everything that might be described later as Afterward — this is the nature of a primal morning! and that is why this extraordinary moment should not be confused with, although it may be compared to, that other moment when Helios is about to vanish with his horses and chariot behind the rim of the earth, because then, terrified of mortality and hoping to overtake the departing sun — anything is better than to stay here! not here! — every living thing stretches to the limit of its own shadow and the pain of parting turns everything ruddily fatal, shining like gold; but in this early moment everything is almost lifeless, almost stiff, pale, almost gray, silvery, looming in the dimness, cold, and if just now I mentioned vivid colors, it was only because this silver is of course no longer the silver glow of the night which so eagerly draws into itself all the colors of the world, dissolving them into homogeneous metallic flashes; no, at this hour things have already received their own colors, which is to say these colors have been conceived but are not yet fully alive: the naked body of Pan, at the geometrical center of the picture, bursting with pleasure, shows a rich brown; the coat of the handsome little he-goat at his feet is appropriately gray, dirty white; the grass is an angry green, the oak tree an even deeper green, the stone is whiter than white, and the light capes of the three nymphs are turquoise, olive-green, and red silk; but just as at this dewy border of night and day the nymphs are motionless, having completed their last nocturnal movements but not yet begun the first gestures of their new day, so the colors of their bodies and garb remain within the shadowless outline of their pure forms, and so do the colors of the shadowless trees, grass, and stones, because just as at the border of the End and the Beginning these creatures have nothing to do with one another, each looking in a different direction — making the picture, even on our small copy, seem to grow in size — colors have no relationship to one another either: the red is red for and by itself, the blue is blue only for itself and not because it is to be distinguished from green, which is only green; it is as if the painter of the picture, in his own barbarically simplifying ignorance, had captured the very moment of the world being born, or, more simply, as if with deadly precision he had insisted on depicting the mood of a summer dawn when one is suddenly startled out of sleep without knowing why; one gets out of the blind warmth of bed, staggers out of the house to relieve oneself — that at least if one's already awake — and is greeted by a terrible silence undisturbed even by the dew congealing into dripping drops, and although one knows that in the very next moment the warming yellow of daylight will jolt the universe out of its frozen, mortal state, making it come alive in a new birth, one also knows that all one's experience and knowledge is as nothing compared to the silence of nonexistence, and if up to now one has sought death in the shadows of the day or while groping in the dark of night, one now discovers it, in this colorfully colorless instant, and unexpectedly and with such dreadful ease that the hot urine won't gush out: death lay in the moment that, until now, one has been fortunate to sleep through, one's body kept warm in the embrace of the gods.

And maybe it's not even Pan sitting on that stone: in spite of my careful and thorough studies, I have been unable to determine for sure — maybe it's Hermes my picture represents, which means not the son but the father, no small difference, that! for in that case it is not the son's lovemates whom we see, his frolicking maid-lovers depicted as the three nymphs, but the woman-mother herself: in an ambiguous way, every little motif in the picture refutes its own assertions, so much so that I could afford quietly to suppose — in fact, this supposition is what has excited me — that the painter deliberately did this brave mixing up, showing the father but meaning the son or, conversely, painting the son but meaning to show the father in his youth, and depicting for us the mother as the adoring lover of them both, for this figure in her olive-green cloak at the right side of the picture, with her head lowered, her sparkling eyes following her fingers gliding over the strings of the lyre pressed against her bosom, seems somewhat older, perhaps considerably older than the naked youth, and we must risk drawing this conclusion even if we shudder at the thought that our eyes, prompted by wishful imagination, may deceive us and even if we know well that gods are ageless; of course, when it comes to nymphs, this is not entirely accurate, for their immortality, as evidenced by traditional narratives that have come down to us, is directly proportional to their proximity to the divinities, and consequently there are mortals among them: nymphs of the sea are said to be immortal, like the sea itself, but the same cannot be said about the more common naiads of the springs, and even less so of the nymphs of the meadows, groves, and trees, especially those who live in oak trees and die when the trees die; and if, following the painter's rather confusing hints, we try to guess the age of a particular nymph by examining her face, as her fingers reach for the most distant string of the lyre, her glance measuring the exact intervals between the strings, for she wants to produce an elegant light glissando, we must remind ourselves of the ancient method of reckoning life spans according to which the chattering crow lives the equivalent of nine human generations, a stag has as many as four crows' lives, and three stags' lives add up to a raven's age; a palm tree lives as long as nine ravens, and nymphs, Zeus' lovely-haired daughters, can expect to live as many years as make up the lives of ten palm trees; in this calculation, then, our nymph must have been into her sixth raven's lifetime, so by declaring her older than the naked youth I don't mean to measure her age in human years, and I did not see the tiniest wrinkle on her face — she appeared to be blessed with the wisdom of motherhood, at least when compared to the two other nymphs, who, although closer to the youth, in fact identical to him in age, were untouched by that bliss beyond pain; and I could not exactly tell you why, but her neck also indicated this maternal wisdom, arching out of the rich folds of the cloak draped over her shoulders; oh, that exquisite feminine neckline! which remained bare and white under auburn hair gathered into a loose bun by a silver clasp and seeming so attractively and shamelessly naked precisely because of a few unruly curls, short, frizzy strands falling back onto the flesh — of course this is most attractive, for it is the mix of being dressed and being naked that we like so much; and if I succeeded in describing the nymph's neck in some such fashion, I'd most likely put into words the experience I've preserved in the image of my betrothed's neck, no, not just preserved, but cherished, adoringly, an experience of the two of us sitting next to each other while leafing through a photo album, let's say: she would lean forward a little, to look at some negligible detail in a picture, and I'd gaze at her from the side, quite close, wanting to bend over her, touch her neck with my lips, with tiny kisses barely graze the skin made taut by her movement, dissolve her warmth and smell in my mouth, work my way up to her hair — but I don't, I am held back by a sense of propriety, tact.

When the dawning day melts night's residual silver into gold — oh, if only I could speak of ancient mornings in such phrases! — and fingers pluck the strings, the flurry of sounds will be the beginning; with the dulcet tones of her lyre, the nymph wishes to be first to greet the new day in whose warm light the oak tree casts its pleasing shadow.

For, needless to say, it was an oak tree behind her, gnarled and to our eyes quite old-looking, probably hit by lightning once, because it seemed oddly tilted, though the wind had already ripped out and scattered the withered branches, and in their places new clumps of foliage had sprouted; this not only confirmed my sense that she had to be rather advanced in years but directly indicated that we are dealing with the nymph of the oak who, strumming her lyre in the morning, was none other than Dryope, of whom we know that with her slender body and noble mien she so aroused the passion of the Arcadian shepherd Hermes that the inflamed god spent a long time pursuing her — though let it be said in passing only long in human terms, about three lifetimes, but no more than one-third of a crow's life span — until their love was properly consummated: this was by no means an extraordinary occurrence; we might even say that the nymph, whose name suggests a female creature who turns a man into a nymphios, that is, a bridegroom confirming his manhood, did only what she had to do, as did the god himself; nevertheless, the love-child brought into the world of immortals by the beautiful Dryope could not be judged by the standards to which this poor dutiful mortal, almost human girl-mother, had been accustomed.

We don't intend to claim that Dryope was a timid, fragile, easy-to-frighten maid, of course; as we know, she was rather tall, strong-boned, often mentioned as having powerful limbs, and when pursued by amorous gods or men she didn't always flee; from time to time she would also attack, stand firm as if her feet had taken root, immovable like an oak, hiss, snarl, use her fists, and be ready to bite; when on the banks of cool mountain streams she took off her green mantle to wash away her body's sweat, her round arms and her thighs, exercised in running, showed firm muscles, filling out her pearly skin; her breasts, too, were firm, set high by their own, tense roundness; and her clitoris, as would be revealed in the moment of ecstasy, at the height of her pleasure, could grow as large as the phallus of a child awaking from sleep; therefore, it may be said that the god had good reason to wish to soften this hardness, tame this wildness, make tender this toughness; still, when she tore the umbilical cord with her teeth and in the bloody afterbirth between her legs glanced at the blinking, bawling, giggling, kicking issue, she let out a girlish scream of terror and had to bury her face in her hands; and no wonder, how was she to know that there was no cause for alarm, that she had given birth to a god, how could she have known that, seeing only what she could see? at that moment it seemed to her that she had yielded not to carefree Hermes' lust but to a stinking he-goat, for long, coarse strands of hair were growing on the infant's head, two tiny crescent horns sprouted from his forehead at the very spot where in people and in gods the bone protrudes just a little, and his feet — how horrible! — terminated not in soles like ours but in hooves, like a kid's, hooves still soft and pink that in time, we know, would harden most horrendously, would clatter and throw off sparks over stone and turn an ugly black.

Terrified by the fruit of her womb, Dryope sprang up and ran away.

Her story ends here, we know no more of her, or of how she fared thereafter, and if we should want to learn more, we must rely on our imagination.

We do know, however, that Hermes found his son in the grass, and not only did the little boy's appearance cause him no surprise but it put him in a prancing good mood; by then the boy stood on his feet, or rather on his little hooves, took a few tumbles, turned a few cartwheels, rolled around and enjoyed being prickled by blades of the dewy grass; then he chased flies and wasps, plucked flowers, tore out and munched on their petals, and with his soft hornlets butted stones and trees, his body tickled with pain; to satisfy his longing for pranks he pissed on a butterfly and shat on a snake's head; in short, creation itself seemed to function perfectly within the small creature; we shouldn't be surprised, then, that with all this, the sight of the son found favor in the eyes of the father; and since fathers tend to view their sons' lives as reprises of their own, Hermes suddenly remembered the morning of his own birth, when gentle Maia had brought him into the world and laid him in his cradle, but in an unguarded moment he climbed out of the cradle and left the cave: outside he found a turtle, fashioned a lyre out of its shell, and with the lyre set out on his wanderings; by the time that even the ears of Helios' horses had vanished in the glowing red rim of the earth — and we know precisely that this was the eve of the fourth day of the lunar month — he had killed two oxen with his bare hands, skinned them, and to roast them quickly invented fire, then proceeded to steal a whole herd of cattle to cover up his mischief before climbing back into his cradle; now he lifted up his young one, just as Apollo had lifted him, and took him up to the gods, so they could delight in him as well.

Dionysus was the happiest to see the new arrival, who was immediately named Pan, for in the language of the immortals this word covers the concept of All, Everything, Universal, and unless we are mistaken, the gods saw in him the perfect embodiment of that word.

With one hand the handsome youth sitting at the center of my picture raised to his lips a panpipe, unmistakable symbol of his panhood, and therefore, according to legend, he had to be the one who led the nymphs' nocturnal dances, and then also brought on the morning; he was a furious, spiteful god who let out his anger, especially when his midday sleep under a shady oak was disturbed; and he was also the friendliest of gods, high-spirited, generous, playful, prolific, fond of merriment, music, and noise; in spite of so many signs indicating that the figure in the picture was in fact Pan, I could not shake the doubt that perhaps he wasn't the great phallic god after all, but then who was he? A satisfactory answer seemed impossible, for not only did he hold in his other hand a leafy staff, which, according to legend, Hermes received from Apollo in exchange for his lyre, but his body wasn't hairy, his brow had no horns, and he had feet, not hooves — unless the shapely billy goat lying at his feet like a watchdog was meant to symbolize everything missing from the god's smooth, anthropomorphic body; we know there are artists who tend to represent as beautiful what is completely ugly, because they're afraid to show the creature named after the universe as hairy, hoofed, and horned — this is but an absurd human weakness, of course, but all the same, I couldn't rule out the possibility that through his laughable weakness the painter had tried, misleadingly, to prettify the history of the gods; on the other hand, one couldn't claim with any certainty that the figure was Hermes, that blasted leafy staff of his notwithstanding, for then why the pipe in his other hand? It was all a muddle, the whole thing, and I probably wouldn't have paid attention to it if sorting it out had not been part of the preliminary studies needed for my planned narrative: I pondered and probed, toyed with and tested my alternatives, self-indulgently playing for time in the process, afraid to tackle my true task, which seemed formidable, and whenever I managed to come to a final decision about something, a new idea would invariably occur to me; for instance: Very well, I mused, let's assume that this figure is neither Pan nor Hermes but Apollo himself, who was also said to have fallen in love with Dryope once and, appropriately, to have chased after her, but because the lovely oak-maid refused his advances, the aroused Apollo changed himself into a turtle and found his way into the hands of the playful nymph; Dryope placed the turtle on her beautiful breasts, where he quickly turned into a snake and under her robe united with her — but this bubble of an idea soon burst, for if that's what happened, how did the lyre end up in Dryope's hand, and the lyre, as I've mentioned before, was made by Hermes after he left the cave on the morning of his birth, which happened much later than the Apollo episode.

My questions and ideas would have remained only questions and ideas if I hadn't found the behavior of the two other nymphs, on the left side of the picture, so peculiar: like the brown-skinned god, one of the nymphs was sitting on a white rock; she was wearing a red cloak, holding a small tambourine in her lap and two drumsticks in her hands, but her face was missing; the paint had simply peeled off the wall, though the position of her body suggested that when she still had a face she was looking straight ahead, she was the one looking out of the picture at us, her gaze, be it severe, forgiving, or gentle, following us wherever we might move in front of the picture; but what piqued my interest even more was the other nymph, standing directly behind the faceless one and wearing a turquoise cloak, the only one in the scene who showed any interest in the youth whom I ventured to identify as Pan; she was the most beautiful of the three nymphs, her face full, her brow clear, her blond hair loosely braided in a crown, her body slight and delicate; she stood there with her hip thrust out just a little and her arms intertwined behind her back, a pose that radiates calm, confidence, and openness; her eyes were huge, brown, and warm, a bit sad, too, sad with longing, and then — I almost yelled out at the joy of discovery — I realized that this same sadness was reflected in the youth's eyes, although his head was turned away and he hardly took notice of the third nymph's wistful glance brushing his bulging chest; over the shoulder of the lyre-strumming Dryope, he was looking out of the picture, and — no mere coincidence — he, too, must have been looking at someone and was likewise being watched by that someone, but that someone was not visible, because he or she must have been standing not here in the clearing but among the trees of the forest.

And it was the forest I was mainly interested in, where this impossible love could be possible, even if it would never really come to pass; it was this love I wanted to write about.

But to return to the picture, hoping to make clear in the light of what follows why I was so preoccupied with it, even though in my story I wasn't even going to mention the mural or any of the characters in it, I thought I recognized Salmakis in the figure of the nymph hidden in the background; while the name further fueled my already inflamed imagination, and feeling as if I'd been given the key to a puzzle, I thought of yet a third, equally complicated story: this is the one, I thought to myself with some satisfaction; as we know, Hermes had another son — a dubious designation, perhaps, for the issue of his union with Aphrodite, if only because according to some genealogies, the two of them had to have been siblings, children of Uranus the night sky and Hemera the light of day, and not only siblings but twins! for we also know that they were born on the fourth day of the lunar month, and therefore the fruit of their love possessed in equal proportions the features of their parents' faces, bodies, and characters, just as when two ample streams converge and, with much splashing and bubbling, flow into one another, and who can separate water from water! consequently, in their offspring there was an equal measure of what our language calls boy and girl but what coexists quite naturally in some gods, and to make this divine mingling of male and female unmistakable, the child was given a name that contained equal proportions of its father's and mother's names, Hermes and Aphrodite.

By now everyone can guess whom I'm thinking of: yes, the newborn was Hermaphrodites, and immediately after his birth Aphrodite entrusted him to the care of the nymphs of Mount Ida, who properly raised the child — we have here another case of a mother abandoning her child, but once we get over our disillusionment, we must see that for the gods this is only natural: every one of them is complete unto himself, this is what they all have in common, the gods are born democrats, one might say; but to continue with Hermaphrodites' story: he grew to be such a dazzlingly beautiful youth that many mistook him for Eros, thinking that Eros must also have been the fruit of Hermes' loins and Aphrodite's womb, which of course was highly unlikely; at the age of fifteen, Hermaphrodites set out on a journey across all of Asia Minor, and wherever he went he kept up his curious habit of admiring all bodies of water, until he reached Caria, where, on the bank of an enchanting spring, he came upon Salmakis.

And at this point our third story also becomes hopelessly tangled; many versions of it have come down to us, and we can sense how time obscures the actual event, but this is the very nature of tales, to indicate the limits of human memory; but if our inferences are correct, we may imagine that at its source the clear spring formed a small pond, and Salmakis, wearing her turquoise robe, was combing her long hair while looking at her reflection in its surface, and when she managed to comb out the tangles of the night, something was amiss: either she did not like the way her hair looked or ripples may have disturbed the water's mirror, so that she began anew, and then kept on combing her hair; today we would call her mad, for she did nothing but comb her hair, that's how she spent her life, and since she was a fountain-nymph, we can't claim that what she did had neither rhyme nor reason.

And just as in any promising human encounter, it is the first moment, the very instant of catching sight and discovering the unexpected presence of the other, that offers the most insignificant, one might say imperceptible, change — no, it doesn't happen accidentally, for in what follows, the two beings, created for and guided to each other by the gods, would recognize themselves in the other, but since each sees his or her own reflection in the other, they are not compelled to do what is so common in everyday encounters, namely, to step out of themselves and, because of the other, break the boundaries of their own personalities; no, the two separate personalities can penetrate each other while remaining intact; what is usually most delimited is now limitless, and later, looking back on this moment that proved to be so significant, one simply has the feeling that one hadn't noted, most curiously, the very thing one had indeed noted most of all; something like that must have happened with the gods as well: Hermaphroditos looked at the water, and to him Salmakis combing her hair in the water's mirror was nothing more than a feature in the infinitely attractive body of water, another of its details, one might say; he saw it, of course, but so many other things were reflected in that water — sky, rocks, white patches of slowly moving clouds, dense sedge— and to Salmakis, intent on her own reflection and on combing her hair, it was of little importance that besides her face, the flash of her naked arm, and the gleam of her comb, she also saw, beneath her own reflection, the silver streak left by swiftly swimming fish or the golden ridges of sand at the bottom of the pond, so for her the appearance of Hermaphroditos' image in the water meant little more than, let's say, when a water spider, its long legs barely sinking into the surface and creating minuscule ripples in its wake, flitted across her reflected face; at that moment Hermaphroditos was not thinking of anything, he was sad, infinitely sad, as sad as he had ever been, and sadness keeps one from thinking in great detail; not only had creation granted him all at once what it grants us only piecemeal, but as a bonus he also received every possible desire; however, he knew nothing of the exciting little games used to attain those desires, because in him all desire was already attained; we might also say that creation had denied him ordinary gratification because he himself was creation's own gratification — hence the sadness, that infinite sadness which, it so happened, reinforced my suspicion that the figure in the painting was neither Hermes nor Pan, both known to be cheerful and wild, and sadness was not one of Apollo's attributes either, for though he was attracted with equal passion to goddesses and divine youths, nymphs and ordinary shepherd boys, we know of no instance when he would have been at a loss at fusing in himself this dichotomous world; no, sadness came naturally only to Hermaphroditos, it was his special trait, I decided, and this was his great moment: without tearing herself away from her reflection, a surprised Salmakis lowered her comb onto her lap; although each saw the other, they were still not looking directly at each other, and then Salmakis thought (what in later stories became the source of much confusion) she was seeing Eros, that it was his beautiful face gliding over hers like a water spider; and Salmakis was respectful enough to fall in love promptly; she was a kind of ancient bluestocking, but the question of why and how it happened was completely irrelevant at the moment when the two reflections overlapped, eyes over eyes, nose on nose, mouth inside mouth, forehead in forehead, and sad Hermaphrodites now felt what he could never have felt before — his two lips stifled a divine roar! — what an ordinary mortal feels when able to reach out of his self and make contact with another — think of it! — and while everything is perfectly still, there is yet thunder and a raging storm, the rumble of rocks crashing into the sea — think of it! — how great the pleasure when a god tears out of his own boundaries! at that moment Salmakis lost her reflection and Hermaphrodites lost the water; they both lost the very things for whose possession they had been created, and so it should come as no surprise to anyone that they could not remain in one another, as we mortals can, even if the legend speaks of a perfectly consummated love.

But when I tried at this point to summarize what I did and didn't know about this mysterious and beautiful youth who over Dryope's shoulders was looking out of the picture, gazing longingly at someone, while Salmakis was watching him, filled with the same longing, and when it also became clear to me that neither of them would ever possess the object of their longing, then all I could ask was: Ye gods, what's the point of it all? if such a foolish question may be put to you, I felt as lost about my own feelings as the figures in the painting seemed to be confused about each other and themselves; stripped of my usual artful deceptions, I had no choice but to recognize in Salmakis' gaze, plain and direct, the gaze of Helene, my fiancée, as she tried with great longing, sadness, and understanding to absorb and make her own my every thought and gesture, while I, accursed and doomed, incapable of love no matter how much I loved her and, like the youth in the picture — alas, my beauty no match for his — not looking at her, not only was I not grateful for her love, but it downright irritated and disgusted me, and I was looking at someone else, of course someone else! and that someone, I might as well risk the highfalutin claim, excited me more than Helene's palpable love, because that someone promised to lead me not into a cozy family nest but into the murkiest depths of my instincts, into a jungle, into hell, among wild beasts, into the unknown, which always seems more important to us than the known, the reasonable, and the comprehensible; yet, while observing this emotional chaos within me, I could have thought of another story, no less plainly and directly out of my own life — to hell with these ancient tales and legends! I could have thought of a sweet-smelling woman whose name I must keep secret so as not to ruin her reputation, a woman who, in spite of my will, resolve, even desires, was at the center of my secret life, standing there as firmly, enchantingly, and coldly as fate is usually depicted in stylish pseudo-classical paintings, a woman who reminded me of Dryope most of all, the one who could not return my love, not with the same burning love I had for her, because she was in love, as deeply as I with her, with the man whom in these memoirs I mentioned rather misleadingly as my kind paternal friend and to whom I gave the name Claus Diestenweg, concealing his real identity because I was determined to reveal that it was not this woman whom he loved, with the kind of fervent love with which I could have loved her or the hopeless love she bore him, but I was the one he loved and wanted with an insane passion; and if on occasion he submitted to the woman's ardent desires, it was only to taste something of my love for her, to be my surrogate, as it were, to partake of something I had denied him; he loved me in the woman, while I, if I wanted to keep something of her for myself, was forced to love him, at least as a friend or a father, and thereby to feel what I would have to be like for that woman to love only me; although this incident took place in my early youth, we became deeply involved in it only after my arrival in Berlin, following Father's horrible deed and subsequent suicide, but then occurred another terrible tragedy which, though it could not eliminate the effects of the first, ended the story of our curious threesome, and then, because I lacked the strength or courage to die, I had to start a new life; but how dreary and empty, conventionally bourgeois, petty and false this life turned out to be! Or could it be, I wondered, that the story in which man is brought closer to what is divine in him is made of just such, or similar, human muddling and confusion, or just such a frightful tremor in the unattainable? is there nothing but tragedy? but then, what's the use of all this accumulated material, research, notes, all this paper, all these ideas? once past tragedy, we tend to admonish ourselves as if we were gods, but of course we're not even close to being gods; consequently, I could not tell who the youth in my picture was and couldn't even understand why the whole thing interested me so much; how could I possibly get beyond what only the gods can get past?

Still, I couldn't get the painting out of my mind.

As if solving a puzzle, considering not only the possible evidence but all the disqualifying factors as well, I concluded again and again that the youth was as beautiful as Eros, his beauty kept me in thrall, yet he could not be Eros, because he was sad like Hermaphroditos, but he couldn't be Hermaphroditos either, since he was holding Pan's pipe and Hermes' staff, then again, I countered, refuting an elusive opposition while fondly observing the youth's phallus, rendered with the delicate strokes found in miniatures, he couldn't really be Pan, if only because the great phallic god is never depicted as being so calmly immodest, his thighs spread apart and seen from the front, we always view him from the side or in a pose that conceals his member, which is logical as well as natural, since from the tip of his horn to the heel of his hoof he is one great phallus, so it would be both impossible and absurd for anyone to use paltry human judgment to decide what this phallus should look like in a painting— small or large, brown or white, thick or slender, dangling sideways over his testicles or stiffening upward like a red bludgeon; in my picture it was more like a handsome little jewel, untouched, like a hairless infant's, like his whole body, whose taut skin glistened with oil; when there was nothing more to ponder, not a single detail which I hadn't thoroughly scrutinized, either with my naked eyes or with a magnifying glass, not a single allusion I hadn't tried to clarify with the aid of scholarly books, to bring light into the dimness of my own ignorance and lack of erudition, I finally realized that it made very little difference to me who was portrayed in that picture; it wasn't their story that interested me, for the stories of Apollo, Hermes, Pan, and Hermaphroditos flow into one another like all the things I had intended to reveal about myself, and that, after all, is as it should be, and it wasn't even their humanly fallible bodies that interested me; it was the subject of my planned narrative, which seemed to be identical with that in the painting and was most clearly present in the eyes of its figures, eyes which, though bound to their bodies, were no longer corporeal, their gaze being somehow beyond their bodies, transcendent; well anyway, to pursue this line of thought I should have set out for the place where the youth's gaze as well as mine were directed, the woods, to see who was standing among the trees, who was it whom this youth loved so much and so hopelessly while he was loved just as hopelessly by someone else? what was this all about? well, we were back at the original question again, but I realized I couldn't make my own life's no doubt foolish questions more momentous by concealing them in some antique mural, because they would keep crawling out from the wall — all right, then, enough! let's talk about things as they are, no pretense, let's talk about what is ours — our own body, our own eyes; I shuddered at this thought, and at the same time I discovered something I'd been blind to up to then, though with a magnifying glass I had gone over the youth's calves, toes, arms, mouth, eyes, and forehead repeatedly, with my ruler measured the angle and direction of his glance, and with intricate calculations identified the spot where the mysterious figure had to be standing; what I hadn't noticed, simply failed to notice, was that the two ringlets falling on his forehead were actually two tiny horns, that's right, which means that he must be Pan after all, yes, Pan, no doubt about it, except this certainty no longer interested me in the least.

And neither did the forest.

Standing at dusk by the window of my flat on Weissenburgerstrasse— feigning even to myself a certain absentmindedness, so that I could always retreat into the wings of the curtain without having to feel ashamed about spying — to be able to witness undisturbed the scene that took place twice a week, I felt the same gently fluttering excitement I had when studying the painting, because, just as in a classical story where there's always an objective, down-to-earth designation of the time and place of the occurrence, however abstracted and rarefied the human events being dealt with, I could be sure that the little interlude on my street would always take place not only at dusk but on Tuesdays and Fridays; my own excitement arrived according to this timetable, I could feel it in my throat, in my belly, and around my groin, and I could no longer tell which image was more important, the one of the antique mural or the one I'd call real and could see come to life by looking through my window; at any rate, this is where I would have begun my narrative, with this scene, though I would have liked to leave out the observer and his creative feelings, so similar to sexual arousal; I didn't want to treat the story as if someone were actually witnessing it, but instead indirectly, as it unfolded of itself, always the same way, repeating itself, beginning with the arrival of the horse-drawn wagon: on nearby Wörther Platz the gas lamps were already burning, but the lamplighter still had to traverse the square, with his forked pole uncover the peaked glass bells, and with the same long fork turn up the bluish-yellow flames before he got to our street; it wasn't dark yet, daylight still lingered when in the shadow of young plane trees lining the street, and just in front of the entrance to the basement butcher shop across the street, the closed white wagon came to a halt and the slim coachman, after throwing the reins over the shiny brake handle, jumped off his seat; in winter, or if a cold wind was blowing, he would quickly pull two horse blankets from under the seat and spread them over the horses' backs, so that while the scene was taking place the sweating animals wouldn't catch cold — this bit with the blankets was omitted in the mild weather of spring or fall or when the ruddy twilight of a warm summer evening still played with the breeze among the trees and on the blackened roofs of the mean tenements; then he would take the whip and, after first cracking it against his boot, stick it next to the reins; by this time the three women would be standing on the sidewalk near the wagon, but since I was watching from my fifth-floor window, from the shadow of the roof, the wagon blocked my view of their shapely figures; moments earlier the three heads had popped up, one after the other, as the women emerged from the depth of the steep staircase leading to the basement; the heaviest of the three, by no means fat, was the mother, who, from a distance at least, hardly looked older than her unmarried daughters, more like an older sister of the twin girls, who in build and movement were perfectly identical, and only from close up could one tell them apart by the color of their hair, one being an ash-blond, the other's blond hair darkened by a tinge of red, but they had the same, somewhat blank blue eyes set in the full, white expanse of their faces; I knew them, though I had never made it down to the cold bowels of their white-tiled shop; once in a while I had seen them on the street when during their lunch break they went for a stroll in the square, arm in arm, their skirts swaying evenly around their waists, or when I peeked through the barred cellar window and they, like two wild goddesses, were standing behind the counter, their blouse sleeves rolled up to their elbows, carving bloody chunks of meat; and thanks to my good old landlady Frau Hübner, who cooked for me and who bought cold cuts and other meats there, I knew everything about these women, everything that could be gleaned from kitchen gossip; not that I wanted to include in my story those intimate details known to everyone on our street; what interested me was the mere unfolding of the scene, its mute choreography, as it were, and the series of exciting relationships it intimated.

The wagon came from the main slaughterhouse on Eldenaerstrasse.

The coachman could not have been more than twenty, just slightly older than the two girls, and hadn't yet lost the adolescent resilience that long years of hard physical labor would surely rob him of; his tanned skin had a healthy sheen, his hair was so black it seemed to glitter, and a profusion of wild, dark chest hair curled out of his always unbuttoned shirt; the three women looked even more alike on such occasions, because they all wore bloodstained smocks over their dresses.

As the young man strode to the back of the wagon, he gave each of the women, the mother included, a gentle slap on the face; they had been waiting for this, anticipating the pleasurable warmth of the rough hand on their cheeks, and now fell in behind him, giggling, touching, pinching one another as they went, as if to share among themselves what each of them had just received from the young man; he opened the wagon door and, throwing a large blood-spattered sheet over his shoulder, began to unload the shipment of meat.

The women carried the smaller pieces, shank, ribs cut in long strips, heads split in half, and haslets — livers, hearts, kidneys, and the like — in blue enamel dishes, while the coachman, with an exaggerated ease meant to impress the women, lifted and carried down into the cellar pigs cut in half and whole sides of beef; well, this is where the real plot of my story would begin, for they were apparently all working attentively, efficiently, at a nice even pace, yet they kept finding opportunities to touch one another, push, jostle, and bump into one another; moreover, under the pretext of assisting him, the women managed to touch the bare skin of the coachman's chest, neck, arm, and hand, and when they did, they relayed their pleasure in the touch, as if they were parts of a chain— sometimes they'd cling adroitly to his body for a while — but it was clear that, no matter how slyly or eagerly they did all this touching, this was not the object of the game, which, once accomplished, would satisfy them, but rather as if it was just an introduction to a more complete, purer form of contact, a more elaborate game they had to prepare gradually; but I was not given a chance to see this next phase, because they'd often disappear inside the basement shop for long periods, sometimes as much as half an hour, leaving the wagon full of merchandise open and unattended; occasionally dogs with bristling hair and cats dazed with hunger would appear on the scene, sniffing at the spilled blood and shreds of meat, but oddly enough they never risked climbing up or jumping into the wagon; there I stood, behind the drawn curtains, in the twilight dimness of my room, waiting patiently, and if the four of them did not appear for a long time, then in my imagination somehow the basement opened up, its walls fell away, and they, shedding their bloody clothes, stripping down to bare skin, reached that Arcadian meadow — I don't know how, or I should say

I do, of course I do! I pictured a subterranean passage that led them under the city and out into the open, where the two images simply merged, observation slipped into imagination; they were pure, innocent, and natural, and this is the point where my story of that coarsely beautiful man and the three women really becomes involved.

One reason I didn't like Frau Hübner barging into my room without knocking was that while observing the Tuesday and Friday twilight tableaux, or while concentrating on my fantasies about its absence, I experienced such a powerful arousal that to calm myself, and also intensify my solitary pleasure, I had to reach inside my trousers and touch myself; I would not move away from the drawn-back curtain; letting the fear of being discovered increase the tension, I stayed put and gently wrapped five fingers around my hard member pressing against my robe, doing it, of course, like a discriminating connoisseur, simultaneously cupping the soft testes and the blood-stiffened shaft in my warm palm, as if seizing at its source, at its root, what would soon erupt, and at the same time, with a certain amount of cunning self-control, I continued to pay strict attention to the events of the street, then to the silence, the absence of any action, and now and then to the unsuspecting passersby; I wasn't interested in quick gratification; delaying it kept me on the edge between the real spectacle and creative fantasy; the sudden rush of shuddering ecstasy, the convulsing spurt of semen would have deprived me of the very thing that, with the help of endless and timeless fantasies of pleasure, had nourished the body's delight in itself; delaying bliss is the way to prolong it; by touching my own body I could feel the pleasure of other bodies; I'd say that in this way my hour of shame had become the hour of communion with humanity, the hour of creation; consequently, it would have been most unpleasant if at such a moment Frau Hübner had entered my room; and it wasn't just the street I saw, I was there with them in the cellar, I was the man and I was also the three women, in my own body I felt their intimate contacts, and my imagination shifted the scene of their ever more serious game to that particular clearing, for that was where they belonged, the coachman became Pan, mother and daughters turned into nymphs; and there was nothing high-handedly false about this, because I had no doubt that this lovely meadow was very familiar to me; my imagination wasn't leading me to an unknown place; it merely took me back in time to a place that lived in my memory as one of the scenes in our summers at Heiligendamm.

My antique mural could only vaguely remind me of this realer-than-real place.

If you let yourself down the side of the embankment, constantly slipping on the loose rocks, and then followed a well-trodden trail, shielding yourself with your arm to keep the sharp-edged sedge from poking you in the eye, and then waded through the marsh, you came to a tiny bay where, as I've already mentioned, I had once surprised my childhood playmate, the young Count Stollberg, lying on the soggy grass, playing with his tool; he was lying on his back, with his pants pulled down to his knees, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his mouth open; the rhythmic movement must have made his beribboned sailor's cap slide off his head and it was caught in a clump of grass, its blue ribbons dangling in the water; he raised his hips in a gentle arch and spread his thighs as far as his pants, stuck over his knees, allowed; with rapid jerks of his fingers he kept yanking the foreskin of his little penis — everything about him was small and well-shaped; pulling back and releasing his skin, he seemed to have a tiny red-headed animal appearing and disappearing in his hand; his tense face was riveted to the sky, and I had the impression that with his arched torso, open mouth, and tightly shut lids, he was having some sort of discourse with the heavens, while with bated breath he was most deeply engrossed in himself; when indignantly, shocked by my own agitated reaction, I asked him about it, he very willingly and in his charmingly affable way proceeded to initiate me into the pleasant ways of squeezing pleasure out of one's own body; nothing bad had happened, he said, no reason for me to be angry, and in fact I should join him, and further, we should look at each other while doing it, that would make it even more enjoyable; at any rate, as I was saying, after a ten-minute walk on this trail you could reach the clearing, still breathless from the stifling silent air of the marsh, where suddenly the landscape would open up, and in the distance you could see the forest that bore the quaint name of the Great Wilderness and where, had I ever succeeded in writing my story, I would have taken my four characters, using clear concise sentences as their guide.

After this encounter, because of our shared secret, I was not only more deeply drawn to the boy but also afraid of him, almost hating him; still, we often took that trail to the clearing, a trip that to me also meant a kind of flirting with death, because I could never stop thinking of what Hilde had once whispered to me, as if she knew exactly what she was saying and why, how precisely she touched a most delicate nerve with her warning: "Whoever strays from the trail into the marsh is a dead man."

But we kept going back just the same, though of course we needed an acceptable excuse to disappear periodically into the sedge; since Dr. Köhler had his snail farm in this clearing, we had a chance to look around, watch the snails, and chat with the servants or with the scholarly doctor himself about the life cycle of snails, thus finding the perfect cover for our favorite pastime; the snails became our accomplices, and no doubt it was from the mire of these early lies that my ghosts arose, the ones I was frightened enough to describe to my father.

I realized that to write my narrative I first had to straighten out my own life, to break open and reveal every layer of my self-deceit.

But time, minutes and hours, resolved nothing; my body became my worst enemy: so many conflicting desires lived their separate lives in it that my head was unable to follow them, or to keep them under control by tempering them with reason; I could not establish within myself a suitable balance of sense and sensuality that would find its proper expression in clear, lucid words, the only possible system of communication for me; but this was not to be; consequently, the thought of doing away with my body stayed with me like a faithful friend all my waking hours; and yet the reason this never became more than a tempting thought was that my longings, imaginings, desires, literary ambitions, and the tension of little secret gratifications gave me such an abundance of pleasure, the pleasure of my own body, that to deprive myself of them would have seemed plain foolish; claiming that suffering was also pleasure, I allowed myself to take risks, to go too far, and that was the reason I had to keep imagining my own death, which would relieve the strain — indeed, I got so used to enjoying my suffering that I could no longer tell when I was genuinely happy; for example, on the morning of my departure, when my fiancée and I were lying in each other's arms on the rug and my glance strayed to the black leather case in which I'd carefully packed all the material I had collected for this story, even there and then, at the very moment the fluids of our bliss were flowing together inside her beautiful body, the first thought that occurred to me was that right now, this instant, I should drop dead, croak now, no better time than now to cease, to evaporate, and then I'd leave nothing behind except a few self-consciously mannered pieces of prose, a few glib sketches and stories that were published in various literary journals and would very quickly sink into oblivion, and the open, patent-leather case, which, in the form of raw and to others indecipherable notes, contained the real secrets of my life, that is all — except perhaps for my seed in her body uniting with her egg at that very moment.

Now if some unauthorized stranger were to rummage through my things and go over my papers… well, this stranger, this secret agent who'd appear after my death to make out a report about me based on the papers found among my effects had often cropped up in my dreams; although he was faceless and of indeterminate age, I found his immaculate shirtfront, stiff collar, polka-dotted necktie adorned with a glittering diamond pin, and especially his rather shiny frock coat all the more characteristic and significant; with long, bony fingers he rummaged expertly through my papers, occasionally lifting a page close to his eyes, giving me the impression that he was nearsighted, though I didn't see him wearing eyeglasses; he perused a sentence here and there, and I noted with satisfaction that he derived completely different meanings from the ones I had hoped my sentences would imply; no wonder I had managed to fool even someone like him; after all, I made sure that my fleeting ideas, fragmentary thoughts, and hasty descriptions were jotted down so that my papers remained well within the bounds of middle-class propriety, counting also on the possibility that dear old Frau Hübner, taking advantage of my absence and driven by simple curiosity, would likewise look through the pages piled on my desk; thus I became an unauthorized stranger to my own life, because seeing myself as a criminal, a miserable misfit, I still wanted to remain a perfect gentleman in the eyes of the world, I myself became that shiny frock coat, the starched shirtfront, and the tie pin, the irreproachably inane form of bourgeois respectability; secretly, and proud of my own slyness, I figured that if I used a private code when recording my accumulated experiences, then, since I possessed the key, I'd always be able to open the lock of the code; but as might be expected, the lock turned out to be foolproof, and by the time I finally came around to opening it, my hands, trembling with anxiety, simply could not find the keyhole.

That is how some things remained a mystery forever, my own secret alone; no, I'm not too sorry about it, after all, whatever doesn't exist, what no one has declared a public and consensual secret, should be of no interest to people; and so the reason I took with me to Heiligendamm those two little booklets by Dr. Köhler about the Helix pomata, the common edible snail, remained a puzzling mystery, as did the question of any possible connection between these snails, the above-described insignificant street scene, and that splendid antique mural.

The snails Köhler describes so dryly and dispassionately in his books were consumed by the dozen each morning by guests at the spa; raw, ground to a pulp, the snails together with their shells were lightly seasoned and sprinkled with lemon juice; eating them like that was as much part of the cure as were those breathing exercises at sunset; these snails — classified by the doctor according to their shape, build, habitat, and characteristic traits, and grouped into species and subspecies — are amazingly solitary and at the same time very lively little creatures in whom the slightest contact with other snails produces profound terror; it takes them hours — which in their terms may mean days, weeks, even months — to ascertain with their feelers, and later, on a higher level of certainty, with their mouths and their undulating undersides, that they are indeed suited to one another, and there is no need, because of some compelling and disqualifying reason, to crawl on, disappointed, in search of another potential mate; in principle, any snail can couple with any other — in this sense they are nature's most favored creatures, being the only ones to preserve and act out nature's primeval unisexuality, being androgynous, like plants, their bodies possessing qualities that we humans can only vaguely recall, which perhaps explains their exceptional fineness and timidity; each one is complete in itself, and therefore two complete wholes must find each other, which must be an incomparably more difficult task than simple gratification; and when they do unite, in complete mutuality, simultaneously receiving and fulfilling each other — Köhler's description is at this point most detailed, his prose most impassioned — they cling to each other with such force, and no wonder, this is the strength of the ancient gods! that the only way they can be separated, experimenters tell us, is by literally tearing them apart; but like the characters in the mural, the snails would not have appeared in my narrative; studying their physiology was also part of my preliminary research, material that nourished the work but would not be found in the finished product; secret ingredients like this can be found in abundance in any work of art worthy of the name; or perhaps they would have appeared but only in some incidental, seemingly unimportant image, as some symbolic device, say, sliding past on a large fern leaf at the edge of the forest, or on fragrantly decaying leaves on the forest floor; there might have been a pair of them, and we'd noticed them just as they touched each other with their seeing tentacles.

Yes: every step I took, whether toward vile death or in my longing for the happiness afforded by vileness, carried me to this forest.

It was not a dense forest, but when finding one of its trails and letting it take you randomly among the trees, you quickly realized why popular lore referred to this woods as a wilderness; no one ever came here to mark the trees with white chalk or chop them down, clean them carefully of their branches and cart them away; nobody gathered brushwood here, picked wild berries or mushrooms at the edge of its snail-inhabited clearings; it seemed as if for ages, for unconscionably long ages, nothing had happened to or in these woods except what we might call the natural history of flora and fauna, which of course is no small thing: trees come into leaf, mature, live, and, after slowly passing centuries, die away; under their foliage, germinating, sprouting, and growing at the mercy of sunbeams the leafy boughs let through, there is an undergrowth of shrubs, bushes, ferns, creepers, runners, and climbers, grass, nettles, a thousand different weeds, garishly colorful and sickly transparent flowers, all taking their turn according to the changing seasons, until the thickening foliage completely deprives them of light and they perish, yielding their places to moss, lichen, and fungi that prefer cool dimness and, thriving on decay, sustain the life of the ground's spongy surface; there is silence here, and the silence is also ancient, and thick, because undisturbed by the wind; the air is so redolent that within a few minutes you'd be overcome with a feeling rather like a pleasantly soothing swoon; and it is always warmer here than out in the real world, a hazy warmth that makes one's skin moist and slick, like the body of a snail; the trails here are not real paths, trod and beaten down by human steps, but the life of the forest shapes these passages, whimsically, gracefully, unpredictably, as gaps in the continuous story of the ground's surface, pauses that only our resolute human intelligence would dare name, for it has learned to disregard other, perhaps much more important occurrences, and is accustomed simply to cut through the thick of things and, in its own doltish way, make use of nature's silence.

You'd find here gullies in which pebbles and stones roll and clink together; stretches of level ground where driving rains have spread crumbled clumps of dirt; long runners of soft moss, or patches where the layers of fallen leaves are so thick that their decaying mass cloys even the wild mushrooms; you could walk here, though not quite unimpeded, because the natural passageway may unexpectedly be blocked by a bush rising out of a warm spot in a pool of sunlight, or by a thick trunk of a fallen tree, or a huge, pointed, smooth lava rock, ingeniously called a "findling," conjuring in our imagination something between a found object and a foundling; according to local legend, giants of the northern seas strewed these rocks about the flat coastland where, after the battles had subsided, these peaceful forests arose.

Deep-green dimness.

Occasional scraping sounds, a thud, a crack.

One cannot tell how time passes here, but so long as you can hear the twigs snapping under your feet and you feel that it's your silence that is being disturbed by each snap, that means you're not quite here yet.

So long as you wish to get somewhere, to a place that is yours — though you don't know what that place is like — so long as you refuse to be led by the paths opening up before you, you are not quite here yet.

Behind the loose curtain of the thicket a tree seems to move, as if someone who'd been standing behind it now stirred, just as you keep stirring from behind something and then being covered again by the thicket.

Until it all looks beautiful to you.

Everyone can see you — anyone, to be more precise — and yet you are still covered; no, I couldn't succeed in describing the forest; I would have liked to have talked about the feel of the forest.

So long as you carry with you the turns and bends, forks and obstacles of the trails you've left behind, you can find your way back to where you started from, and in your fear you look at the plants as you would at human faces, taking them as signposts, assigning them shape, character, and histories of their own, hoping that in return for that they'd lead you back — so long as you do that, you are not quite here yet.

And you are not quite here yet even when you realize you are not alone with them.

I would have liked to have talked about the creatures of the forest as Köhler did of his snails; I would have borrowed his style.

When you are no longer aware of yourself or, more precisely, when you know time has passed but not how much or how little, and you don't really care..

And you stand there without knowing you are standing; you look at something but don't know what; and for some reason your arms are spread as if you were yourself a tree.

No, this story could never have been written successfully.

For you can feel what the tree in all probability cannot feel.

And you have heard all the rustling and scraping sounds but did not realize you were hearing them.

When you know that you are here, but not when you got here, because you have lost all the clues.

But so long as you keep listening for and trying to remember lost clues, you are not quite here yet, because you believe you are being watched.

And then it flits by, between two trees, and quickly vanishes, a flash of blue in a field of green.

You start off, unaware of having started off, but you cannot find it.

So long as you make a distinction between trees and colors, so long as you look to the names of things for guidance, you are still not quite here.

So long as you think you only imagined seeing the flitting creature as a blue flash in a field of green, and you follow it, cautiously, and no longer care about the path, about branches slapping you in the face, you don't hear the crunch of your footsteps, don't notice you've fallen, you get up and run after it, nettles sting you, thorns prick and scratch you, but all you want is to catch it, yes, the one that keeps disappearing but always reappears, to make sure you see it, though it occurs to you that you shouldn't yield to the temptation.

So long as you still want to make a decision, so long as you are thinking about it, you won't be able to catch anything; they'll keep eluding you, they can smell your sour odor from afar.

Now it's there, standing in a small depression, and if you don't move, then, among the silently stirring leaves, you can make out its eyes as they flash into yours, though this is no longer the same being but another, maybe a third one, someone, anyone, because you let time pass in the mutual gleam of your eyes while you notice that the creature is naked, and so are you.

So long as you wish to reach its nakedness and bend the branches to have a better look, so long as you want its nakedness to touch yours and thus make it your own, and for this purpose you are ready to move from your spot even though you have found the creature you've been after, then you are still not quite here.

It's gone.

And so long as you keep searching for them, yes, the ones you managed to alarm with your clumsiness and sour smell, so long as you hope to meet them again and all the while keep grumbling that you should have been more clever and more cautious, you are still not quite here, and nobody will be able to reach you.

But chance comes to your rescue, because you have come far enough inside to be a little bit here.

You turn around, and what you had seen in front of you before is now behind you; on the soft green mossy stream bank, the creature is lolling on its stomach; you let your eyes run over its back, rise on the curve of its round buttocks, and then roll down on its shapely legs; it nestles its head in its arms, looking out from there, and this gives you such joy that not only your mouth breaks into a grin but even your toes begin to smile and your knees laugh; and by then you don't feel like moving, because you've found your place here: that laugh is your place on this earth; and then you notice that the eyes are not looking into yours, that there is a third creature in the picture, there in that small depression in the ground, the one you thought had vanished completely, and they are looking at each other; they are the ones, you think to yourself, who could teach you what you need to know.

They are looking at you the way you'd like to be looking at them.

But you are still not you, you still let your thoughts stand in for you; until you learn not to do that, you are not quite here yet.

Your snooping startles them, they spring up and melt into the thicket.

Just as their gaze makes you take cover.

And then for a long time you see no one.

So long as you want to find them only for yourself, the forest remains silent.

But this is already a different kind of silence; this silence has eaten itself into your skin, and the laughter must reach your bones.

When even your smell becomes different.

Grass Grew over the Scorched Spot

The tiniest move could have broken this peacefulness, so I didn't even feel like opening my eyes; I was hanging on to something that had become final between us then, in the shared warmth of our bodies, and I didn't want her to see my eyes, to see how frightened I was of what was to come — it was good like this, let fear be mine! — of my body I felt only the parts her body could make me feel: under the rucked-up silk dress the moist surface of her skin touching mine — that was my thigh; at the level of her neck my own breath mingling with the whiffs of stifling odor rising from her armpits; I felt the hard edge of a hip that may have been mine, its hardness the hardness of my bone; I felt my shoulder and back because of the weight of her arm as she very slowly lifted it away, but even then my shoulder and back still felt the arm, for somehow even the receding weight left an impression in the flesh and bones; and when she also raised her head a bit to take a better look at the bite mark on my neck, I was glad to be able to watch through barely raised eyelashes, not exposing my eyes; all she could see was the quiver of the lids, the flutter of the lashes; she couldn't imagine how scared I was, and we hadn't even begun, but I could see her in almost perfect clarity, looking at my neck, yes, I could fool her so easily; she looked at it long, even touched the spot with her stiff finger; her lips parted, edged closer, and kissed it where it still hurt a little.

As if she were kissing Szidónia's mouth on my neck.

We lay like this for a long time, her face on my shoulder and my face on her shoulder, silent and motionless — at least that is how I remember it today.

Perhaps our eyes were closed, too.

But even if I did open my eyes I could see only the patterns of the rumpled bedspread and her hair, the tickly ringlets on my mouth.

And if her eyes were open, all she could see were the green afternoon shadows stirring silently on the vacant expanse of the ceiling.

I may have dozed off for a short time; maybe she did, too.

And then, so softly that my ear felt more the thrusts of her breath than the sound of her voice, she seemed to say that we should get started.

Yes, we should, I said, or meant to say, though neither of us moved.

There was nothing to stop us now, and who would have thought that the greatest obstacle we had to overcome would turn out to be ourselves?

Around this time of the afternoon Szidónia usually disappeared, visiting neighbors, going on a date, or just taking time off for herself, and so long as she didn't tell Maja's parents about the afternoon adventures of their daughter, she could be sure her own little illicit absences would not be discovered; and they not only covered up for each other but also shared their intimate experiences and adventures, like girl friends, disregarding the seven-year difference in their ages; once, inadvertently, I overheard them, barely able to catch my breath at my unexpected good fortune: with her hair undone, Szidónia was swinging back and forth in the garden hammock, confiding something to Maja, who, fully engrossed in the story, sat on the grass, giving the hammock an absentminded push now and then.

What we should have got started on, what we both wanted to begin, was the search that, once we did begin — our own compulsion making us shake and tremble — was so grave and dark a secret she didn't mention it to anyone, and I'm convinced she's been quiet about it ever since, just as I've never spoken about it to anyone, ever — let this white sheet of paper be my first confidant! — not even to each other did we mention it, we merely alluded to it, dropped hints about it; it remained a silent event in our lives, and in a certain sense we blackmailed each other with the fact that we had a secret so terrible it could not be shared with anyone, binding us together more fatefully than any form of love ever could.

And what is that mark on your neck, she asked, her whisper no more than a breath.

This red one, here.

For a moment I didn't know what she was talking about, thought she was just playing for time, not wanting to get started, but I also needed more time just then.

Oh, that mark? it's nothing; she bit my neck, that's all, I said, and I didn't have to say who, she knew; and I was very pleased that the teeth marks were still visible and that she'd noticed them.

From the shade of the apple trees, the hammock swung lazily into the light.

I've never forgotten that afternoon, either.

And with her mouth sunk into me, as if her lips had fallen asleep, we stayed that way.

As the hammock swung into the light and the two tightening ropes tugged the trees, Szidónia's voice grew stronger; the leafy crowns of the apple trees rustled, the branches strained and moaned, and then, as the hammock swung back, she lowered her voice, which not only lent a curious, almost panting rhythm to the story but for no logical reason amplified certain of her sentence fragments, while others became barely audible whispers; her voice swung back and forth, the unripe apples kept shaking on their stems; I was standing behind a round shrub, a boxwood, enveloped by the warm fragrance of the little oily green leaves, listening to Szidónia talking about some streetcar conductor, and the rhythm of her voice, growing alternately loud and soft, seemed to be in direct contact with Maja, because she pushed the hammock as if in immediate response to the story — more vigorously or more gently, speeding up or slowing down the pace, now shoving it furiously, let's get on with it! now barely giving it a tap, anyway rather unpredictably; the conductor was short, with big, bulging, bloodshot eyes, his forehead full of pimples, "big as my fingers," Szidónia was saying, "red and bumpy," which made Maja squeal and give the hammock a good shove, though interestingly enough, the emotional tones of Szidónia's delivery oddly suggested complete detachment — she talked about everything with the cheerful smile of someone for whom details are very important but never very meaningful, let alone decisive, each detail being important simply in and of itself; she took the Number 23 tram, getting on the last car, where she liked to ride because "it jerks and bounces"; the tram was almost empty; of course she sat on the shady side; she was wearing her white blouse with the picot-edged light-blue collar which Maja liked because it hugged her hips so nicely, and the white pleated skirt which at home she was allowed to wear only on holidays like Easter, because it soiled so easily, and whenever she sat down in it she spread a handkerchief under herself; besides, it was hard to iron all those pleats; it was warm in the streetcar, and this conductor— he may have been a Gypsy, Szidónia thought, Gypsies have such bulging eyes — rolled down all the windows, every last one of them, using one of those hand cranks; it took him a long time, because the crank kept slipping out of its slot; then he sat down opposite her, quite a distance away, actually, on the sunny side, put the crank back into his conductor's bag, and began staring at her; but she pretended not to notice him, as if she had to close her eyes because of the wind blowing in her face; what she liked best was when the tram was going really fast, because that scared her, especially around sharp bends; once she got on a roller coaster with her godmother's younger sister and she thought she was going to die right there and then; and there was this other man in her car, watching the conductor watching her, but she kept forgetting about them, because she was really looking out the window, or she closed her eyes and thought of other things; but she did not get off, kept on riding, and the conductor kept changing his seat, moving closer to her; of course she took a look at his hands, he didn't have a wedding band; though she didn't find him attractive she liked his jet-black hair and the hair on his arms, he was a bit dirty-looking; and she was curious to see what would happen, whether he would have the nerve to speak to her, especially while the other man kept looking at them.

I could actually see her thick brown hair getting dry in the heat of the afternoon; when I'd begun watching them from behind the hedges, it still clung wetly to her bare back and shoulders; she was wearing a white linen undershirt and a lace-trimmed petticoat; the vestee, as she called the little shirt, fastened in front with tiny snaps and held down, almost flattening her aggressively large breasts, but it left bare her back, her broad shoulders, and her strong fleshy arms; as the hammock kept rising into the light and falling back into the shade, the drying strands of hair on her shoulders and back gradually came unstuck, at first only at the edges, fluttering and gliding in the wake of each swing.

Then finally, she went on, after riding like this for a good long time they got to the last stop, except she didn't know it was the last stop, and the conductor, sitting opposite her but much closer, now stood up, and so did the other man, to get off, though he was still looking at them, wondering what would happen; he seemed a decent sort, wore decent clothes, a white shirt and black hat, and had a small parcel with him, probably food, because the wrapper was greasy, and yet he looked hungry, but not drunk; then the conductor told her that it was the last stop and to his regret they'd have to part company; and she laughed at him, saying there was no need to part, she'd take the return trip with him.

This made both girls laugh, a brief, dry, I'd say colliding laughter, a meeting and sudden breaking off of two separate laughs; Maja stopped pushing the hammock and with a quick move gathered her skirt between her thighs and, still sitting, leaned stiffly forward; the hammock was slowing down, and in the girls' silence it continued to rock Szidónia's body gently for a little while longer; I felt I had come upon their innermost secret; they looked so familiar and at the same time I was seeing them for the first time; Maja's eyes seemed to be thrusting, retrieving, and rocking Szidónia, while Szidónia's softly swaying glance kept Maja in a charmed immobility; but it was not only that with their looks they held each other in this position, but that their faces also remained fixed in that short, dry, somewhat sarcastic burst of laughter; no matter how different those two sets of silently parted lips, wide-open eyes, and raised eyebrows, the sharing of their secrets made the two girls alike.

When the hammock was only barely swinging, about to stop, Maja grabbed Szidónia with both hands and gave her a mighty push; there was cruelty and fierceness in the movement, even a touch of wickedness, but not directed against Szidónia so much as sent forth with her, and Szidónia, flying back into the light, resumed her story, her loud voice resonating with the same touch of wickedness.

On the way back, she said, the conductor went on talking to her, but she wouldn't respond, only listen, look at his bulging eyes, get up suddenly to change her seat, playing this little game for a while, as the conductor would also get up, follow her, not listen, go on talking and talking; no one else got on the streetcar for a long time, and the conductor told her about how he, too, was from the country and lived in a workers' hostel and how much he wanted to find out her name; she didn't tell him, of course; and he said he'd fallen in love with her the moment he saw her, she was the kind of girl he'd always been looking for, and she shouldn't be afraid of him, and wanting to be honest with her, he'd tell her right away that he just got out of jail a week ago, having served a year and a half, and all that time he hadn't been with a woman, but she should hear him out, he was completely innocent; he was an illegitimate child, his mother had a friend, a boozing good-for-nothing whom his mother had sent packing and never wanted to see again, even though she had another child by him, a little girl, and the conductor loved this little sister of his more than his own life, and since his mother was a very sick woman, with a bad heart, he had to raise the little girl, a sweet child with golden hair; but the man kept coming back, whenever he ran out of money or had no place to sleep, he would come and kick in the door, he even smashed in their window a couple of times, and when he couldn't have his way he would beat the sick woman, call her a whore; and if he, the conductor, tried to stop him, then the big lug would beat him up, too; one night, after they'd bathed the little girl and put her to bed, he was doing the dishes and accidentally left a knife on the table; it wasn't a big knife but very sharp — he used to sharpen all their knives — the man showed up again, and it was the same old story: they wouldn't let him in, but then the neighbors started yelling that they'd had enough of this, and so his mother finally opened the door, he came in and started after her; as she was backing away from him, she reached the table and tried to hold on to it, and as she did she felt the knife; she snatched it up and stabbed the bastard, and then, to make sure his little sister wouldn't lose her mother, he confessed to the crime, but at the trial it came out that he wasn't the one who'd done it, because the door was open and the neighbors saw everything; so he was sentenced to a year for perjury and for being an accessory to a crime; and now he was asking her not to get off the streetcar without giving him her address at least, he wasn't asking for a date, but he didn't want to lose her, and anyway, from now on he wouldn't stop thinking about that pretty face of hers.

Maja sprang up from the ground because she could push more easily when standing, took two steps back, spread her legs, dug in her heels, and pushed Szidónia so hard that it looked as if she'd meant to turn her over completely, which was of course impossible; the apple trees groaned and creaked, their crowns trembled, but up there, in the light, the hammock always came to a halt and, pulled back by the weight it carried, came swinging back with equal force; and Szidónia, catching her breath and shouting from the speeding hammock, continued her story.

Well, if he really wanted to see her again, she told him, he should take this tram on Saturday afternoon to Boráros Square, change to Number 6; yes, but he was on duty Saturday afternoon; well, change shifts with somebody, take the Number 6 to Moszkva Square, change to Number 56, and then get off at the cog-railway station, walk up Adonisz Road, and at the end of the stone fence around the first house he'd find a trail leading to the forest, he couldn't miss it, he'd see three tall pine trees, he should walk right into the forest and keep walking until he came to a large clearing and she'd be waiting for him there.

The only thing was, she'd already made a date for the same time with Pista, Szidónia was now shouting.

I, too, knew this Pista.

But she said she was curious to see what these two would do with one another.

Maja could contain herself no longer; her whole body tautened with excitement, and I could sense that the tension would soon reach a point where she'd have to tear herself away from Szidónia's story; she was still pushing the hammock, then suddenly covered her face with both hands, as if she had to laugh as hard as Szidónia was shouting, but no sound came from her, she was only shamming this laughter, for her own benefit, and for Szidónia's; the hammock kept flying of its own momentum, and Maja seemed determined to continue the game, false or true: once she started it, she had to go on; pressing her hand to her stomach, she nearly doubled over with this silent laughter; convulsing, she sank to the ground, slipped her hands between her thighs, which she kept pressing together, and looked up at Szidónia as if she were about to pee in her pants.

In patches, the skin on her neck and face turned white, her body seemed glued to the ground, and I knew she was ashamed of herself, but her curiosity must have been equally deep and eager, because her mouth was open and because, begging all at once for mercy and for more of the story, her eyes were flashing wildly among the tall blades of yellowing grass.

But Szidónia did not wait for the hammock to stop; she sat up, grabbed the taut ropes on both sides, and, thrusting out and pulling in her bare feet, she began to pump herself forward and backward, as on a swing, the effort making even her wrinkling forehead turn red though her voice remained soft and steady, and the smile, with her teeth continually exposed, did not leave her face for a moment, which must have been painful for Maja to bear.

By the time she got there, Pista was waiting; she hid in the thicket where the trail dipped, on that flat rock among the bushes where they often found discarded condoms — yes, Maja knew where that was — a very good spot from which you can see everything, but from below no one can see you; she was squatting on this flat rock, didn't dare sit down, ready to run away should something unexpected happen; Pista was not in uniform that day, he wore a blue suit and a white shirt — the reason she'd not told Maja about all this before was that she was afraid of the possible consequences; anyway, Pista was lying in the grass, on his back, smoking, his neatly folded jacket next to him on the ground, he was such a neat fellow; he was planning to take her dancing later on; for a long time nothing happened; Pista wasn't getting impatient, and there was no noise of any kind, nothing to make him think she was coming, only the sun shining very brightly, and once in a while he shook himself, a fly must have landed on him; this made her want to laugh up there on the rock, but she wouldn't; she began to think that the conductor might not show at all, because she heard the cogwheel train stop, move on, and still he didn't come; anyway, a whole hour went by, because he came with the next train; Pista kept smoking and twisting and shooing away the flies, and once in a while she did sit down on the rock.

That's what he always did, that Pisti, pretend not to hear her; he'd always do that, and then she'd sneak up on him and kiss him, but even then he wouldn't pull his hand out from under his head and wouldn't throw away his cigarette; with his eyes open he'd pretend he didn't see her, and then she had to go on kissing him on his mouth, his face, and his neck until he couldn't stand it anymore, and then he'd kiss her back, and pull her down, and by then she couldn't get away no matter how hard she tried, he wouldn't let her, he was very strong: now the conductor was there, and he stopped; he was still in uniform, with his conductor's bag slung over his shoulder, who knows, maybe he just simply left his tram for her; he looked around to make sure he was at the right place and then, very quietly so Pisti wouldn't hear him, he backed away, back among the trees; she couldn't see him anymore, though Pisti sat up.

From her place she saw that Pisti couldn't see the conductor but the conductor could see Pisti, and Pisti must have sensed that.

Because Pisti acted as if he was just getting up, having rested there for a while, and was now ready to go on; picking up his jacket, he was on his way; but as soon as he got as far as the trees, he suddenly turned around and kept staring at the spot where he thought the conductor must be hiding.

And then she, squatting up there in the stifling heat, felt that she had suddenly got her period, and she had no panties on.

You're an idiot, you're a complete idiot, Maja said.

Slowly the conductor ventured out of his hiding place, not completely, for a while he just stood there, under the trees, listening for noise, adjusting his leather bag and rubbing his forehead, all those pimples, and he was very nervous, thinking maybe he was at the wrong place after all; and then he started walking, not noticing that Pisti was watching him.

In the meantime, she had such cramps she thought she was going to burst; she reached under her skirt and felt that everything was bloody, it was gushing out of her and, since she was crouching, trickling down her behind and dripping onto the rock; she didn't know what to do, she couldn't very well stand up; when the conductor reached the middle of the clearing, suddenly Pisti also stepped out into the open and started toward him to cut him off; luckily she had a handkerchief with her; she folded it, twisted its edges, and then stuffed it in; but she still couldn't wipe the blood off or budge from her place; and she was sure Pisti had figured out she had a hand in all this, she was still pretty sure even though he never said anything about it to her; and now he was headed straight for the conductor as if he didn't even see he was there; whenever it was hot, Pisti would hook a finger into the loop of his jacket and sling it over his back; anyway, the conductor could no longer turn back, even if he wanted to; he stopped, and so did Pisti; all she could see was that he yanked the jacket off his back and smacked the conductor across the face with it, and when the conductor doubled over and put up his hands to protect himself, Pisti hit him on the back of his head with the hand he had the jacket in, hit him hard, so hard that the conductor just crumpled up, tripped over his bag so stupidly the change spilled out all over the grass.

She thrust out her beautiful bare feet and pulled them under herself, but she was sitting too deep inside the hammock to pump; the hammock barely swayed to and fro.

And then Pisti left, just like that, without even looking around; and she never told him she'd seen the whole thing, but she's pretty sure that if she ever ran into that conductor again he would probably beat her.

Maja sat up, the mysterious dignity of her face and bearing somehow reflecting Szidónia's calm and infinite satisfaction; for a long time they did nothing but look at each other, silently and a bit dreamily staring straight into each other's eyes, and to me this silence was far more telling than the story I'd just heard; each time Szidónia thrust out her feet she almost brushed Maja's face, but Maja did not bat an eye; it was as if now, in this silence, something more important than the story was happening, or assuming a recognizable shape, something that moments earlier I'd felt to be a secret, their secret, and it may have been nothing more than Szidónia's urge to tell all this to Maja and Maja's urge to listen.

Down in the valley, cradled by gently curving mountains, the city hovered in the bright summer mist.

And then, in a curious voice I'd never heard before, Maja began to speak.

The white shimmer of houses and the blurred outline of jumbled roofs and towers on the Buda hills were all so peaceful and distant.

But what kind of handkerchief did you use, my dear? Maja asked.

Beyond the gray strip of the lazy river, the mist of smoke and dust of the Pest side stretched into the horizon.

Maja's voice was sharp, offensive, a falsetto not her own.

What d'you think? Szidónia answered languidly, her voice deep; with her outstretched toes she was poking Maja's face.

That's just what I'm asking you, my dear, what kind of handkerchief?

A bloody one, Szidónia answered and on the next swing of the hammock shoved her foot into Maja's face.

So it was my little batiste handkerchief you shoved up in there, wasn't it, Maja said, her voice rising to a higher register, though her face was enjoying the touch of Szidónia's sole, and for a moment, full of pleasure and satisfaction, she closed her eyes; don't deny it, it was my little handkerchief, the one with the lace!

What was most peculiar was that the smile had vanished from Szidónia's face and Maja wasn't smiling either; they were content, pleased with each other, very much alike now, or maybe their sudden solemnity made them resemble each other; whatever was happening did not seem too serious.

Maja was sitting on the grass, her feet under her, thighs spread apart; holding her spine straight and throwing her head back a little, she kept pushing the soles of Szidónia's feet, not too hard, with steady, even movements; they were no longer looking at each other, so I couldn't tell what would happen next.

That afternoon, too, Maja was wearing one of her mother's dresses, an absurdly long, loose-fitting, lace-trimmed purple dress, whose shoulder pads hung down almost to her elbows; her distorted voice also reminded me of her mother's, though perhaps the dress made me think that; anyway, the two girls carried on their dialogue so rapidly and easily that I could see they were indulging in a familiar, well-practiced game.

The sun was beating down on my neck; it was their silence that made me realize I was there, too, and I was hot, as though until now I hadn't been aware of my own presence.

I had no idea how long or how cautiously I'd been hiding behind the hot green boxwood; there was really no need for all this spying and listening, actually, because at other times they felt free to discuss adventures like this right in front of me or even with me, asking my advice, which I gladly gave; I could have stepped forward at any time, and nothing would have happened if they had noticed me, the only reason they didn't being that they were too involved in the story; the ball-shaped shrub was so dense that if I really wanted to see anything, and I most certainly did, I had to stick my head out; nevertheless, I couldn't bring myself to leave my ludicrous hiding place; I would have preferred to disappear, evaporate, or maybe rudely disrupt the scene, end it by throwing a stone at them; I could have used the spigot only inches from me and the red garden hose lying right there in the grass like a snake, but it would have been hard to pull over the nozzle and turn on the water without their noticing; if I could just wreck that annoying strange intimacy of theirs! which I could share only by not stepping forward, by their not noticing me; I could deceive myself, but in every moment, and every little fragment of each moment, things were happening here that in my presence never could; I was stealing from them, though I had no idea what; and the excitement was also unbearable, the shame of acquiring something I could neither use nor abuse, for it was exclusively theirs; the confidence they'd shown me was illusory, fraudulent, they'd given me mere morsels of confidence but in truth deceived me; they'd never let me come into their real confidence, because I was not a girl, and now they were talking about themselves, among themselves, and it seemed that I was robbing them of something.

Choosing the most shameful escape route, I was about to back away so I could sneak off, disappear, never to return, hoping to reach the garden gate unnoticed and be able to slam it shut really loudly, but just then, using both feet, Szidónia caught Maja's neck in a vise, and simultaneously Maja grabbed hold of those powerful feet and tried to pry them off her, and the hammock swung back, so that Maja lost her balance and was dragged along on the grass; it was now impossible to see just what was happening, and as they were pulling, pushing, clawing, and kicking at each other, with hands and feet, suddenly Szidónia tumbled out of the hammock right on top of Maja; Maja cleverly slipped out from under her, sprang up and started to run — by now they were both shrieking, letting out terrific screams — and Szidónia took off after her; they were like two rare butterflies, flitting and flashing into and away from each other, Maja's loose purple dress billowing against the wings of Szidónia's rising and falling waist-length hair streaming above the white undershirt as they plunged down the garden's steep slope, at the bottom of which they finally crashed into each other and, I did see it, kissed each other, but in the very next moment, grabbing each other's hands, their bodies arched, they were whirling round and round, and they kept it up for a long time, until one of them must have let go, because they flew apart and went sprawling; they stayed there on the grass, panting hard.

It wasn't me Maja liked but the mark Szidónia's teeth had left on my neck.

Later, when those lips began to stir on my neck, the unexpectedly coarse friction sent shivers down my back, the sudden chill making me feel how our bodies were intertwined.

I'm bleeding, said the lips resting on my shuddering skin.

And while curled in my mother's lap, my lips resting inside the crook of her elbow, where under the skin there were yellow and blue splotches caused by the frequent taking of blood samples and where the muchabused vein was such an invitingly tender place for the mouth, I should have told her about this, too, and somehow I had the vague feeling that I had.

Maybe the touch itself told her the story, for I gave her back what Maja's mouth had given me on the spot where Szidónia bit me.

But as much as I would have liked to talk about it, I could never put into words this painful confusion of touches, impossible even to begin the story, because each touch had to do with many other touches, and Krisztián's mouth was also part of the story.

Well, come on, I said, but we didn't move.

I could tell she enjoyed whispering into the skin of my neck; I shouldn't be angry with her, she said, the reason she was so nervous before was that she was bleeding and that always made her very nervous, as I probably knew, and that was another thing she'd never tell anyone else, ever.

On days like that she's very agitated, and much more sensitive than I can imagine, and she needs to be loved, otherwise she'd start crying again.

And I should have removed my finger from her underpants; under the weight of her body my arm fell asleep, and what I took to be sweat, moistness of skin, was probably blood; and my finger was in it, I suddenly realized, I was dipping it in her blood, but I did not move my finger, I didn't want to be rude, I sensed I had to guard a feeling in her which I myself could never feel, and I did envy her for that bleeding; I stayed the way I was, letting my arm grow more numb, and most of all, I didn't want her to know how much she had upset and terrified me, how I feared getting menstrual blood on my finger.

The truth is, I wasn't exactly sure how this whole bleeding business worked, and she might have been lying to me, for all I knew, making it all up just to be more like Szidónia.

I wouldn't want her to cry now, would I? so I shouldn't make her.

I had to be careful not to move, not to let her body feel that I knew it was all a sham, that whatever she was saying or communicating with her movements was not meant for me, and whatever I felt to be mine just seconds ago was not mine at all; she had deceived me again, and the only reason she had given anything to me was that I happened to be there, at hand, and the one she would really like to do this with she couldn't, wouldn't dare.

I should love her, she said, the way she loved me.

And I was cheating, too, of course, because I'd come to her house not because of her, not to play detective, but in hopes of finding Livia there, yes, Livia, whose very name was now abhorrent to me, whom that afternoon I had waited for by the wall, in vain, since once again she didn't show up, and I couldn't stand it anymore, I just had to come, I had to see her, if only for a second, and if she would look at me again, the way only she can look! but with her it's different, I couldn't even bring myself to speak to her, let alone touch her.

At the same time, in spite of our cheating bodies — feeling in Maja what Kálmán should be feeling, and involuntarily giving of myself what I should have given to Livia — it was so good, so infinitely good to hear Maja whisper into my neck, to smell her body, to feel her blood, her weight, my arm growing numb, and our body heat, and in the dark joy of betrayal to know that again I was coming into possession of something that did not belong to me and that there was no deception from which I'd be able to spare myself.

That I could think of Livia at all just now, not of her so much as of her absence, made me feel that I had hurt her feelings irrevocably, dragged her into the filth in which I liked to wallow, and that I hated her for not showing up.

I just know I'll be a whore, Maja said.

But this sentence wasn't hers either, she was merely echoing one of Szidónia's exclamations; like a lifeless stone that drinks up the heat of the sun and then breathes it back into the night, she had drunk in and breathed back into my neck echoes of the words of Szidónia, whom she desperately wanted to resemble, whom she clung to, whom she kissed, whose every move she adored, and this indecent behavior reminded me so much of Krisztián, and the memory was so painful, that it was like someone sticking me with a pin; last night, she went on in the same breath, because she didn't want me to interrupt and say something hurtful, well, maybe it wasn't night yet, but pretty late, everybody had gone to bed, and Kálmán again climbed in through her window; just imagine, he must have been crouching under her window all that time until the lights were out; and he scared the life out of her, she had almost fallen asleep, and she couldn't even scream she was so terrified, and he was begging her right here by her bed that all he wanted was to sleep here for a little while, sleep by her side, nothing more, and she must believe him, would she please let him in; imagine waking up to somebody wanting to get into your bed with his cold feet; but she didn't let him in, she pushed him away, and Kálmán just cried and cried, so much that in the end she had to comfort him, rotten bastard! she had to promise that one day she'd let him in, except that she never will, never, did I understand? yes, she'd be a whore, but she'd never do it with him, never! still, she'd promised she would, but only to get the hell rid of him, because he kept crying and she wanted to be nice to him; she stroked his head and his face, while he held her hand and cried some more; she told him she'd scream if he dared get into her bed, and would he please stop kissing her hand, because she really hated that; and she wanted him to get lost, her hands were a mess, tears and snot, he was really bawling something awful, and she had to swear she loved him; she said she'd scream and then her father would come running and would beat him up, so he should be reasonable and leave like a good boy and then she would even love him a little.

And I felt as if my brain had been flooded by a hot surge of blood blotting out her voice, turning me deaf, peeling away her arms, sweeping away her whole body without a trace, and all the while the touch of her lips and her breath kept sending cold shivers through me, one shuddering wave after another.

Now that she'd confessed this whole thing to me, she said, because I had a way of forcing things out of her, she hoped I was satisfied.

But now I hated her as passionately as I hated Livia for not showing up, hated her for being Maja and not Livia, as much as she must have hated me in her bed the night before.

I know you kissed him, I said to her, and I heard my voice rising out of this hatred.

No, she didn't, and would I please stop tormenting her.

She couldn't possibly understand that at that moment I thought I was kissing Krisztián, because once again I wanted to be Maja kissing Szidónia on the mouth, I saw it, and I was being consumed by a terrible envy, because she led a more daring life, yes, and Szidónia kissed her back and at night Kálmán climbed into her bed; she squirmed in my arms, grateful for my assumed, definitely misunderstood, jealousy; but it wasn't Kálmán I was jealous of, it was her and Szidónia; I hated her for aping Szidónia so shamelessly; perhaps because I never imitated Krisztián so shamelessly I could never know what was true and what was false, never know whether good things are born of truth or falsehood, never know what was permitted and what was forbidden.

Just before I drowned in that dark abundant flood of blood, Livia's pale little face flashed before me again, or rather, her absence made me recall that March morning when I promised myself not to look at her anymore yet kept glancing at her even after Hédi Szán had begun to watch us, when it seemed that my stare made Livia teeter, crash through the ranks, and fall headlong to the polished gym floor; the girls started screaming, but nobody moved, we just kept watching her; then came the sound of pounding feet, people rushed in and quickly carried out her limp body, her feet in white socks dangling in the air.

It all happened so fast, we hardly had time to notice it, and then there was really no moving in the ranks, not a sound uttered, but this silence no longer had to do with the solemn ceremony.

And even if no one knew it, that gigantic eye did, knew it and saw it: I was the one who caused it all, I was the culprit.

What Maja told me, what I had supposedly forced out of her, didn't make me at all happy; on the contrary, I felt humiliated by her openness and thoughtless confession, and though the betrayal of their secret increased momentarily a sense of closeness with her and she was palpably in my arms, what I really wanted was to come between them, to oust the other boy, to squeeze him out, and in a way I did; I also wanted to know what it was that Kálmán did to her, hoping to learn from that what I should be doing, and further, to find out what was going on behind my back all the time! were those boys really as irresistible as they'd have me believe with their lewd chatter? the way they talked about girls always seemed false; and all Maja could convey now, with the desperate tones of her revelation and the heat of her coarseness breathed onto my neck, was that Kálmán, though in some ways more daring, loved her with the same hopeless devotion with which I loved Livia — trying to have her always in sight while she kept me bound to herself by permanent rejection; she was only toying with me, I was sure, and when the time came she would betray me — affecting an air of self-conscious, shameless superiority — to someone she didn't even much love; in my jealous rage, and it was choking me, I imagined that while I lay cozily with Maja in her bed, Livia was lying somewhere with Krisztián, talking about me.

It was as though Maja's mouth were whispering Livia's treacherous words into Krisztián's neck.

I told Maja she'd better be careful, her darling little Kálmán might be crying and all, but she ought to know better than to believe him; and I enjoyed hearing how soft and calm my voice sounded.

Just what did I mean? she asked.

Oh nothing, I said, nothing special, only she'd better be careful.

But why?

That I wouldn't tell her.

That wasn't nice of me, since she'd already told me everything.

She just shouldn't go into the woods tonight, that's all, I said.

But why not?

She shouldn't, that's all I can say, I said, I had my reasons.

Who was I to tell her what she should or shouldn't do? but she didn't say that, by now she was shouting, and she pushed me away.

My finger slipped out of her panties and I could finally free my arm, numbed by the weight of her body.

Of course she could do as she pleased, I said, I merely meant to caution her, because Kálmán had told me a thing or two which I wouldn't care to repeat just now.

We both sat up quickly and, without moving, began staring at each other, letting our looks do the wrestling; it was impossible to parry the dark sparks of her eyes, smoldering with hatred and indignation, and I didn't really want to. Our legs were still entwined, but her upper body, thrust toward me, was stiff and arched with fury, while mine stayed relaxed and apparently calm, because I meant to overcome her ferocious stare with the gentle superiority of treachery; at last I was master of the situation, or so I thought; I could finally vanquish, both in her and in myself, something that had long been tormenting me; true, my shrunken moral self whispered, it would take an act of base betrayal, but I could triumph! still, I was surprised by the sudden reversal in the situation; it made me falter, lose confidence, for what I had meant to divulge about Kálmán, moments earlier, in the heated intimacy of our closeness, what I'd hinted at so insidiously, slyly, as if I had nothing less than absolute knowledge of the facts, now, as we sat and looked at each other face to face, no longer seemed possible to say out loud; it had become hideous, unnatural, shrinking back into itself; in the ordinary light of that average-looking room of hers, I couldn't have told myself what it was: a momentary, careless flash of memory in the darkness of my own inner dialogue, a seemingly innocent image waiting to be revealed, one for which there were no words and which had quickly to be forgotten, the whole thing resembling the way my body deceived me then, in that situation; and today, when looking around from the high ground of my age and experience as I write these lines, it is with no small pleasure that I recall that very special, one might say fateful, early confusion of body and soul; I see this little boy, deceived by his soul and lured into a trap by his body, who only moments earlier, lying in the arms of a little girl, felt so strongly the blood rushing to his head and throbbing in his temples — what a strange coincidence that she was just then speaking of her bleeding! — but deafened by the bloody pounding of the little girl's words hadn't noticed, still wouldn't notice, that the process itself, the urge to dominate the other, the fevered struggle to gain true inner power as well as to overcome the true inner forces within him, had heated his blood and not only flooded his brain but just as strongly reached down to his groin; between the girl's lap and his own hand, his member stiffened, referring back to that sudden flash of an image he would have liked to blurt out as a clincher but simply couldn't bring himself to utter.

Then again, Maja didn't seem too eager for me to tell her anything.

But what? What did he tell you?

Our own forbidden games, the mere mention of the woods, the scene of Szidónia's adventures, was enough to give weight to my warning.

No, not that; don't! she seemed not so much to beg as shout at me; her eyes narrowed protectively, full of suspicion, hatred retreating into their brown depths.

Love wants no knowledge; her mouth opened.

And I did not answer, lest her glance stray between my legs; I tried to hold on to her eyes with mine, in case my pants showed what I was feeling.

What I was going to tell her about was Kálmán and me lying on that flat rock shielded by the bushes above and Kálmán doing what I, too, wanted to do, but didn't dare touch his until he touched mine; when my arm crossed his, reciprocating his move, and we were holding each other's — oddly enough my fingers did not feel his to be as hard as I felt mine in his hand, though they both seemed equally erect — that's when Kálmán said in a hoarse voice, and that's what I should have said out loud before, that one day he was going to screw Maja for sure.

That's what he said.

Then, trying to stall for time and to distract her from my own shame, I said that one day I would tell her, because I told her everything, but not now; and I was afraid she'd notice how red I was with shame.

But I knew I could never ever tell her about that.

It wasn't fear of disgrace that held me back; to push him out and take his place I'd have felt myself capable of any disgraceful act.

If somehow I had been able to lift that sentence from the situation in which it was uttered, if only Kálmán's hand hadn't been clinging to my member, if only I hadn't felt in it the heat of that white rock; but by revealing Kálmán's secret intention to her, I would have exposed my own falseness.

I could not remove myself from the context of that sentence, could not tear myself away from him, because his sentence referred not so much to Maja as to him and me.

And I couldn't tell her about that, because our physical contact was not the overture but rather the concluding movement, the closure, last stop, in our relationship, the furthermost point two boys might dare to venture in a realm off limits to girls, indeed a forbidden zone within that realm beyond which even boys must not go; and it is a credit to Kálmán's wonderful and accurately functioning instincts that at this terminal point of this perilous zone not only did he dare hold on to his innermost desire, which was to ascertain that another boy's body felt as his own body did and felt it the same way, but also, with his characteristic bravado, he linked the act of touching another boy with the ungratifiable desire he felt for a girl, turning the unsatisfiable into satisfiable, another's pleasure into his own; it was his way of placing side by side two secret realms revolving within each other that could never really unite.

What he said he might do to Maja was more like an apology for what the two of us were doing at that moment.

And also an obvious allusion to what Szidónia had tried to do with him, which he had already told me about.

We should not be appalled at this; we all know from other, more mundane aspects of our lives that to endure the terrible solitude of being different we seek solace and support in what makes us the same as others.

Girls also have their own separate realm we can only spy on, sniff around, circle the borders of, or, as secret agents, penetrate and even learn about some of its important areas, but the inner sanctum, that secret zone, must forever remain hidden.

The only way I could have told her everything was, of course, if I had been a girl, if as a girl, I could have spied on myself and that other boy, watching "them" with the unknowing, trusting eyes of a girl; and since I wanted so very much to be a girl, it seemed that only a thin, translucent membrane separated me from being a girl, or rather from being also a girl; I had an overwhelming desire to break through, work my way through, this thin membrane, for I hoped that then I'd reach the light of a world without shadows or falseness, find myself in an idyllic clearing; consequently, the way I wanted to identify with Maja — to turn into a girl, in other words — was by betraying my boyness; but since I could not tell her that story about me and Kálmán, I could not become the spy of that other realm — and she wouldn't want me to be one — my silence and my shame thrust me back among the boys.

A not insignificant detail of our emotional life was the fact that, as a result of our parents' political trustworthiness, we were privileged to live adjacent to the immense, heavily guarded area that contained the residence of Mátyás Rákosi.

When coming home from Maja's house, I often chose not to walk along the wire fence of the huge tract of land where everything was ominously silent — nobody used this street, which, nicely shaded by foliage spilling over the fence, actually cut the forest in half — and the air itself stood still and the only thing you heard was the crunch of your own footsteps; the armed guards were nowhere to be seen, although we knew well they could see everything from their underground bunkers or observation points camouflaged by trees and shrubs; none of our movements went undetected; with their periscopes and telescopes they could follow me, bring me up close, or accompany me on the street; if to shorten the trek home I did take this street instead of walking through the woods, I felt these watching eyes very strongly; more precisely, it was not their watchfulness I felt, I'm not sure one can actually feel that, but somehow my own watchfulness was redoubled because of their presumed presence; I saw myself unsuspectingly walking along the street, taking in what my unsuspecting eyes were taking in, and at the same time I was watching suspiciously, along with the unseen guards, my own suspiciousness wrapped in an unsuspecting nonchalance; this was similar to what I felt when something disappeared in school and in the awful atmosphere of general suspicion I felt that I was the thief! but on this street the unseen guards made me feel as if I were an assassin or a spy unable to conceal his real intent, and I felt how this strain, this exercise of historical proportions in watching oneself being watched, made my skin crawl every time, I felt it distinctly on my back, my arms, my neck; I walked on this street as if expecting a shot to ring out at any moment, I knew I mustn't get too close to the fence, this ordinary-looking, somewhat rusty wire fence, and I was terribly afraid of the dogs, which I dreaded even more than the gimlet-eyed guards.

And it wasn't just we children who were terrified of these huge watchdogs but the grownups, too, and regular, civilian dogs like Vitéz, Kálmán's otherwise formidably aggressive black dog, whom we simply couldn't sweet-talk into coming out of the woods and onto that road; if we tied a rope around his neck and tried dragging him along, hoping they'd go at each other and we'd see a horrific, bloody fight to the death, he would crouch, flatten himself against the ground, stricken with terror, the hair on his spine would stand on edge, he'd whimper, yelp, and no amount of yanking, pushing, dragging, teasing, or coaxing could arouse his fighting spirit; in the meantime, from the other side of the fence, those enormous beasts would regard our clumsy efforts with stony indifference.

And because of this — though my mind did comprehend the need for these dogs — the whole protected area became something like a focal point, the living nucleus of all my fears.

The untouched forest on that side of the fence seemed exactly like the peacefully silent oak forest on this side, the real, free forest, our forest; it seemed exactly what a forest ought to be, with dried and broken branches, wind-torn treetops adorned with clumps of mistletoe, toppled tree trunks, broken roots sticking out of the gritty soil, nearly ossified giant lips of tinder fungus thriving on decay, deep dark hollows everywhere, shimmering cushions of moss, tender saplings, slender and delicate, burgeoning under the protection of ruffled groups of ancient but healthy oaks; horsetail and fern spinning out from beneath soft, century-old layers of fallen leaves; ephemeral green undergrowth in spots warmed by sun rays slashing through the foliage; the purple crest of corydalis fluttering in the breeze along with blue bunches of fragrant grape hyacinths; the white umbrellas of the poison hemlock rocking on high, jagged petals wide-open now; yellow blades of meadow grass and bluish-green wild quick grass; the shiny-leafed marsh marigolds in damp crevices; in the shadow of craggy rocks the waxy-green cyclamen that never bloom in these parts; in the sunny spots, fuzzy leaves of wild strawberry, and tiny bell-shaped flowers on the thick stalks of Solomon's seals, peeking and nodding between the ribbed leaves; oh, and the shrubs around the big oak trees, the hawthorn that can thicken into a tree when it has enough room to grow, the hearty spindleberry bushes, and, most of all, sprouting and climbing in the impenetrable prickly thicket, lots of dewberry vines producing by autumn their pleasantly tart fruit — and still! in spite of all this, the practiced eye could tell immediately that on the other side of the street, behind the wire fence, it was not the same forest; no twisted and toppled tree trunks there, torn and fallen branches were carefully removed by busy hands, perhaps after dusk, when one can still see a little in the afterglow of the opaque sky, or stealthily at early dawn, because I never saw anyone work there, in fact I never saw a human figure there at all; the bushes grew more sparsely and had been thinned out, and since fewer leaves fell at summer's end, the grass could grow taller and in wider patches; in short, this was a carefully tended forest designed to appear wild to unsuspecting observers; I never understood why, since the deception was obvious, given the two-meter-wide strip of land along the fence cleared of all living growth, with overturned soil covered with fine white sand, and on the surface of the sand traces of the same secret gardeners' handiwork, grooves left by the teeth of rakes, and it was also in this strip that the watchdogs made their appearance.

When I turned off Istenhegyi Road and started up the gently rising slope of Adonisz Road, it didn't matter if I crossed over to the other side and never took my eyes off the silent bushes behind the fence, I could never be alert enough to see them appear; they materialized out of nowhere, silently and unnoticed, one at a time; I knew they rotated the dogs on and off duty as they did the unseen guards, powerfully built, well-fed German shepherds with darkly spotted, sand-colored, sometimes grayish fur, and tapered shaggy tails, the eyes in their projecting muzzles appearing benign and wise, pointed, acutely sensitive ears registering the slightest vibrations of hostility, mouths nearly always open, with fleshy glistening red tongues sliding up and down to the rhythm of their constant panting, revealing the white cusps of fang-like back teeth; and all they did was follow me, faster when I quickened my steps, slower when I slowed down, of course making not the slightest noise, their huge pads sinking silently into the sand; and I had long ceased to experiment with stopping, because if I did they'd stop, too, turn their snouts toward me and just watch; their look, their eyes, were the most terrifying things about them — excited, keyed-up, yet completely impassive, eyes like two pretty balls, and at the same time you could see that under their thick fur the muscles were wound up like coils, ready to spring; and not only did they not emit a sound — no yelp or growl — they didn't even pant harder; Kálmán learned from Pista, because Pista was a guard on the far side of the restricted area, at the Lóránt Street gate, and he not only talked to Kálmán sometimes but also let him have some of his hollow-filtered Russian cigarettes, which they ended up smoking in the school bathroom during the long morning recess; anyway, it was Pista who said that this was when the dogs were most dangerous, and one should never take one's eyes off them; it didn't matter that they had been trained for any eventuality, in fact, the more rigorous their training, so the trainers had said, the more unpredictable their nervous system would become; they knew and understood everything, Kálmán reported, but were nervous wrecks, the trainers themselves feared them; they had muscles of steel, that's the phrase he used, muscles of steel, and they could hurdle a not-too-high fence like that from a standing position, which was the reason there was no barbed wire on top; supposedly the trainers asked that the barbed wire be removed because the dogs' tails might get caught; their commander refused at first, it seems, claiming that without the barbed wire the fence would not conform to regulations, and finally Comrade Rákosi had to intervene personally, because the dogs were extremely valuable; even within the compound they were led about on leashes, and it was impossible to befriend them; they would not accept food or candy from anyone, wouldn't even sniff at it, it was as though you weren't there, they looked right through you; and if anyone tried to provoke them by kicking the fence, something that would make any other dog go crazy, they would simply bare their teeth as a warning; they were trained not to get riled up needlessly; when they made a mistake, however, they were beaten mercilessly with sticks and leather straps; if you did nothing but look into their eyes, without moving, they wouldn't know what was happening or how to react, and that's when you could see they were nervous wrecks; they might be beaten for jumping unnecessarily, but they couldn't always control themselves and they'd jump, catch their victim from behind, go straight for the nape of the neck; so they kept following me — to be more precise, after a few steps abreast of one another, it seemed I was following them; they were trotting on their sandy strip one step ahead of me; at the top of the incline we came to a sudden turn, the fence also followed the curve of the road, and there began a long, straight stretch; with their tails up, the dogs led the way, and if I behaved, that is to say if I didn't hurry or fall behind, if fear did not make me break into a run — that wouldn't have been a good solution, since on that straight stretch past the turn I would have had to race for about three hundred meters accompanied by the dogs' frightful barking — if in spite of all my shame and humiliation, hatred and urge to rebel, I complied with their demands, if I did not stop, run, slow down, or speed up, and was even careful not to breathe too loudly, and if I managed to suppress any gestures and emotions they might construe as obtrusive, just as they tried to curb their nervousness and, as a result, the tension of our mutual suspicion became stabilized, then, after a while, our relationship became more refined, not so threatening: I did what I was expected to do, and the dog, becoming almost indifferent to me, did what it was supposed to-do; but if coming from Maja's place I wasn't in the mood, or wasn't mentally prepared, to play this game — for it was a game after all, a kind of experiment, a not altogether harmless balancing act at the edge of self-control and dependence, self-discipline and independence, a sort of political gymnastics — then I chose the shorter and in many ways more pleasant route, right near the three tall pines, the very landmark Szidónia had mentioned to the streetcar conductor, I would take the forest trail and would peer back at the canine guard on duty from behind the safety of the dense shrubbery, noting with considerable satisfaction the perplexed and disappointed look on its face as it stared after me; I was quickly concealed by the woods, though I knew the guards' binoculars could follow me even here; the trail rose sharply as I moved farther in; at times I chose this path even after dusk, knowing well that there might be darker, not to say more ominous dangers lurking in wait for me there, yet I felt I could cope with these dangers more easily and confidently than I could with those rotten dogs.

At that time this was still a real forest, perhaps the last large, continuous spot of green on the map of hills and mountains ringing the city, the last reminder of the original natural harmony of soil and flora which the expanding city slowly encroached upon, altered, and devoured; today, this area, too, is full of high-rises; of the forest only a few clumps of trees have remained — hardly more than nondescript garden ornaments.

I do not regret the loss; there's nothing in the world with which I have a more intimate relationship than ruination; I am the chronicler of my own ruination; even now, when making public the destruction of the forest, I'm recounting the history of my own destruction, looking back once more, for the last time, and I confess not without emotion, on the seemingly endless yet so very finite time of childhood, a time when nothing appears more unalterable than the richly grooved bark of a luxuriant old tree, the peculiar twists of its roots, the communicated strength with which the tree accommodates and also clings to the soil; in a way, childhood perceptions have no firmer assurance and support than nature itself, in which everything militates against destruction and destruction itself speaks of permanence, impersonality, continuity.

But I don't wish to weary anyone with too finely drawn reflections on the relationship between a child's arbitrary perceptions and the spontaneous life of nature; I believe it is true that nature is our greatest teacher, but it teaches only the wise among us, never the dullards! so let us continue on that lonely forest trail leading to the clearing, and let us also take a closer look at how the child is walking, relying on the profound knowledge in his feet, familiar with every dip and bump of the ground, even with the stone that in the next second might knock against the tip of his shoe, prompting him to stretch out his next step; familiar with the dense air, and the direction of wayward breezes against his face, his sensitive nose telling him if anyone has passed by recently and whether it was a man or woman; only his ears deceive him once in a while: he hears a muffled sound, a crack, a thud, a cry, something resembling a cough, and he stops; to be able to go on, his eyes must skip over his fears, over frightening presentiments, and, at times, over shadows that seem to be moving; yes, he must step over dire warnings and horrific imaginings.

Then the trail melts into the tall grass of the clearing, his bare feet are anointed with dew, now he is accompanied by soft rustles and whirs, the summer sky is still glimmering above him, but except for him nothing appears to be moving, and that seems unreal to him; then a bat flits by silently, returns to circle above him, but he's reached the upper end of the clearing and stepped back in the woods where the trail continues, now branching off into two, and he can go on up the hill.

At the top, an abandoned road marks the end of the forest, and Felhö Street is only a few steps away, and that's where Hédi lives, in a small yellow house opposite the now darkened school building; at this hour Mrs. Hűvös closes the curtains and is ready to turn on the lights.

From Hédi's window you can see Livia's.

This time, though, at the fork I took the other trail.

No matter how late I got home, no one ever asked where I had been.

The forest was not so dense here, I could make out the ridged roof of the Csúzdi house; the feeble rays of the porch light projected long pale spots and strips into the dark forest; the effect was friendly, reassuring, revealing something about the attractive solitude of the house; and taking this route home I could be almost sure to find Kálmán still outside.

I was still far away, but his black dog already yelped into the silence.

The house stood in the middle of a rectangular piece of land cut out of the forest, with a cornfield in the back and a large orchard in front; they called it a farm — an impressive, very old frame house whose simple front, in the manner of the building style favored by the original owners, ethnic German wine growers, was adorned by a raised open porch, protected by the overhanging gabled roof; under the porch a heavy double door opened to the wine cellar; at the other end of the spacious yet intimate brick-paved yard a similar but lower frame house served as stable, garage, and barn; in the middle of the yard, enclosed by a simple hedgerow, stood a large walnut tree and, a little farther on, a tall, hard, tightly packed haystack; it all seems incredible today, but back then, on the rocky and clayey slopes of Swabian Hill, this low mountain so close to the city, there were still these peasant homesteads, cut off from the world, living out the last phases of their existence.

Lazily, Kálmán's dog came down to the hedgerow to greet me, not barking or jumping up on me as it usually did, staring absentmindedly, with occasional swipes of its tail, waiting for me and, as if to signal that something unusual was afoot, leading me across the yard, ambling pensively.

It was warmer here; stones were exhaling the sun's warmth and the dense hedgerow kept the cool forest air from penetrating the yard.

At the time the Csúzdis still had a horse, several pigs, two cows, some chickens and geese; the dovecote over the hayloft echoed with the cooing of turtledoves; one after another, a pair of swallows alternately nose-dived out of their nest built under the eaves, one flying out as the other headed homeward; around this time, at dusk, the yard resounded with the noise of animals, seeking calm and rest as they prepared for the night, and the warm, still air was filled with the powerful smell of urine, droppings, and fermenting manure.

Surprised, I followed the dog, and soon saw the yellow light of a kerosene lamp, which seemed strange in the bluish twilight; Kálmán was standing in the open door of the pigpen, watching something intently, something the raised lamp lit up in the dark.

The flame flickered and smoked under the glass, its yellow light licking Kálmán's bare arms, back, and neck.

From early spring until late autumn, as soon as he got home from school, Kálmán would kick off his shoes, pull off his shirt and trousers, and lounge about in his long johns all day, and as I had occasion to observe, he also slept in them.

A deep rattling sound was coming from inside the pigpen, which soon rose into a high squeal, suddenly stopped short, and after a brief pause reverted to a deep-throated rattle.

But he didn't look funny in his black long johns, his strong legs and muscular buttocks filling them out completely, the creases and folds of the fabric, faded into gray from washing, hugging his large body and accommodating all its possible moves, stretching over his stomach, bulging around his crotch, fitting itself to him like a second skin, making him look naked.

The dog stopped listlessly in front of the pen, wagged its tail, and then, as if it had changed its mind, decided to get behind Kálmán and settle down there on its hind legs as it let out a somewhat nervous yawn. -

In a stall separated from the other pigs, a huge sow was lying on her side; Kálmán had raised the lamp so high that the light was partly cut off by the door frame, and at first all I saw were her teats sprawled on the sloshy floor and her rump turned in our direction — the sounds were coming from the darkness.

I wanted to ask what was happening but decided not to.

Certain questions one had better not ask Kálmán; he wouldn't answer them.

He must have been standing there for a long time, that's why he was resting his forehead on the door beam, staring into the pen, motionless, almost indifferently, but I knew him well enough to recognize this look as a sign of tension near the breaking point, if not the point of explosion.

And as I stood next to him and watched what he was watching, the sow's eyes and open snout began to emerge from the dimness; we listened to her rattling, the sudden breaks in her breathing, the whistling of her narrowing and expanding nostrils that became a sharp squeal; and all this time she was trying to stand up, though her short, thrashing legs seemed unable to find the ground, as if a great force were holding her back; her thick skin rippled helplessly over the heavy layers of fat on her foundering body; contradictory impulses made all her muscles twitch at once; then suddenly, without even looking at me, Kálmán thrust the lamp into my hand and climbed into the stall.

I tried to hold the lamp straight; the glass cover was hot, and if the kerosene sloshed a little over the wick, the lamp started to smoke and the flame blackened.

Kálmán must have been afraid a little, because he flattened himself against the partition of the pen, ready for any eventuality.

Maybe he was scared the sow would get angry and bite him.

But then he grabbed hold of the pig's head, at the base of her ears, scratching her, trying to calm her, and though the animal gave an angry grunt, he managed slyly to keep her head flat against the floor, so that with his other hand he could explore, and not too gently either, the mountainous belly and sunken hollow of her flank; to this she responded with expectant silence.

And then he made another curious move — until then I hadn't noticed that under the darkly wrinkled anus, her fully dilated vaginal cleft, like a huge multilayered set of pink lips, spilled out of her body and hung, swollen, clean, firm, silky, and smooth, over her rump streaked with feces and urine; Kálmán now passed his finger ever so carefully over this live, burning crater of flesh, and the responding quiver of her rump was just as delicate as his touch had been, but then he quickly backed out of the stall and obliviously wiped his finger on his thigh.

The animal seemed to be looking straight at us.

Impatiently Kálmán grabbed the lamp from me; the pig's watchful eye dissolved in the darkness, she was quiet for a few seconds, all we could hear were the restless grunts and stomping feet of the other animals in the adjacent stall; and once again Kálmán leaned his forehead against the splintery beam.

It's been an hour, her waters broke at least an hour ago, he said.

It would have been silly to ask what waters.

And they left her here, just upped and left, he said, the words erupting with such force that the lamp began to shake in his hand, the glass knocking against the door beam, and he cried out again, desperately, but his body remained stiff, the tension wouldn't let the tears come, he tried to swallow but choked; they left her here alone, he repeated a third time, even though they knew, they knew and still they left, the bastards.

The sow's rump twitched on the slick floorboard, her head fell back and flip-flopped, then slipped along the floor, because she kept opening her mouth as if gasping for air, and it was horrible to hear no sound issuing from her despite the cramped straining.

Something was happening inside her that was not ending.

He must get his father.

Kálmán's father and his two much older brothers were bakers; the bakery where they worked used to belong to them, so Kálmán, being the son of a former property owner, was considered a "class alien," as was Krisztián; the men would leave in the afternoon to prepare the dough and light the ovens, and return early the next morning, after the bread had all been baked and delivered; his mother also left the house after the two cows had come back from the pasture and she had milked them; she had a night job cleaning wards at János Hospital.

So we were both free; no one at home ever asked me where I was off to, and Kálmán was left alone every night.

At our feet, the dog was switching its tail and whimpering quietly.

Kálmán shoved the lamp into my hand again, and he seemed hesitant— I thought he was going to run for help, after all, which would have meant leaving me there, alone and helpless, with this horrible thing; I would have liked to say, You stay here, I'll go — or just go without saying anything — but now the pig was slipping and sliding so quietly that Kálmán decided to climb in again.

I moved closer, to give him more light; I wanted to do it right, though I had no idea what he could possibly do, or whether he knew what one was supposed to do in a situation like this; but somehow I trusted him, he'd know what to do, even if at the moment he looked as though he didn't — when it came to plants and animals, he knew everything; to me the sight was so incomprehensible, the feelings it aroused so confusing, and the suffering (which, because of our helplessness, immediately became our own suffering) so overwhelming, giving us neither time nor strength to escape, that I was grateful to him for not leaving me there, for trying to do something, in a way doing it for me, so that all I had to do was hold that lamp straight.

He crouched behind the animal's rump and for long seconds did nothing.

In the stench and stifling heat it was getting harder and harder to breathe, but that didn't bother me then, because I sensed the presence of death, though I knew I was witnessing birth.

And then he slowly lifted one of his hands, raised it from his lap, oddly, tentatively, with a pensive look on his face, his fingers loosely crooked, and slipped the hand through the thick folds of those swollen rosy lips; I could see his hand disappear up to his wrist.

This made the animal twitch, and she was finally able to breathe; when the next contraction wrenched her body, the sound she emitted was not so much a rattling as a retching one; she was kicking and slobbering, and snapping her teeth, as if ready to bite Kálmán.

He yanked his hand free, but could not get away while still crouching, I was blocking his way, standing with the lamp in the narrow doorway, too scared to jump back quickly; he plopped down on his butt, right into the muck.

But the pig dropped her head back, her mouth still open, hawking and gasping in irregular bursts, snapping at the precious air, and from below bristled lashes, her light-brown eyes seemed to be fixed on Kálmán.

I could feel the even panting of the dog on my leg.

As the sow lay there, looking at Kálmán, I saw that the whites of her eyes, bulging almost completely out of their sockets, were all bloody.

By then Kálmán wasn't trying to figure out what to do — he was also watching those eyes — he got on his knees, sank his hand again into the animal's body, and as he slowly penetrated farther, paying no attention to slipping and sliding in urine and shit, he laid his body on the animal's swollen side, pressing down with his full weight; they were looking at each other all the while and breathing together, because as he pressed down, the animal exhaled smoothly, and when he lifted his body slightly, she inhaled helpfully; his arm was inside her, up to his elbow, but then, as though hit by an electric shock, he jerked out his hand and, his whole body shaking violently, he began to yell at the top of his voice.

He was yelling something but I couldn't understand what; I heard him yelling words but couldn't make them out.

The sow squealed, slid farther on her rump, gasped for air, her feet stuck out, stiff, and she squealed again, so shrilly, so long, and so loud it sounded like a human scream; she writhed, then stiffened again, but somehow her body preserved — more precisely, it refined — the rhythm the two of them had found before; and not for a second did she take her eyes off Kálmán, she remained fully alert, and his eyes were also glued to hers, even as he raised his soaked, gooey arm, illuminated by the lamp, and held it before him as if it were some strange object, and just as abruptly as he had started yelling moments before, he now fell silent; if I were to say the sow's eyes were pleading for help, if I said she was begging him to do something and was also guiding him toward that goal, if I said she was grateful to him and urging him on, with her willingness reassuring him that Yes! Yes, we're on the right track, let's keep going! then with my sentimental human notions I'd be defiling that direct raw but by no means brute sensual power that I suppose only an animal's eyes can convey.

The pig responded to his screams with squeals of her own, and he answered her silence with silence.

In spite of being apart now, they stayed together.

The depth of the open vaginal orifice was frothing and bubbling with spasms and thrusts whose rhythmic repetition was like breathing or the beating of a heart.

He reached in again, back to the very spot that had made him recoil before, but this time matter-of-factly, the way we return to familiar places when necessity compels us.

Simultaneously he turned his head away from the sow in my direction, but he closed his eyes.

The animal was quiet now, as if to oblige him by holding her breath.

It seemed he kept his eyes closed because he was doing something inside and did not want to see anything, the better to feel what he was supposed to do.

And then he pulled out his hand, slowly, wearily, got on his knees; his head slumped forward and I couldn't see his face.

It was still quiet, the animal lay motionless, but then, as a delayed response to his manipulation, her side began to undulate, then her whole body was moving in waves from the pressure and the gasping, and at the end of each spasm she let out an alarming squeal that died away in the stifling stench of the narrow pen.

She won't make it, he said, she can't do it, he said quietly, as one who could not be moved even by this undulating suffering because he already saw what lay ahead, he could see all the way to death; and though he did not move away, he stayed put, there was nothing for him to do.

But whatever was happening in the animal's body was far from over.

For in the next instant something red appeared in the heaving folds of that slit, and he, shrieking and wailing like the pig, jumped to grab it; immediately he fell silent, because that something, as if a strange bone had gotten into the sow's flesh, slipped out of his fingers; he grabbed it again, and again it slipped out.

The rag, he screamed, and this was meant for me, yet I felt that a very long time, important and precious time, went by until I grasped that there must be a rag here somewhere.

A sudden paralysis, a grievous failing at this moment, might keep me from finding the rag.

There was no rag.

It was as if suddenly I had no idea what a rag was, had lost the meaning of the word, in my own language! and in the meantime that thing — Get me a rag! — slipped out of his hand again.

He was howling at me.

And then the lamp's glass cover almost tipped over; I was going to look outside, and the lamp accidentally knocked against the door beam, and in fact the rag was there, I could see it, the dog was beating it with his tail, but I had to catch the glass first.

It didn't break — what an accomplishment! a victory I haven't experienced since! — and I could make a grab for the rag, too.

Two tiny cloven hooves were sticking out.

He wrapped the rag around them and pulled; he slowly backed away, still squatting, while the pig pushed and squealed.

It's the struggle that is long, the event itself unnoticed.

The little body slipped out so smoothly that Kálmán, still squatting, couldn't retreat fast enough; he plopped down on his butt, and between his spread legs there it was: the palely glistening lifeless body of the newborn, inside the glassy sac resting on the filthy floor.

I think all three of us stopped breathing.

The mother was the first to move, I think; she lifted her head as if wanting to see for herself, to make sure the thing had indeed happened, but she sank back from sheer exhaustion, though just as her head hit the floor some new excitement of elemental force coursed through her body, a happy force, because it made her nimble, adroit, quick, resilient, and inventive — which one would never have expected from such a large ungainly animal; she managed to shift her weight and turn over slightly, the long umbilical cord allowing for the movement, so that the piglet still between Kálmán's legs hardly stirred; grunting and snorting jubilantly, she leaned closer, sniffed her baby, trembled with joy at recognizing its smell, and then with two sharp snaps bit through the cord; while Kálmán maneuvered his way out of the pen, sliding clumsily on the seat of his pants, the sow got up, sprang up really, and began licking and prancing around the little body, grunting as she impatiently prodded it, poked it, lapped it up almost, until it finally began to breathe.

When about an hour later we shut the pigpen door and the wooden bolt slid quietly home, there were four piglets sucking on their mother's hot, milk-filled, purple-red teats.

The summer night was silent, dark, and full of stars.

The dog followed us.

Kálmán went to the back, dropped his pants, and took a long leak.

I was alone in the middle of the yard, with only the dog standing next to me.

There, in the manure pile, Kálmán also buried the afterbirth.

There was nothing left for us to say, and I felt that we would never need to say anything to each other again.

It was more than enough that I could stand there while he relieved himself, listening to the long, cascading sounds of his rich stream.

Because when the first of the litter was already out and he quickly got out of the stall, and I stepped aside, raising the lamp high, there was a single moment when our eyes locked, and while our movements crossed, our looks were caught up in the sameness of pure bliss, and that moment grew so long, became so intense, that real time seemed to have slipped away, as if everything that had still remained trapped in us from the struggle could break free only in our sudden oneness; it was the insanity of a grin that the lamp was illuminating: our faces were very close, his eyes vanished in the grin, I could see only his mouth and teeth, his sharply protruding jaw, his drenched hair matted on his forehead, and the sudden appearance of his face so close to mine made me realize that this face was a double of my own, because I was also grinning to myself with the same eager, insane grin, and it seemed that the only way we could break out of the frozen time of our grin and truly enter our oneness was if we were to fall on each other.

If for the sake of this oneness we would love each other.

And it still wouldn't have been enough; even with that we couldn't have measured up to the pig's victory.

Instead, we broke into a dialogue.

Into the laughter of words.

I almost broke the glass, I said; the little thing must have been lying in the wrong position, he said; and I asked him why he started yelling like that, what the hell was he yelling about; his father couldn't have done it better, he said; first I thought the pig was only sick, I said, and it was lucky about the umbilical cord, and I didn't know where the rag was; that was one smart pig, he said.

The dog was running about the yard, yelping and running, round and round it kept running in ever widening circles, which was also part of the same kind of conversation.

The porch lamp shed a sober light on us.

In a daze, exhausted, we made our way slowly up the steps.

Water was still steaming in a pot; while waiting for the afterbirth to come out, I had put it on so he could wash the pig's teats in warm water.

He went to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

First I looked at the things in the kitchen: the white enamel stove, the apple-green cabinets, and the pink eiderdown on a narrow cot, then I put the kerosene lamp on the table; because we left the door behind us open, there was a slight draft and the lamp was giving out more smoke than light; then I also sat down.

There we were, just sitting and staring into space.

God's prick, he said quietly after a while.

We weren't looking at each other, but I felt he didn't want me to go yet, and I didn't want to leave.

And his swearing, sounding like someone making quiet amends, was addressed to me.

Kálmán seldom cursed and, unlike the other boys, rarely used foul language; I can recall only two other instances — when he talked about Maja, saying what he would do to her, and the thing he'd told me in the school bathroom.

That I could eat Prém's prick for lunch.

That last one remained with me like a stinging insult, like a wound that wouldn't heal; I forgot it, but could not forgive it.

By blurting out that seemingly harmless obscenity, he joined forces with Krisztián and Prém, but could he have done otherwise? no matter how much it hurt, I couldn't really blame him, for I sensed in his act the permanent and in many ways exciting uncertainty inherent in all human relationships; for it seemed to be the way of the world, or maybe the spirit of our times, that you could never tell your friends and foes apart, and in the final analysis everybody had to be considered an enemy; it was enough to recall the fear and hatred I felt while passing by the fence of that restricted area with the dogs to make me realize I had no idea where I myself belonged; and there was the pain of knowing that because of my father's position the other boys labeled me a stool pigeon even though I had never betrayed anyone; but Kálmán, by allowing himself to join the other boys with that statement, betrayed the deepest secret of our friendship — even if the others could not have known what he meant when he'd said I could eat Prém's for lunch, couldn't have known what he was alluding to, but still! as if he had said in front of all of them, which was more than shameless betrayal, that I'd once held his in my hand; he said it as though I had no other wish in the world than to eat it for lunch! as though what had happened between us hadn't been by mutual consent, as though he hadn't himself initiated it.

He got up, kicked the chair out from under him, and took a bottle of brandy and two glasses from the kitchen cabinet.

He denied the act with the same unthinking courage that he'd displayed when his hand had reached toward me that time.

To avoid embarrassing himself in front of the others, he renounced his own most intimate gesture; but now, as if trying to make up for his betrayal by those swear words, he seemed to be thanking me for being here.

Which released such a flood of emotion that the less said about it the better.

And I could not tell any of this to Maja, just as I could not talk about girls while resting my head on my mother's arm.

Without a word, the two of us got drunk on the brandy.

If one could learn the most important things in life, one would still have to learn how to keep quiet about them.

We sat there for a very long time, staring drunkenly at the kitchen table, and for some reason, after his swearing, we didn't look into each other's eyes anymore.

Even though those words cleared up everything, for a lifetime; above all, they spoke of ultimate loyalty, of how no one could ever forget anything.

He started fidgeting with the lamp, trying to put it out, but though he lowered the wick the flame would not go out, it only started smoking even more; and then he took off the glass cover so he could blow out the flame, and while he was blowing it — he had to make several attempts and he started laughing because he couldn't hit the flame, always blowing next to it — the hot, smoke-darkened glass slipped out of his hand, fell, and broke on the kitchen floor.

He didn't even look down.

It felt good to hear the sound of breaking glass shattering into a thousand pieces.

Later, it seemed to me I was quite alert as I drifted into this pleasant state of feeling good, or as I simply got lost among my own thoughts, though I couldn't have said what I was thinking about or whether I was thinking at all; the feeling of sensations dulled by drunkenness had become this state of thinking without thoughts, and I didn't notice that at one point he got up, put a large wash bucket on the floor, and poured the leftover hot water into it.

The image wasn't blurred, only distant and uninteresting.

And he simply kept pouring the water.

I'd have liked to tell him to stop pouring, enough.

Because I didn't notice that he was now pouring some other water into the bucket.

From a pail.

And I also failed to notice when he threw off his long johns and stood stark naked in the wash bucket; the wet soap slipped out of his hand and scooted under the kitchen cabinet.

He asked me for the soap.

I could hear in his voice that he was also drunk, which should have made me laugh, except I couldn't get up.

The water splashed and sloshed, and by the time I managed to get up he was already scrubbing himself.

His wasn't nearly as large as a horse's, but rather small, solid, and thick; it always stuck out, overlapping his balls, pushing out his pants; he was busy soaping it now.

I was already on my feet, and realized it hurt, really hurt, that I'd never know whose friend I really was.

I don't know how I made it from the table to the wash bucket, the decision must have carried me unnoticed over the time necessary for the trip; I was standing before him, motioning to him to give me the soap.

This closeness, past love's passion, was the kind I had longed for with Krisztián, this nearly neutral feeling of brotherhood which I had never managed to reach with him and which is as natural as seeing, smelling, or breathing — the genderless grace of human affection; and perhaps it's no exaggeration to speak of the warmest gratitude here, yes, I was grateful and humble, because I got from Kálmán what I could never hope to get from the other, and what's more, I didn't need to humiliate myself or be grateful to him; gratitude was just there all by itself, simply because he was there, the way he was, and I was there, just the way I was.

He looked at me hesitantly, tilting his head a little, trying to look into my eyes, but could not catch my glance, yet he understood me immediately, because he thrust the soap into my hand and crouched down in the wash bucket.

I wet his back and began scrubbing it carefully, I didn't want it to be dirty.

I knew the only reason Prém said that idiotic thing was because his was so big; Krisztián sometimes asked him to show it to us and we would stare at it, laughing with pleasure at the possibility that it could be so big.

I was indescribably happy that Kálmán was my friend, after all.

I got a whiff of the pigpen's smell rising from his sudsy back; I had to rinse him really well.

And the only reason Prém had said what he said was to stop Kálmán from getting close to me, to make sure he remained their friend.

But the soap slipped into the bucket, sank, and disappeared between his spread legs.

That minute I hated Prém so much, I just had to go outside for a breath of fresh air.

My foot felt something soft.

I hated him so much that I felt ill.

It was the dog, sprawled out on the porch and sleeping peacefully.

My hands were still soapy.

I was lying on the ground, and someone must have turned off the light, because it was dark.

The stars had disappeared, the muggy night was silent.

For a long time I thought I should be going home now; go home; I could think of nothing else.

But in the distance the sky flared up with lightning, followed by sounds of rolling thunder.

And then my legs were carrying me, my head was pulling me, my feet felt a path that was leading to some unknown destination.

As the rumbling thunder brought the flashes of lightning closer, the air itself swirled and thickened, the wind howled into the tree crowns.

Only when my mouth felt something hard and cool, the taste of rust, only then did I realize that I'd gotten home: below, among the trees I could see the familiar windows all lit up, and this, then, must be the gate, its iron hinge must be in my mouth.

It was like entering a place that was already familiar for the first time, as if I had seen before what now seemed so strange.

I had to look well to see where I really was.

In the cool of the gathering wind, large warm raindrops began to fall, stopped, then started again.

I lay there for a while, in the light under the window, and wished that no one would ever find me.

I kept watching flashes of lightning slide down the wall.

I didn't want to go inside, because I loathed this house, yet it had to be the one and only place for me.

Even today, while attempting to recall the past with as precise and impartial perspective as possible, I find it difficult to speak objectively of this house where people living under the same roof grew so far apart, were so consumed by their own physical and moral disintegration, were left to fend for themselves, and only for themselves, that they did not notice, or pretended not to notice, when someone was missing, their own child, from the so-called family nest.

Why didn't they notice?

I must have been so totally unmissed by everyone that I didn't realize I was living in a hell of being absent, thinking this hell to be the world.

From inside the house I could hear the fine creaks of the parquet floor, other small noises and faint stirrings.

I was lying under my grandfather's open window.

Grandfather switched day and night around, at night awake, wandering through the house, and during the day dozing off or actually sleeping on the couch in his darkened room, and with this brilliant stratagem making himself inaccessible to the rest of us.

If there was a way for me to know when this mutually effective and multifaceted disintegration had begun, whether it had a definite beginning or when and why this commodious family nest had grown cold, I would surely have much to say about human nature and also about the age I lived in.

I won't delude myself; I do not possess the surpassing wisdom of the gods.

Could it have been Mother falling ill?

That was certainly an important turning point, though in an odd way her sickness seems to me to have been the consequence rather than the cause of the prolonged decline; in any case, the family glossed over her illness with the same lies — so vile in their seeming benevolence — they used about my little sister's condition, or Grandfather's asthma attacks, which, according to Grandmother's confidential revelation, no treatment, diet, or medication could remedy because they were simply hysteria.

And all he needed was a bucketful of cold water on his head, she said.

But it would have been as unseemly to talk about the physical manifestations of this slow decay as it would have been to mention why Grandmother never talked to Grandfather, who in turn refused to say a word to Father, the two men passing each other, day after day, without even a greeting, each pretending the other didn't exist, even though Father was living in Grandfather's house.

Maybe it's fortunate, or unfortunate, that to this day I cannot decide what is better, knowledge or ignorance; no matter how much I tried to live their lies and find my place in the system of falsehoods, contributing to the smooth operation of the system's fine mechanism with effective lies of my own, and even if I could not see what had set it all in motion or what was covered up by what, still, over time, I did gain some insight into the layers of deception; I knew, for instance, that Grandfather's illness was real and quite serious, and that any one of his attacks might prove fatal; as Grandmother gravely and passively watched them, I felt she was actually waiting for his death, which could happen any time; and I also knew, of course, that my little sister was incurable, was born braindamaged, and so she'd remain, but the circumstances of her birth or conception — the cause of her condition, if indeed there was one such thing — were shrouded in the conspiracy of my parents' guilty conscience, which is why they were compelled to talk constantly about the hope of finding a cure, as if with their hope they were trying to mask an awful secret which no one must ever find out; it seemed as though every member of my family used lies to hold the other members' lives in his or her hand; and because of an inadvertent gesture of mine, I also knew that what Mother was recovering from was not a successful gallbladder operation.

I was resting on her arm, watching her breathe, and all I wanted to do was touch her neck, smooth my hand over her face — and that's why I'm talking about an inadvertent gesture: she was not asleep, only her eyes were closed, and as I clumsily reached toward her neck, my finger got caught in the cord of her nightgown — it wasn't tied properly or it just came undone — and the light silk material slid off her breast or, more precisely, in that fraction of a second I thought I saw it slide off and saw her breast, that is what I was supposed to see there, but in fact what I saw in place of her breast was a network of ruddy scars, the traces of many stitches.

I heard a clicking sound; someone quickly shut the window above me.

The storm could not have come at a better time; I lay there hoping the downpour would drive me into the ground and I'd be dissolved, absorbed, but instead, the cool rain sobered me up.

I scrambled to my feet, to knock on the window and be let in.

To my astonishment, Grandmother's terrified eyes looked back at me from within the room; on the couch Grandfather was lying on his back with his eyes closed.

While I was waiting at the door, my pants and shirt soaked through, it was pouring, thundering and lightning, and by the time Grandmother finally let me in, my hair was sopping wet.

But she didn't even bother to turn on the light, didn't say a word, and without paying any attention to me hurried back into Grandfather's room.

I followed her.

But she didn't hurry back to help him; she immediately sat back down on the chair she'd risen from a moment earlier; she was in a hurry to be present when the expected finally happened.

The rain sluiced down in great sheets on the large glass panes, in which a continually flashing blue light illuminated the mysteriously blurred images of trees; approaching rumbles made the glass tremble; it seemed that all the heat preceding the storm had been trapped in this room.

Grandfather's chest rapidly rose and sank, a still open book hung from his hand as if ready to drop, but he seemed to be holding on to it, clutching the last object connecting him to this world; his face was white, glistening with perspiration, and more pearly beads were gathered in the stubble over his mouth; his breathing was very fast, whistling, drawn-out, labored.

The light coming from under the waxed-paper shade of the lamp on the wall above Grandfather's head illuminated his face, as if to ensure that there would be nothing mysterious in his struggle; Grandmother sat motionless in the shadow, in the warm and friendly dimness, peering out, a bit tense, full of anticipation.

Her posture was as stiff as the back of the chair she was sitting on.

Grandmother was a tall, straight-backed woman, a dignified elderly lady, though today, as I backtrack in time, I confess I thought her much older than she actually was; she couldn't have been more than sixty at the time, almost twenty years younger than Grandfather, which I characteristically, having a child's concept of time, did not think such a large age difference then; I saw them both as equally ancient, resembling each other in their antiquity.

They were both lean, bony, and taciturn to the point of virtual muteness, and this, too, I saw as an inevitable, concomitant sign of old age, although they must have become taciturn for very different reasons and their separate silences did not have the same quality: Grandmother's implied a slight hurt, a constantly and emphatically communicated hurt, suggesting that she remained silent not because she had nothing to say but because she was deliberately depriving the world of her words, and would continue to deprive it, this was her way of punishing it, and I dreaded this punishment; I don't know what she was like in her youth, but in searching for the causes of her resentment, I had to conclude that she could not have coped with the fundamental changes that affected their way of life if she hadn't been able at least to flaunt her sense of having been wronged — the changes were simply too great for her — and as a young girl she had been much too pretty not to have believed that she'd be the world's pampered child until the day she died; for a few years after the war they used to be taken into town in a black Mercedes; always gleaming like a mirror and reminding me of a large comfortable coach, it was driven by a solemn-looking chauffeur, properly uniformed, his cap complete with ribboned visor, but of course they had to sell the car, and for years I covered my school texts and notebooks in now worthless stock certificates; once you removed the perforated coupons, the snow-white reverse side was ideally suited for this purpose; and then, unexpectedly, Grandfather closed his law office on Teréz Boulevard, as a consequence of which they had to let their maid go, and for a time after that Maria Stein moved into the maid's room until she, too, disappeared from our lives; finally, to complete the disaster, in the year when most private property was nationalized, Grandfather voluntarily, and without previously consulting Grandmother, surrendered all claims of ownership to their house; Grandmother was so unprepared for this, as Mother once laughingly told me, that when she found out, several weeks after the fact and quite by accident, she simply fainted — after all, the house had been her entire inheritance — and when they finally managed to revive her (it was Mother's older sister Klara who managed to slap some life into her) she imposed the worst possible punishment on both herself and the family: she refused to say another word to Grandfather, ever; what was most ludicrous about this was that Grandfather kept on talking to her, as if unwilling to acknowledge her silence; and in truth, her wounded feelings had to be taken seriously, because she wasn't born to be maid and nurse to three hopelessly ill and two mentally unhinged people — she was convinced that Father and I were not completely normal, and no doubt there was some truth in that; she was not cut out for such tasks, having neither the feeling nor the strength for them, even if she did carry out all her duties efficiently, conscientiously, with all the dignity of her wounded pride, while Grandfather's situation was just the opposite: he may have been silenced by his own inexhaustible patience and uncanny sense of humor; with him it wasn't a matter of wounded pride; more precisely, he did not consider himself the wounded party, it was just that he came to look upon the business of the world as so absurd, crazy, trivial, dull, and transparent that out of sheer consideration he didn't want to offend anyone with his opinions; to such an extent did he dismiss as not serious things others considered dead serious that he learned to hold back his natural responses in order to avoid dispute, and from that, I imagine, he suffered at least as much as Grandmother did from her wounded pride.

Bitter traces of his ironic smile hovered around his lips even during his attacks, as if behind the protection of his closed eyelids he were making fun of his own gasping and choking, considering the futile struggle his body was waging against him as a pitiful if unavoidable mistake: the body would not, still it would not, let happen what must inevitably happen.

Grandmother observed this struggle rather angrily, if only because his peculiar frivolous ways made him an exasperating patient; he would have liked to die but couldn't; therefore he didn't entrust himself to his nurse but, with a kind of ultimate wisdom, offered up his body and soul to the force his faith told him held sway over him, withdrawing from the merciful, worldly benevolence of treatment; he made human attempts to cure him look frivolous.

But from Grandmother's wounded vantage point this attitude must have seemed as though he was going through all this, this ungratefully long agony, all this fuss, only to annoy and offend her to the bitter end.

At the same time, as far as appearances were concerned, there was nothing shameful, awkward, or shabby in this struggle, in their tug-of-war; they both gave it its proper due.

I never saw my grandparents in scanty, slovenly, or even casual attire: they were always meticulously, impeccably dressed; although he never left the house, Grandfather shaved every morning, wore only white shirts with starched collars, silk cravats tied in big, bulky knots, crisply pressed, wide-bottomed trousers, and short beige corduroy housecoats; Grandmother washed dishes, cooked and cleaned in slightly elevated, morocco-leather house shoes, in narrow-waisted house robes that flared, bell-like, over her ankles; depending on the season and occasion, they were made of cotton, silk, soft wool, or dark rich velvet, and they graced her figure as exquisitely as evening gowns; she did not look at all ludicrous but, rather, stern and dignified, moving about cautiously, squeamishly touching the objects that had to be dusted, as if by accident, smoking one cigarette after another; she engaged help only for the strenuous chores like spring cleaning or doing the windows or waxing the floors; "I'll have a girl in for that," she liked to say at such times, just as she would "have" a taxi or streetcar take her, rather then "taking" a taxi or "getting on" a streetcar. She had Kálmán's mother do our laundry; once a week she came to pick up the dirty clothes, and returned them clean and pressed.

That night, in the short pause between two long whistling gasps, Grandfather said something like Air! Window! but we couldn't quite make out the words, so garbled were they by his convulsive breathing. And Grandmother did get up, but instead of opening the window she turned off the lamp over Grandfather's head and sat back in her chair.

It must have been around midnight.

We are not going to open the window for him, she said in the dark; I don't feel like mopping the floor in the middle of the night, and there's plenty of air in here, plenty.

Whenever I was with them she spoke to him as if she were speaking to me.

And then we went on waiting in the dark for his attack to subside, or for something to happen.

Despite the long night vigil, I awakened quite early the next morning.

It was a remarkable summer morning, quite remarkable: the rising mist of last night's storm made the sky a clear, downy blue, with not a single cloud; the wind was blowing in fierce gusts.

High, way up high, it blew, who could tell where, with an even boom, a ceaseless howl; in mighty swoops it ran through the trees, bending their crowns into itself, struck the bushes and lashed across the shimmering grass, shaking, rattling, and tearing apart things in its path; for the duration of this onslaught, the sounds of the whirling, colliding, rustling leaves, the sounds of cracking tree trunks and crashing, groaning branches harmonized with the howl on high, made everything terrestrial slide, vibrate, and flash because the wind jolted light and shadow from their natural positions, out of their plane, dislocated them, and while the wind could illuminate and rearrange things, it could not make a permanent new place for them in time, before the onslaught was over, and only the rumbling in the blue firmament remained, bringing nothing, fulfilling no expectation — as a thunderclap would in the wake of lightning — and with the next downward swoop it began all over again, unpredictably, again bringing neither clouds nor rain, neither bringing back the storm nor disturbing summer's tranquillity, being neither cool nor warm, the air clear, in fact becoming clearer and less humid, no swirling funnels to churn up the dust, one could even hear a woodpecker tapping; still, it was a storm, perhaps it was pure force, dry and empty.

A raging fury to which we yield uneasily, fearfully, a bit ruffled, like birds that at times like these let themselves be buffeted by the harmless wind.

It was good that the wind was blowing, and it was also good that the sun was shining.

My little sister was already in the garden, standing on the steps leading to the gate, her hand clinging to the rusty iron, her head dangling, heavy and helpless, down to her breasts, her long white nightgown ballooning out in the wind.

With a mug of warm milk in my hand, I stepped out of the house into the wind, slightly annoyed to find her there, because I knew that if she noticed me I'd have a hard time getting rid of her; this was never easy, and the truth is that no matter how willingly I played with her, my ultimate goal in those little games was always to shake her off somehow.

But so early in the day the danger wasn't too great, for after walking Father out to the gate, sometimes she'd just stand there for a whole hour, not budging, sunk in her sadness.

Sometimes her misery put her in a state of such numb immobility that not even Grandmother could drag her away, although Grandma was the one person she truly feared.

My little sister had a very reliable internal timetable; trusting her uncanny secret sense, she could feel, to the second, when Father woke up in the morning, and then, giggling merrily, she'd climb out of bed, walk him to the bathroom, and position herself by the sink to watch him shave; this was the high point of their relationship, the moment of fulfillment in the love life of my little sister, a rapturous joy repeatable and repeated daily: Father stood in front of the mirror, and as he began to lather his face with the shaving brush, a low hum would issue from his throat; the foamier the shaving cream became under the brushstrokes, the louder his hum would grow, as if he was pleased with his ability to whip up such nice, firm, tastefully towering mounds of foam out of nothing; my little sister would imitate his noises, and when he was finished with the lathering and his hum had grown into a loud, singing bellow, he'd suddenly fall silent and she'd follow suit; in the welcome pause of silence Father would rinse out the brush, replace it on the glass shelf, and with a ritual gesture raise high his razor; with bated breath my sister would stare at Father's hand, and he'd watch her eyes from the mirror; while emitting a pleasurable moanlike scream, and repeating it with each stroke, Father would stretch his skin with his finger, plunge the blade into the foam, get down to the business of removing the stubble underneath, their game being to pretend the razor was hurting the foam, though it also made it feel good, and my sister joined Father's sounds with squeals of pleasure and pain of her own each time the knife sank into the foam, and afterward she watched excitedly as he got dressed, and sat next to him, buzzing and babbling, while he ate his breakfast; but when he got up from the table and wiped his mouth with a napkin, ready to leave, which meant this wasn't Sunday, when the quick wipe would be followed by a leisurely smoke, then the cheerful look on her face was replaced by one of panic and despair; she clutched Father's hand, his arm, and if it so happened that he had forgotten to set out the papers he was going to take with him that day, he had to drag the silently clinging child across the hallway, into his study, and back again; Father enjoyed the shaving game, but this was a bit much, and he'd often lose patience — under his controlled smile he'd flinch and grouse about the circus he had to go through every bloody morning, at times he'd be on the verge of hitting her, but always recoiling from the thought, he then became even more indulgent; by the time they reached the front door and parting was inevitable, my little sister would plunge swiftly from the heights of desperate rage into the resigned indifference of sorrow: she'd let Father take her hand, and hand in hand they'd walk all the way to the garden gate, where his car, engine running, was waiting for him.

Who could say why I started walking toward her now, when my aim was to avoid her and not disturb her in her grief, which at the moment suited me just fine; in any case, I had no idea how jealous her unconditional devotion to Father had made me, nor that it was this jealousy that made me seek out her company, because, willy-nilly, we were compelled to share the object of our mutual affection.

Just as I grew close to Kálmán because of our mutual affection for Maja.

She was holding on to the gate; I sat down on the steps and sipped my milk, making sure none of its wrinkly skin slipped into my mouth; what I was really doing was enjoying, with the most insidious humility, the grief emanating from her body.

The body really does emanate its emotions, but you have to be close to feel it.

What I actually sensed was a distorted version of the grief that the absence of Father's naked body had evoked in me, an absence that would forever remain in me.

After a while she turned to me, followed my movements, which made me drink my milk even more slowly, so it would last longer; in general, I pretended not to know, see, or feel her presence, and in so doing I instinctively hit her where it hurt most: I reinforced her sense of abandonment.

I kept this up until she completely transferred her sense of abandonment to me, hoping to find solace in my mug, in the milk.

I didn't have to wait long; she reached for it, but I raised it to my mouth and took another sip.

Letting go of the gate, she took a step toward me — more precisely, toward the mug, toward the sip of milk, toward the instinct of drinking.

She was standing over me, and between us this amounted to a conversation.

I was still pretending not to notice that she wanted my milk; as if by chance, I slid the mug between my raised knees and guarded it there.

When she reached for it, I lifted it from between my knees, out of her reach, openly withdrawing it from her.

She let out a single whiny sound, that hateful sound with which she waited for Father every afternoon.

For not only did she sense instinctively when he got up in the morning, she also had a secret intuition about when he would return at the end of the day.

In the afternoon when I'd be waiting for Livia, usually between four and five, no matter what she was doing my sister would suddenly become cranky and irritable and let out this strange, drawn-out whiny sound, as of joy heralded by pain, and she went on repeating it until she began to cry in earnest, rocking, driving herself into crying, actually not real crying, there were no tears, more like an animal whimpering, which she kept up as she wandered through the house and roamed the garden, clutching the fence, until Father arrived.

Come to think of it, the only time my little sister did not give way to these displays of joy, rapture, pain, and sorrow was when the family was together, when everyone was present after our Sunday dinners.

But now, because I didn't feel like listening to her crying anymore, I stuck my index finger into the mug and lifted out the skin.

This bit of silliness made her laugh; she plopped down next to me on the step and opened her mouth, indicating that she wanted it.

I dangled it like bait, even lowering it into her mouth, but when she was about to slurp it up with her lips and stuck-out tongue, I pulled it back; we repeated this stunt until she again made a face as if to cry, and then I let her have it along with my finger.

She sucked it off; to increase her pleasure, I put the nearly empty mug in her hand, and behind her back sneaked through the gate and ran off, so by the time she realized what had happened, she'd see nothing but the empty street.

Kálmán was standing on the trail.

This was the trail that led from their farm, above the cornfield, into the forest; he had a stick in his hand, pointing it at the ground, but seemed to be doing nothing else with it.

The wind was scraping through the deep-green corn leaves, making a shrill sound; the forest was booming.

What was he doing there, I asked him when, still panting, I reached him up on the hill, I had to scream almost to outshout the wind; but he said nothing, slowly turned his head toward me and stared at me as if he didn't exactly know who I was.

Right before his feet, in the middle of the trail, a dead mouse lay on its side, but Kálmán wasn't touching it with his stick.

I had no idea what was eating him; when I had quietly looked for him earlier in their yard — no shouting was allowed then, his parents and brothers were asleep — everything seemed fine; he'd already let out the geese and the chickens, the stable was empty, and in the pen the little piglets were busy suckling at the teats of the sow, sprawled peacefully on the floor.

When I stopped in to see how she was doing, she raised her head, gave me a long series of grunts; she recognized me, was happy to see me, and it was this silly feeling I wanted to share with Kálmán, that their sow loved me.

A little way off, his dog kept circling a bush, stuck its nose roughly into the layers of fallen leaves, scratching feverishly, and then ran around the bush some more until it hit a spot that must have promised some important and exciting find but that it couldn't get to, and began scratching and digging again.

And then, thinking I'd found a way to make him talk, I quickly squatted down on the trail, because I suddenly discovered that he must have been looking at the maggots toiling around the carcass of the mouse; his silence annoyed me, and maybe because of the wind, I don't exactly know why, I felt too energetic and excited to adjust my mood abruptly to his; at the same time I couldn't very well ask him what was bothering him, you didn't just come out and ask a thing like that.

I definitely couldn't, if only because whatever was bothering him was serious enough for him to ignore my helpfully inquisitive gesture; he pretended to be standing there by chance and even seemed embarrassed at having been looking at the dumb bugs; his posture, standing motionless, implied that I was mistaken to think he'd actually been doing something before I got there; he wasn't watching those insects at all, he had no intention of doing anything, none whatsoever, he was just hanging around, wanting to be alone, and he wasn't interested in anything; I might be an eager beaver, of course, but he didn't need me, I might as well buzz off, instead of pretending to be so interested in those bugs, he could see right through me; wasn't it enough that the wind was blowing like crazy and the sun was beating down so hard and his dog had gone nuts, so why didn't I just get the hell out of there?

But I didn't, which was a little humiliating, since staying there with this kind of rebuff and indifference made no sense, but I didn't budge.

And why was I there all the time, why did I keep coming around, anyway? but where should I have gone? and if I hadn't gone over to his house, wouldn't he have come to mine? because whenever I got stubborn and dug in my heels or got really offended, or my humiliation was too deep to get over with just a shrug of the shoulders, then he was sure to show up, grinning as if nothing had happened; and I also knew full well that he showed up not just because of me but somehow to prevent me from going to Maja, and the reverse of this, if not quite so emphatically, was also true: I kept going over to his house to see if he wasn't at Maja's.

This was the difference between us: he'd put up obstacles, hold inspections, divert and impede my actions; I merely checked things out, wanted to know what was happening, and if I didn't find him at home and his mother couldn't tell me where he was either, and after roaming the forest in the hope that his disappearance was only a mistake and I'd find him but didn't! then jealousy made my whole world turn a little black, not so much because of Maja as because of Krisztián.

Imagining that while I stood there alone, helpless and miserable, they were playing together, conveniently forgetting about me, making it clear I meant nothing to them.

But Kálmán couldn't have had any inkling of this.

Just as it never dawned on him that if he managed to elude my vigilance and slipped over to Maja's, my jealousy wouldn't be nearly so intense as his when I did the same, because it bothered me much less what he might have done with Maja; put more precisely, I wanted to know about it, but it gave me pleasure, painful pleasure to be sure, that in a relationship which didn't mean all that much to me he was my stand-in, and that when I was there I became his substitute — and I found this act of substitution immeasurably exciting.

It was as if in Kálmán and me Maja loved not two different individuals but a single one who couldn't be fully embodied in either one alone, and so when she talked to me, she was invariably addressing Kálmán as well, and when she was with him, she would also want to be with me a little; whether we liked it or not, we always had to endure the presence of the other, play the role of a stranger for her, a stranger who had become familiar because of these games yet whose strangeness prevented the longed-for consummation and fulfillment, because no matter how provocatively she may have been playing the whore, showing off with the superficial characteristics of one, Maja remained more like a yearned-for object of desire for both of us; and she couldn't be the real Maja either, not for him, not for me, not even for herself, because whatever she was looking for in him or in me, she could find only in the two of us together, yet she was also searching for a one and only, and because she couldn't find him she suffered, and aped Szidónia's unbridled licentiousness; in the process, she became a kind of symbol of femininity for us, which we felt we should measure up to with our budding masculinity — we couldn't have known then that it was precisely with these games of substitutions— experimenting on, learning from and about one another — that she would lead us to where we had to go; all in good time, nature bids us be patient, even if patience must be extracted from a would-be lover's passionate impatience.

I thought that in this confusing game I, and only I, could come out the winner, because even if something irrevocable happened between the two of them, something more than a kiss — and of course I also wished to have that "more" myself — even then, even beyond that, Maja and I shared a deeper, darker secret: our clandestine searches, and Kálmán couldn't possibly come between us, with his love or with anything else; there was nothing he could do that might disturb our very special relationship.

And even if that "more" did happen, I would have benefited from it somehow; Maja would have returned some of it to me.

Kálmán and I kept a hold on each other, cunningly and ardently we held on, wouldn't let go, and compared to this fierce embrace, which pervaded every moment of our lives and in the hours of jealousy seemed deadly, having touched each other's member seemed rather trivial, and if not trivial then only a consequence of our rivalry.

But after the experience we'd shared the night before, I felt he could do anything to me and I wouldn't be offended, or do something I'd done on other, similar occasions, like telling him, "Up yours, motherfucker," and then taking to my heels, resolving an unpleasant situation by running away; I could outrun him, but had to be sure my words hit him only when I was already in motion, because his reflexes were faster and he might be able to trip me.

On the other hand, I felt that his moroseness and anger had nothing to do with me, he just felt that way in general because something bad had happened to him, and even if I could not learn the cause of his trouble, I wanted to help, for it occurred to me that he was like this because of Maja; I wanted us to do something that would take his mind off whatever it was.

I started picking at the dead mouse with my fingers; the bugs immediately stopped moving, waiting to see what would happen next, but didn't run away, were unwilling to let go of such rich booty.

These bugs brought to mind something else we had in common.

Sometimes, because of Livia, and with nothing special to set me off, I, too, would be overcome by dejection, gloom, apathy, disgust, feeling as if I were huddling at the bottom of some dark, slimy pit, and if somebody peered inside I'd be enraged, full of hatred, murder in my heart, wishing the intruder dead, out of existence.

My fingers felt something soft and squishy; death had left the little mouse's eye open; a small incisor protruded from its mouth, and under the tooth there was a tiny drop of clotted blood.

I was expecting Kálmán to growl at me to stop poking at the dead animal; he didn't like people picking at things.

Once, he beat up Prém because of a lizard.

It was a beautiful green lizard, its head turquoise, not too big, pitifully skinny from the winter cold, and young, which you can tell by looking at its scales; it was springtime, when lizards still move lazily, and ours, atop a tree stump, was soaking in the sun; sensing our proximity it moved over a little, which was hard for it, and also it didn't like giving up the warm sun for the cold shade; its wise eyes stared at us for a while, then weighing its need for warmth, it must have concluded that we had no hostile intentions, so it lowered its eyelids, entrusting itself completely to our goodwill, which is when Prém couldn't control himself anymore and grabbed at it; and although enough survival instinct materialized for the lizard to slip through Prém's fingers, the tail remained behind, a watery drop of blood marking the spot where it had snapped off, it was thrashing by itself, writhing on the tree stump; and then a screaming Kálmán pounced on Prém.

But now, not even my poking could get a rise out of Kálmán, I couldn't get him to say anything to me, and the bugs resumed their labor as the shadow cast by my hand began to recede.

Whatever I knew about carrion bugs, as about so many other animals and plants, I knew from Kálmán; it's not that I was completely insensitive to the world of nature, but the difference between us, I think, was that he experienced natural phenomena as events of his own nature while I remained an observer, felt excitement, revulsion, disgust, fear, and rapture, which lead directly to the urge to interfere, but Kálmán always remained calm, calm in the deepest, broadest sense of the word, as when someone is overwhelmed by the darkest grief or most radiant joy and instead of protesting gives himself to it, not trying to hinder the expression of his emotions with fears and prejudices; he remained calm with the neutrality of nature, which is neither empathetic nor indifferent but something else: I suppose that is what emotionally courageous people must be like! and maybe this was why nothing ever disgusted him, why he wouldn't want to touch anything that did not touch him, why he knew everything there was to know about the woods, the scene of our daily rovings; he was quiet, slow to move, but his eyes took in everything, his gaze was unerring, in this realm he brooked no opposition of any kind, here he was lord and master, though he did not want to rule; it was this intuitive, sensory awareness that made him irresistible, as on that early Sunday afternoon when he showed up at our house, appearing unexpectedly in the open door of our dining room, looking, from the adults' point of view at least, somewhat hapless and comical, as we sat around the table, in a cozy family setting, over the remains of our midday meal, listening to my cousin Albert: my Aunt Klára's son, a slightly chubby young man with a bald spot, whom I admired for his self-confidence and winning superiority and despised for his slyness and stupidity, was just then in the middle of a story about an Italian writer named Emilio Gadda; Albert was the only so-called artist in the family, an opera singer, who therefore had the chance to travel a lot, a rare privilege in those years, and was full of strange and colorful stories which he was quick to relate in his mighty bass — the pledge of a promising career — though always affecting a measure of modesty; he peppered his anecdotes and off-color witticisms with little melodies, singing while he spoke or speaking while he sang, giving us brief musical quotations, as if to imply with this curious habit that he was so much an artist that he couldn't afford even in pleasant leisure hours to neglect exercising his precious voice; but when Kálmán appeared in the doorway, barefoot and in his flimsy shorts, Albert interrupted his story at once with a loud, affected guffaw: how charmingly ill-mannered can such a grimy ragamuffin be! he said, and the others laughed along with him; I was a little ashamed of my friend and also ashamed of feeling ashamed, but without a word, not even hello, he told me to come with him right away, he was driven by something so strong he paid not the slightest attention to the company present, behaving as if he saw nobody but me, which I have to admit had a certain comic effect.

The bugs, though hindered now and then by a clump of dirt or a big pebble, quickly bored their way under the carcass; they used their jetblack pointed heads as shovels, spinning in the protection of their armorlike shell, and the dug-up dirt was thrown to the rear by their tiny many-jointed feet; first they dug a proper trench around the dead mouse, then scooped out the soil from under it so that the carrion sank below the surface of the ground, and then, using the dug-out dirt, they carefully buried the animal completely, leaving not a trace; and as I then learned from Kálmán, that's why they are called necrophores, burying beetles; their work is hard, and since the corpses they bury are immovable giants compared to their own bodies, it takes many hours to complete the job; of course, the work is not without profit: even before they begin their labor they lay their eggs inside the carrion, where the eggs will hatch; as the larvae mature, they consume the decomposing body, and eventually chew their way out to the light of day — that's their life.

That Sunday, when Kálmán came to call for me, they were burying a field mouse, which was a much easier piece of work, despite the field mouse's larger size, since here, around this wood mouse, the ground was not only hard because of the trail but also full of stones.

Nine carrion beetles were on the job.

The hard shells of their backs were marked by two red stripes running crosswise, and on their necks and abdomens fine yellowish hairs protected their delicately articulated bodies.

Each insect worked within a clearly defined area, yet this was clearly a concerted effort; if one of them came up against a stone or a too solid clump, it stopped, as if to summon its mates, and the others also stopped; then they all began scurrying around the object causing the difficulty, touching it with their long, hornlike feelers, appraising the situation, and then, as if to discuss the problem and reach a decision, they touched each other, and several of them got down to work, chewing from different sides, burrowing under the obstacle, making a common effort to remove it.

While I was watching the beetles and trying to figure out what had got him so upset, Kálmán told me, out of the blue, that Krisztián had knocked the milk out of his hand on purpose.

I didn't know what milk he was talking about.

But he kept insisting that Krisztián had done it on purpose, it was no accident, he meant to do it.

Only I did not understand what had been done on purpose.

Last night, Kálmán said breathlessly — after he managed to tear himself away from his obsessive insistence on Krisztián's hostile intent and was ready to answer my repeated questions — last night, and he'd forgotten to tell me this before, they decided to camp out — yes, I knew, Prém had this large army tent — and a little while ago he brought them fresh milk, and then Krisztián did this stupid thing: Look, he said, there's a fly in the milk, and as Kálmán looked down, Krisztián hit the bottom of the jug, knocking it out of his hand, and of course the jug broke, and this was something Kálmán would not forgive him.

He was serious; in the terrible noise of the strong wind I almost had to read his lips, and he wasn't even looking at me, he was looking off somewhere as if ashamed to speak, or ashamed at not being able to keep this to himself, at complaining; but as I pictured the scene, the crude little trick that works every time, I couldn't help seeing him as the milk hit him in the face, and I burst out laughing.

It was as if Krisztián had tried to please me with this trick, although I'd never have thought of taking my anger out on Kálmán.

Yet my laughter, I realized as I heard it, would seem like revenge, pleasantly gratifying revenge, an abuse of Kálmán's trust; still, I could not help myself, I had to laugh: still crouching over the hardworking beetles, I looked up at him; the mark Krisztián had left on his innocent, strong face, in his offended yet still candid gaze was plain to see, and it made me feel so good to be able to read Krisztián's handiwork on his face that I couldn't, and didn't want to, stop laughing — it's a good thing we don't always know what we're doing! grabbing my legs below the knees, I tipped over and dropped on the trail, rolling with laughter as I thought of how Krisztián had knocked the milk into his face, crash! the jug shattering into smithereens, the milk splashing all over; at the same time I saw the shocked and indignant look in Kálmán's eyes as he watched me convulsing with laughter, he couldn't possibly comprehend this, how could he? the only reason Krisztián could manipulate him so cruelly and tyrannically was that this was a language of bullying and cruelty Kálmán could neither speak nor understand, while not only did I speak and understand it but it was my sole common language with Krisztián, the language of achievable superiority, of acquirable power; this was our innately common language, all right, even if we tended to watch from a distance our different means and strategies in using it; and right now it was a delight to be able to communicate with Krisztián in this secret language at Kálmán's expense.

What was I laughing at, he asked, looking at me with his transparent blue eyes; what's so funny? he repeated somewhat louder, now he'd get it from his mother, it was a fine glazed jug.

A glazed jug, yet! reveling in the liberating effect of spoiling and destruction, I had to laugh even harder, and precisely because you don't know what you're doing but are free in that you're doing it unknowingly and unintentionally, I had to do something more: my joy was so intense that laughter alone didn't suffice, and his mere existence, the sparkle of his blond, brushlike lashes, could only increase the pleasure of my laughter, now bordering on hysteria, and still this wasn't enough; letting indecency run amok, I needed to draw Kálmán into the merriment, to share my pleasure with him, not to mention that at that moment laughing for me was but kissing Krisztián on the mouth; so as I was rolling around the ground next to the dead mouse, laughing even at my own laughter, I suddenly grabbed his feet, which surprised him so much he toppled onto me.

That was it: the joking, the laughter, the kissing, the joy of unforeseen revenge all ended when, still falling, he seized my neck with both hands and Krisztián's mark vanished from his face without a trace, and although I quickly locked my arms around his back and arched my body to throw him off with one heave, my laughter had obviously released a current of obstinate and implacable hatred in him so powerful that I had neither the strength nor the skill to subdue it, and I realized, with the last spark of rational thought in me, that I'd have to resort to more treacherous, baser tactics, though to do so right away would have been shameful — first I'd have to struggle, display courage and resourcefulness, flaunt my manhood, abide by the allegedly civilized rules of properly declared hostilities; but I couldn't shake him; he was squeezing my neck so hard that the sound of the wind began to fade, darkness was descending on me, like a red rainfall, his body was becoming unbearably heavy; I gasped and choked, and I got angry, but what was that compared to the raging hatred directed not only at me or my laughter but also at Krisztián — I could clearly sense this even at the moment when he fell on me — for humiliating him so; his innocent, good-natured, patient, considerate self went haywire, he wanted to choke me! get back at me for the injury received from Krisztián and take revenge on me for Maja, too; no, there was nothing funny about this, he meant to stifle me, to knock the laughter out of me for good, along with Krisztián and Maja; he pressed down on me with every ounce of his body, which was both an advantage and a disadvantage: I couldn't kick him in the balls, couldn't move my legs or move him, but for a moment I could catch my breath, and that loosened his grip on my neck, and I tried to use that favorable moment to break the stranglehold by yanking my head out of his hands, so I began knocking my forehead against his head; the two skulls collided with terrific force — a whole shower of stars — and I couldn't capitalize on the advantage of my desperate counterattack because I was dazed and in pain, and I missed my chance: he still had me pinned down, and to incapacitate my head, he struck my face with his elbow; all I could do was jerk my head sideways; I felt my nose begin to bleed, and my open mouth was touching the dead mouse! do criminal statistics include records of children murdering other children? but I'm sure he wanted to kill me — no, I'd better qualify that, he didn't want to, I don't think he wanted to do anything just then, for raw fighting instincts had displaced will, intention, and premeditation— and if I hadn't felt the dead mouse on my lips, the limp little body all but dangling into my mouth! if this humiliation, which took the fight out of the realm of the usual daily horseplay, hadn't mobilized the deepest, most artful cunning — when, sensing complete physical defeat, one is ready to try anything, seek the most desperate solutions — I'm sure he would have killed me, I don't know how, maybe choking me or bashing in my head with a stone, though that wasn't the uppermost question in my mind at the moment, I had no question at all, there was nothing, everything we might call the controlled function of the conscious mind had vanished, dissolved in the haze of the battle; in a split second, in a flash, the prank, the childish swagger, the game of rivalry and provocation had turned into a life-and-death struggle, an extreme situation in which the mind can summon the body's untapped resources precisely by rejecting all means of moral control as unnecessary, throwing off all restraint, no longer wondering whether what is possible is also acceptable, considering the body's capabilities no longer from the standpoint of conventional moral order, as a supervisor might, but only and exclusively from that of its own survival: in a sense, that's a matchless vantage point, God looks the other way at such moments, a wonderful lookout point for the memoirist, even if the inevitable lapses in conscious functioning keep us from remembering specific decisions, specific questions, and answers from our inner dialogue, and we can recall only random images and chaotic feelings, for in that state the mind has no purpose other than to preserve the body and therefore has no will either, so what is left is a bare shape which, being unaware of itself, is not even our own; more precisely, we are no longer in control of it, and it is making decisions about and for us; it's no accident that poets so delight in singing of the connection between love and death, for never do we experience our body's autonomy so purely as when we fight for our lives or in the moment of love's consummation, when we experience our body in its most primeval form, with no history, no creator, obeying no law of gravity, without contour, able to see itself in no mirror, having no need for any of this, becoming a single, explosive dot of pure light in the infinity of our inner darkness; so I wouldn't want to give the impression that at that moment I was thinking about what I was doing; no, it is only now, out of the shards of pure sensation preserved by memory, that I am trying to assemble this pretty little series of actions — which also happens to reveal some of the dark spots of my character, and of course I realize that as soon as I say dark spots I am exercising the memoirist's inevitable moral judgment, nothing but the moral distortion of the story, after the fact, similar in nature to the way we view great wars in retrospect, ennobling what is ignoble, adding the moral requisites of courage and cowardice, honesty and treachery, steadfastness and dereliction, but then, it is our only chance to retrieve the amoral period of a state of emergency, tame it, refit it into the humdrum morality of our placid daily life; if in my pain I had closed my mouth, I'd have bitten into the mouse, with the blood from my nose dripping on the tiny body, and the possibility of this must have struck him as so bizarre, so repulsive, yet also so sobering that for a fraction of a second he relaxed his grip: there was something odd about this momentary relief, maybe a touch of uncertainty, but it held out no promise of escape, merely opened a crack through which the soul could witness the total defeat of the body; no, in this very short interval I did not think of Maja, although being defeated by Kálmán might also mean I'd be at a hopeless disadvantage with her; when you taste defeat, when the soul is in flight, you grasp at the very thing you had abandoned, which in this case was laughter, and I simply had to laugh, more freely and brazenly than before, but silently, and out of this bubbling, frantic laughter, which mocked his murderous intent, his victory, his strength, and made me feel his skin and the warmth of his bare body, directly out of this perfidious and hideous laughter flowed the movement of my hands: I tickled him, and the joy of seeing his reaction caused me really to bite down on the dead mouse, at the same time as Kálmán grabbed my head with both hands and began banging it against the ground, which didn't bother me, because the treachery of the soul had handed me the key to the situation: I kept laughing and tickling him, I was retching and spitting, he could have held my hand down only by rolling off me, which would have robbed him of his victory, but he couldn't take the tickling; he banged my head hard four times, very quickly, I felt as if a sharp stone had torn into my skull, and then he began to howl; I tickled him and he howled, how he howled! starting out as a cry of victory, exploding out of the deadly force pent up in him, and now feeding on itself, then at its loudest, at the peak of his triumph passing over into a whimpery laugh; his skin, his twitching body, his very flesh tried to repel this laugh, but the howling had become a kind of defense mechanism: on the one hand he tried to scare me with it, and on the other he hoped it would help him get over the unwanted laughter, but as he tried to evade my tickling fingers and abruptly arched his body over me, I was able to complete the move begun but thwarted earlier: I managed to get up, thrusting out my hip and kicking against the ground at the same time, while he, enervated by the tickling, giggled and whimpered and let himself be turned over, and we kept on turning over and over, screaming, laughing, clinging to each other; tugging and pushing each other we rolled off the trail and into the bushes, and by then his dog had turned up, greatly excited, barking and snapping at us, and that definitely determined the kind of outcome our fight would have.

And then I started running, rejoicing in the elemental pleasure of running, with the wind against my body, heading straight for the thicket, and he quickly took off after me; I knew he mustn't catch me, for although my running, my having to flee from him, was an admission of his victory, it was also a way of striking back, of getting even; with his dog running after us, the race was turning into a game, a reconciliation, a mutual acceptance of a tie in the contest; and then, like a young male animal fresh from a successful struggle for his female, exhilarated by my victorious escape and enjoying the swiftness of my body as I bobbed and weaved among the trees and ducked the lashing branches, the resiliency that gives running the sense of freedom, delighting in the sudden twists and changes of direction, I did think of Maja, saw her running, fleeing from Szidónia across their garden and down the slope; it must have been our laughter, the inner similarity of the image, that made me think of her, and I felt as if I were Maja because my tactics, my stratagems were not those of a boy, and there was Kálmán, tramping, clattering, panting right on my heels, the dry twigs cracking under our feet, the branches and leaves swishing, brushing, flying against our bodies; he couldn't catch me, though; I quickened my pace, wanted him to feel my superiority in the increasing gap between us; and that's how we reached the clearing at whose farther edge, but still under the trees, the boys had set up their tent.

When I suddenly stopped and turned back toward him, he was shaking, not laughing at all; his face was pale, which gave his tanned skin a strange, blotchy look; he was trembling all over, and we were both out of breath, panting into each other's face; I wiped my nose with my fist and was surprised to see it bloody; I reached back to find that blood from my ear had trickled down my neck, but I was too excited to pay any attention to that now, and I saw that he was excited, too, although we looked into each other's eyes with seeming indifference.

I knew he knew what was afoot, I could sense it while we were still running; we understood each other.

Seeing the blood made him a bit uneasy, scared even, but by wiping my fist on my pants I showed him that this was of no importance, I didn't care, and it shouldn't bother him either.

It was a good thing that because of the wind they couldn't hear us running; I motioned to Kálmán that we should hide behind a bush and he should do something about his dog; from the thicket we watched them in silence.

The dog kept watching us, not understanding the reason for this sudden stop; there was a danger that it might give us away with its movements or bark at us in its disappointment.

And the only way this thing could work was if they remained completely unsuspecting.

The tall grass of the clearing was undulating in bright, shiny waves.

If everything stayed the way it was.

Krisztián was standing at the lower edge of the clearing, holding a long, leafy branch in his hand and working on it with his characteristic intense concentration and flippant elegance; he was using a bone-handled knife, a veritable dagger he was very proud of, for it allegedly used to be his father's; he was stripping the branch of its leaves, probably making it into a skewer. Not far from him, Prém was sitting up in a tree, saying something to him that we couldn't make out because of the strong wind.

Sounded like something about bringing more planks.

But Krisztián didn't answer, he'd only look up absentmindedly from time to time, letting Prém go on, holding the branch away from his body and aiming at the spots where in tiny nubs the leaves join the branches, flicking his blade to make the leaves drop off.

It occurred to me that I had never before seen them alone like this, although from their hints, casual remarks, and vague allusions I knew they were inseparable; but no matter how closely I had watched them or tried to figure them out, everything between them remained a secret, their hints and allusions expressive of an intriguing collusion; it seemed that there was them and then there was the rest of the world, or rather another world, completely separate and inconsequential, peopled with dull, inferior strangers; and if anyone tried to get close to them, they'd accommodate the intruder for a while, like two ballplayers perfectly attuned to each other's thoughts and intentions, playing politely and graciously, if only to keep themselves amused; their shared life, thus hidden from others, may have been the source of their self-assurance and sense of superiority; one had to assume that theirs was the true life, the splendid real life we all long for, which remained and had to remain hidden, since they were its sole keepers.

How I longed for him, how grievously he was hurting me; I wanted him to be mine, or at least mine, too; I fantasized about that life and about being a part of it.

Their tent stood under the trees; I saw a blue bucket lying on its side, a shovel stuck into the ground with its handle rising straight up, a woodpile prepared for the evening camphre, tall grass swaying gently in the wind, and farther away, the red spot of a blanket spread on the ground; and Krisztián, standing on the lower part of the clearing, slapping at his back, probably shooing away a pesky fly, and Prém sitting in the tree— there was something so ethereally calm and serene in this picture as to suggest a secret, mysterious message, but I hoped to discover even more exciting secrets about them.

Kálmán cautiously bent down, picked up a stone, and threw it quickly, aiming accurately so he wouldn't actually hit his dog.

The stone struck a tree, the dog didn't budge; it kept watching Kálmán as though it understood him, but apparently it understood something else and only wagged its tail once, lazily; I detected a certain indignation in this.

Kálmán hissed angrily at the dog, motioned to it to go home, get lost, and to show that he meant it, he picked up another stone; he was still pale, still shaking.

And then slowly, reluctantly, the dog started to move, though not to where Kálmán was pointing but toward us, and strangely enough, as it moved, the light of curiosity and attention in its eyes which we had seen only moments before began to die out; it abruptly changed direction and, ignoring Kálmán's angry hissing and brandishing of the stone, trotted out from under the trees into the clearing; frozen, we stared after it; for a while it disappeared completely, and we could only follow the line where its body broke the rippling waves of the tall grass, only see its black back resurfacing near Krisztián's feet; he looked up, said something to the dog, the dog stopped, even let Krisztián scratch it with the tip of his knife, then trotted into the woods.

Seeing Krisztián so unsuspecting, not even bothering to glance our way to see where the dog was coming from, assuming it must simply be wandering about, filled us with such a sense of victory, such elation, that Kálmán raised a clenched fist and we silently grinned at each other, the grin looked kind of odd on his pale face, especially since he still hadn't stopped shaking; he seemed to be struggling with an inner force unable to break out of him and now made more powerful by that triumphant gesture of his fist; his neck was pale, too, and though the skin on his body didn't change color, it seemed shriveled somehow, matte and chilly, as when covered with gooseflesh, making it seem as if another boy, a stranger, was standing next to me, yet because of my own excitement I didn't attach special importance to this at the time; after all, is there anything a child wouldn't consider natural? anything he couldn't comprehend? shaking, pale, lusterless, he lost the familiar shape of his easygoing, good-natured self, although he seemed stronger, better proportioned, perhaps even more beautiful; yes, I'd be on the right track if I said that it seemed as if, along with the fatness, the softness that lent him a genial air had been dissolved, and the petulant, tense vibration of his naked muscles bespoke an already transformed being; he was more beautiful but also distorted: his bluish-red nipples seemed larger on the muscles of his chest, which kept twitching feverishly; his mouth seemed smaller, his eyes expressionless, and innocence seemed to have been supplanted by a kind of stiffness, which emphasized the anatomical aspects of his body and threw them into sharper, more striking relief; yes, we could contemplate the laws of beauty: if he were still alive, then, ever curious about the principles governing beauty's functions, I would question him about the secret cause of the physical change, but he died, before my very eyes, in my hands almost, on the night of October 23, 1956, which was a Tuesday; so I can only surmise that the emotions released by our fight, by his defeat and victory, made him confront feelings that, being unfamiliar, his body could not struggle against; he began to run and I ran after him, and if I said that the idea of running had been mine, I must also say that actually doing it was much more urgent for his body; we ran carefully, watching every step, trying to make no noise, seeking each secure foothold with an attentiveness sharpened by excitement, swiftly deciding on a slight detour so Prém wouldn't notice us from his tree.

That's how, having gone around the clearing, we finally reached the famous spot, that jutting rock, where we had once touched each other and where, hiding behind the tall thornbush, Szidónia had watched Pista fight the conductor and in her excitement begun to bleed.

When I look at it today, it is not some great rock but a rather ordinary, not even very large flat stone that, ravaged by the elements and assailed by tree roots, is crumbling into separate layers; and when I recently found myself at this place again, it was surprising to realize that children, in their blissful ignorance, may consider a rather exposed spot or sparse thicket to be the safest of havens.

Krisztián must have finished preparing his stick, he said something, but we couldn't hear because of the wind, and Prém, thrusting his body away from the tree, dangling, his feet groping for a branch, began to climb down.

This was the right moment, or rather, we couldn't delay any further.

I rushed out first, I wanted Kálmán to follow me, the all-compelling, ready impulse could be restrained no longer; if I had let him he would have started out too rashly and I desired the more subtle effects of a surprise.

With long leaps we quickly gained the tent and slipped in unnoticed, fairly sliding on top of each other as we did, it was a surprisingly spacious, dark tent, its thick canvas letting in no light, also warm, and although we could have stood up, we chose to crawl on all fours; in the stuffy darkness I could immediately distinguish Krisztián's delicious smell; through an open flap on top a single beam of light fell into the tent, somehow making it seem even darker; we kept bumping into each other's hands and feet, we were blinded by both the darkness and the light as we moved about, touching objects in our way; I can still hear Kálmán huffing and puffing like an animal; hard as I try, I remember little else besides this groping and crawling in the stifling excitement of the heat and darkness, and the sharp ray of light hitting the back of Kálmán's neck, and his heavy panting; I don't know, for example, how long all this lasted or whether we said anything to each other — probably not, there was no need; I knew what he wanted and what he would do next and he knew the same about me; we both knew why we had to touch these precious objects which almost made us cry out with joy, objects which in a moment would be sent flying out of here! and still, we were alone, each of us locked in his own feelings, in the very center of what we had assumed was that secret, real, and conspiratorial life; I think he made the first move by knocking the entrance flap up to the top of the tent; anyway, I remember that first it made the tent light, and then I heard a thud as the kettle crash-landed after a great, arched flight; a flashlight was next; at first we were tossing things out one by one, whatever came to hand, the harder and more fragile the better! we hurled, smashed, shattered, pulverized them one after the other; after a while we didn't have time to pick out just the good ones, and we dug into the soft stuff, frantically heaving out clothes, sheets, sacks, blankets, bumping into each other in frenzied haste, for by then we saw them running up the clearing toward us, Krisztián with his stick and knife; there were still plenty of things left in the tent, but even in my feverish zeal I made sure that the more delicate items like binoculars, an alarm clock, the slightly rusty hurricane lamp, a tuning fork, compass, and a cigarette lighter were flung as far and in as many directions as possible.

I had to yell to reach Kálmán, and I did, at the top of my voice; I was also tugging and pulling him to come on! because stones were beginning to hit the stiff canvas top; Prém was running and throwing stones, with devilish agility running, bending down and throwing without breaking his stride, but Kálmán was so caught up in this orgy of destruction he saw nothing, heard nothing, and I thought I'd have to leave him there, though that didn't seem plausible, so I kept nudging and pushing him and still he didn't notice that they were almost on top of us and that Prém had overtaken Krisztián; we had no time left, I had to make a decision, so I sneaked behind the tent and, holding on to branches and roots, constantly looking back to see why he was taking so long, started to climb up, trying to reach that miserable rock and the safety of the large bushes; Kálmán stopped right in front of the tent, stood up straight, and stared them in the eye; they were only a few steps away; then Kálmán bent down and with a leisurely saunter circled the tent, pulling up every single stake, kicking the looser ones free with his feet, and only after he'd pulled up the last one did he take off, running and then climbing after me.

The tent collapsed the very instant the boys reached it, and the sight clearly stunned them; they may have had some idea about what they were going to do, but now they just stood there, panting, helpless.

In the still booming wind I could hear the crunch and then the falling of pebbles dislodged by Kálmán's feet as he scrambled his way up toward me.

Their defeat was so spectacular, so final, their losses so considerable, they simply couldn't move, couldn't yell or curse, couldn't chase us; a single look couldn't possibly take in the extent of the destruction, and any move or word would have been an admission of this total defeat; they simply couldn't find an appropriate response, which gave us further satisfaction; in spite of our retreat, we were in a position of perfect advantage: we were above, looking down at them from a well-hidden, protected observation post, and they were below, in a fully exposed open space; as soon as he was next to me, Kálmán threw himself flat on his stomach to avoid being a target, and we lay there quite still, waiting; victory was ours, but its possible consequences were unpredictable, and for this reason I can't say we savored it for long; it was as if we ourselves were reappraising the dimensions of our deed; I was now shocked both by the sight of it and by my own presentiment that we had crossed a barrier into the forbidden, not with the treachery of our attack or the unexpected termination of a friendship — we could always find a nominal justification for that— but with the real destruction of real objects; we shouldn't have done that, we couldn't just simply return from that and resume our customary games; so now something even more dreadful, something fateful was yet to happen, it was no longer a game; by smashing those objects, we had exposed the boys to unpredictable parental intervention; however justified our retaliation may have been according to the rules of the game, by doing it the way we did, we had in effect turned the boys in; our victory, therefore, was an act of treason, and it put us outside our own law, too, for not only had we administered justice but we had exposed them to the reprisal of the common enemy; we knew only too well, for instance, that Prém was beaten nightly by his father, and it was no ordinary beating: his father set upon him with a stick, a leather strap, and if Prém fell down, his father would go ahead and kick him, too; the hurricane lamp and the alarm clock belonged to his father, Prém had taken them without permission, I knew that, and I also thought about it the very moment when I'd heard them break to pieces; still, it was our victory, and we were not to be deprived of its momentary advantages by petty ethical considerations or the shock induced by the extent and possible consequences of the destruction, if only because our victory had given them a moral superiority we couldn't possibly endure.

They didn't look at each other, just stood there motionless above their collapsed tent; Krisztián was still holding his stick in one hand and his knife in the other, which in light of their stinging defeat looked ridiculous rather than ominous; their faces were also completely motionless, and it didn't look as though they were exchanging secret signals to ready themselves for a counterattack but that they realized it was all over; their necks were stiff, Prém was closing his fist as if still holding the stone he'd hurled at us moments before; but if it was all over, what then? I didn't know what Kálmán was thinking, I myself was weighing the possibility of an immediate, unconditional, and silent withdrawal; we had to extricate ourselves somehow from this impossible situation, back off, slink away, quit the battlefield in a most cowardly fashion, if necessary, forget about our victory, and the sooner the better; but Kálmán quickly got up on his knees and, realizing what a wonderful arsenal he had been lying on, scooped up a fistful of pebbles and stones, leaned out of the bush, and without even aiming began throwing them.

With his very first stone he hit Krisztián in the shoulder; the others missed.

And then, as if pulled by the same string but in opposite directions, the two boys ducked and took off, one to the right, toward the woods, the other to the left; they disappeared among the trees at the edge of the clearing.

By doing this, not only did they blunt the attack and confuse us, the attackers, but they also dispelled the illusion that in their defeat they didn't know what to do.

It may not have been written on their faces, but they had some kind of plan; this running off was a planned move, not a flight, which they must have prepared right before our eyes, only we couldn't comprehend their secret signals; and this meant, of course, that there was a special bond between them, after all, something that could never be broken.

What an animal, what a prick, I muttered angrily, what did he have to throw those rocks for? using a word that ordinarily I'd never have used, but now it felt good, because it was part of my sweet revenge for everything.

Kálmán stayed as he was, on his knees, still holding the stones in his hand; he shrugged his shoulders lightly, which meant there was no reason to get excited; the curious pale splotches vanished from his face and he wasn't trembling anymore; he was content, calm, and gave me a friendly look filled with a kind of witless superiority born of hard-won victory; his mouth relaxed, the savage glint left his eyes, though in this newfound amiability there was a certain amount of contempt for me; with a wave of his hand he indicated that those two were probably trying to surround us, and it would be highly advisable to stop grumbling and turn around, because we had to secure our rear, too.

But I was so angry at him, hated him so much, that I wanted to fall on him, or at least knock those lousy rocks out of his hand; it was on account of his precious glazed jug, I realized, that he'd turned Krisztián into my enemy for good; I got to my knees and began cursing him; and just then two black butterflies floated by between us, their fluttering wings almost touching his chest, then they flew upward, around each other, and passed by my face; I didn't tell him what I really wanted to, that he was an ignorant hick, instead I grabbed his hand, but it turned out differently than I intended; I don't know what happened, I found myself begging him, Let's get the hell out of here, even called him Kálmánka, which only his mother did, and that made me feel more disgusted; I told him the whole thing was so stupid, and who the hell cared, anyway, and what more did he want, and if he didn't come I'd go by myself; but he just shrugged his shoulders again and coldly withdrew his hand from mine, which meant I could go whenever I wanted to, he didn't care the least bit.

Fuck you, I said to him — and it was for Krisztián's sake that I said that.

Actually, I'd have loved to tell him we shouldn't have done this, except I couldn't forget so fast that it was originally my idea, and a disgraceful act cannot be put right by another act of dishonesty; he was also important to me, but not like that, surely not like that! and besides, the moment of victory was not a good time to remind him of the horrid way he'd got back at me; I preferred my own quiet disgust.

But not leaving made me feel even more disgusted with myself; inert, I turned over to lie on my stomach and kept my eyes on the forest to see if they were coming.

In a way I was grateful to Kálmán; by staying with him I managed to salvage some of my honor, and my cowardice would be put in the right perspective, at least between the two of us; I was even more grateful that he didn't take advantage of this, said not a word, even though he understood, perhaps accepted for the first time, how important Krisztián was to me and that he, Kálmán, was of no account — I saw his acknowledgment in the form of a jeering glint, hardly more than the flash of a sideways glance.

The sun beat down on us mercilessly, not even the wind could relieve the heat, the rock was hot, and nothing was happening save for the flies swarming; we should have accepted the fact that they weren't coming, though they might charge out of the woods any second, because I was sure they wouldn't leave matters unavenged. I could have yelled, They're coming! it even occurred to me not to warn him, let them come, let them do with us what they would! with the trees groaning and creaking in the wind, cracking and snapping with each gust, branches bending and foliage sweeping forward then springing back, gaps opening and closing between the bushes, light flashing irregularly as it tried to elude the pursuing shadows, it wasn't hard to expect the sound of running feet, to see spying faces among the leaves, bodies advancing from or retreating behind tree trunks; but nothing happened, no matter how much I hoped to win back Krisztián by betraying Kálmán; they weren't coming. And I had to stay on the overheated rock, on the lookout, alert, all according to some unwritten code of honor; stay with him, though he didn't mean anything to me, I didn't care about him. To take my mind off things, I began to collect stones and lay them out in a neat row in front of me, as if to prove to myself that I was ready for combat — should the need arise, the ammunition was to hand — but I tired of this, too, and there was nothing else to do; whenever Kálmán stirred and my foot accidentally touched his shoulder, I pulled away; I didn't enjoy the warmth of a strange body.

Of course we also had to figure on their returning with possible reinforcements; one of them might still be nearby, keeping an eye on us, while the other ran off to get help; yet all I could think of was Krisztián's knife, that he might surprise me from the back, and this made me feel even more strongly the scorching sun on my back and the futile cooling efforts of the wind.

It was around noontime, though the midday bell that would reverberate through the woods hadn't yet been rung; the sun was directly overhead, its blaze felt as if it were right on top of us; if it were not for the wind blowing so strongly, it would have been impossible to endure that hour of idle waiting; all that time I spoke to him only twice, to ask if he saw anything, because I didn't; but he didn't answer, and from his stubborn silence I could surmise that our bodies lying next to each other on that hot rock were gripped by the same desperate, pent-up fury; anxiety held our fury at bay and vice versa, the sharp point of hatred was blunted by fear, though this restrained yet somehow still freewheeling emotion was no longer aimed at the other boys but at ourselves; it was no ordinary fear, not a fear of being beaten, surrounded, overwhelmed, defeated, because by now it was clear we didn't have a chance, and having no chance reduces one's fears; the problem was that during the time passed in uncertainty we ourselves, or rather the peculiar feeling lingering between us, destroyed our advantage; this is the fate of victors who finish the job left undone by the enemy; our bodies, our skin, our very silence carried on a withering conversation during that anxious, uncertain hour, and it became clear to us that our victory was not only morally dubious but also unacceptable for simpler, more pragmatic reasons; we couldn't agree even on the significance of the victory, since it meant something different to each of us, and little by little we began to sense the limits of our friendship, to understand that without the other two boys our momentary alliance simply didn't exist; we could rebel against them, and during a brief period of plotting and acting against them might have felt our relationship to be as strong as theirs, but it could not cope with our victory or sustain it; there was a secret lack here, we could not measure up, Kálmán and I could only be accomplices at best, for we lacked the very harmony — of being complementary and suited to each other — for which we had attacked them, which I envied and found so irritating, which proved as impregnable as a rockbound fortress; and it was with the magic radiance of this harmony — yes, magic radiance, I'm not afraid of the phrase — that they drew us into their friendship and ruled over us, and we appreciated the good that came from this arrangement; and now we had squandered this good, exhausted and shattered it; it wasn't them that we had destroyed but our relationship! Kálmán's rightful place was with them; his easy calm complemented their nimbleness, his lumbering wisdom was a proper match for their resourcefulness, his benevolence a mate to their cruel humor; I was on the outside and could get close to them only through my friendship with Kálmán, like a cool observer of a triumvirate who, by standing on the sidelines, reinforces their cohesiveness as well as their hierarchy — Krisztián was at the top, of course, by virtue of his irresistible charm and intelligence, which had to be accepted, no rebellion should or could topple it; he lived in us, being with him was our life, and perhaps I even had a need to suffer because of him, for something good did come of it, something real and whole and workable; what I understood right away — that we were fatally defeated in the very moment of our victory and that along with my pains I'd lose everything that was any good in my life — took Kálmán longer to comprehend, though now I sensed a message sent out by his body that it was no use lying here, no use waiting, that we were defending our honor for nothing, since even if we managed to defeat them, which was just about impossible, the broken order of the world could never be restored; there'd be no new order, only chaos.

Look, he said suddenly, quietly, choking with surprise, and though I'd been waiting for just such a sound or signal, it came too suddenly — in the desert of endless waiting the slightest stirring of even a single grain of sand seems sudden and unexpected — and I perked up, but this wasn't the same voice, not his pugnacious voice but his old one, a joyful voice expressing fond surprise at seeing what he'd anticipated all along, as when during our rovings he'd spot a fledgling bird fallen from its nest or a hairy caterpillar or a tiny porcupine among the dry leaves: I had to sit up to see what he was referring to.

There it was: down where the winding trail, rising sharply from the street and hidden by two big elder bushes, ran into the clearing, there among the windblown leaves was a flash of white, then something red, a bare arm, a blaze of blond hair, bobbing, moving closer, then popping out from behind the bushes: the three girls.

They were moving steadily up the trail, sticking close together, slightly blocking one another; they must have come in single file on the trail and now, having reached the open field, were jostling one another a little, full of small movements, leaning to the side, throwing out their arms, chatting and giggling; Hédi, the one in the white dress, was holding flowers — she loved picking them — and, leaning back, kept brandishing them in front of Livia, behind her, even stroking her face with them, gently, teasingly; then she leaned over to Maja and whispered something in her ear, though it seemed she meant Livia to hear it, too; Livia, whose skirt was the red spot we'd seen before, leaped in front of the other two, laughing, and as if wanting to carry them along with her momentum seized Maja's hand; but Hédi grabbed Livia's hand and waved her flowers in Maja's face this time; and then they stayed this way, hand in hand, their bodies almost pressing together, advancing slowly, taking very small steps, first Hédi, Livia in the middle, then Maja, completely absorbed in one another, and at the same time exchanging words, moving in an unknown formation, hovering along on the rhythm of their continually crisscrossing conversations, their faces and necks leaning close to and away from one another, their progress in the windswept, wildly undulating grass at once swift and majestically measured.

The sight itself wasn't so unusual, since they often walked this way, hand in hand, clinging to one another, and it also wasn't unusual that Hédi should be wearing Maja's white dress and Maja Hédi's navy-blue silk one, though because of the differences in their build the dresses didn't quite fit them; Hédi was taller, rounder, "stronger in the bust," they'd say among themselves, the mildly judgmental words referring only to how the dress made her look; I always paid close attention to such remarks, eager to learn whether they had a rivalry similar to the one found among us boys, but they weren't concerned so much with the difference in breast size as with the right place for the bust seam, which they debated with great seriousness and adjusted with little pulls and tucks, even unstitching and basting it anew; and although this managed to lay my suspicion about rivalry to rest, I still felt it wasn't quite unfounded; anyway, Maja's dresses "unflatteringly" flattened Hédi's breasts, but it seemed that the not-quite-perfect fits, the continually mentioned differences in build, was what made swapping dresses so attractive for them; however, they never swapped clothes with Livia and were very sensitive to the pride she took in her clothes, so while they tried on her dresses, they never insisted on wearing them; her wardrobe was rather shabby and limited in any case, though they always found her things "adorable" and eagerly outdid each other in lending her scarves and bracelets, pins, belts, ribbons and necklaces, things that would "show Livia off," as they put it, and that she accepted with engaging bashfulness; even now she was wearing a coral necklace Maja filched from her mother whenever she wanted to wear that white dress; the two girls did not seem to mind that these uneven exchanges tended to favor Maja, because most of Hédi's casually loose-fitting dresses looked quite good on her; at least in our eyes she seemed more grown-up in them, like a woman, her gangly awkwardness vanishing in their ample material; in fact, it seemed that our overlooking the unevenness of these exchanges eliminated the actual, hurtful differences which caused so much jealous rivalry between them and from which Maja suffered so much, Hédi being the pretty one, the prettier of the two, or, more precisely, the one considered pretty by everybody, the one everybody fell in love with; whenever the three of them were out together she was the one everybody looked at, behind whose back grown men whispered lewd comments, who was felt up and pinched in dark movie theaters or on crowded streetcars, even when Krisztián was with her; she cried, felt ashamed, tried to hunch her back so that her arms would cover and protect her breasts, but all in vain; and women were crazy about her, too, praising her hair especially, touching it like a rare jewel or digging into it with their fingers; with her soft blond hair falling in great shiny waves over her shoulders, her smooth, high forehead, her full cheeks and huge, somewhat protruding blue eyes, she was the "prettiest of them all," which hurt Maja so deeply that she always brought it up, kept dwelling on it, extolling Hédi's beauty more loudly than anyone, as if proud of this gesture, hoping that people would correct her exaggerations; what made Hédi's eyes especially interesting and dazzling were her long jet-black eyelashes and equally dark eyebrows, the precise curve and density of which she controlled and maintained with the help of a tweezer, plucking out hairs she considered superfluous — a very delicate operation which I saw her do once: with two fingers she stretched the skin above the eye; while working with the tweezers, snipping and plucking the stray hairs, she kept glancing at me from the mirror, explaining that although thin eyebrows were the current fashion and some women plucked them out altogether and drew new ones in with a pencil, "like that cook in school, that monster," a truly fashionable woman wasn't supposed to conform blindly to everything new but had to find the proper balance between her own assets and the prevailing trends; now Maja, for instance, often made the mistake of wearing something that, though very much in fashion, didn't look at all good on her, and if she said something about it to her, Maja would be gravely offended, which was childish; as a matter of fact, her eyebrows could use some plucking but she said it hurt, well, it didn't hurt that much, and anyway, if one had brows as thick and ugly as Maja's, one should use hair remover, which didn't hurt at all, and she should use it on her legs, too, which were terribly hairy; and the reason she didn't want to make her own eyebrows too thin was because that would make her nose look even bigger, and it was big enough as it was, so in the end she'd lose more than she would gain; her nose, skinny and slightly hooked, might indeed have been a bit large, she had her father's nose, she once told me, the most Jewish feature of her face, otherwise she could pass for a German, even, she added with a laugh; she'd never known her father, was too young to have remembered him — just as Krisztián had no memories of his father — he was "deported"; the word made as profound an impression on me as that other phrase about Krisztián's father, who "fell in battle"; and I liked running my fingers over her nose, because then I felt I was touching something Jewish; in any case, the color of her skin made up for this tiny flaw, if one can call flaw the irregular which is so organic a part of beauty; her complexion complemented her beauty, made it whole, though not fair, as one might expect in a person with blond hair and blue eyes but with the hue of a crisp, well-baked roll, and it was this color, full of tenderness, that created the harmony of perfection out of her sharply contrasting features; and I haven't even mentioned her round shoulders, her strong, slender legs that touched the ground so softly, her narrow waist and mature, womanly hips, on account of which she was once sent home with a note from her teacher for supposedly wiggling them too much; Mrs. Hűvös came flying into school and was heard screaming in the teachers' room that they'd do better to curb their own filthy imaginations than scribbling such revolting notes, and teachers like that ought to be "banned from the classroom"; Hédi's exquisite perfection did not just make her special among us but made her a distinctive and provocative beauty, a true beauty; with the help of these swaps, sometimes she sought relief from this image of perfect beauty, the swaps being all the more attractive, since Maja's dresses were nicer and more interesting.

They were coming from Maja's house and were on their way to Livia's or Hédi's, and chose this route as a shortcut, or to give Hédi a chance to pick flowers; she was assertive and narcissistic enough to advertise that she looked good picking flowers, just as she looked good playing the cello or having refined, pretty things around her; her room was full of little mugs and glasses and tiny vases; she picked fresh flowers every day and kept the withered little bunches for a long time; she was forever chomping on some plant or other, a blade of grass, a leaf, a flower; she never folded back the edge of a book page or used a bookmark, but placed a flower or, in the autumn, a colorful leaf between the pages; if you borrowed a book from her and weren't careful, a whole dried-up arboretum was likely to fall from its pages; she also took cello lessons and played her large instrument quite skillfully.

She played her cello at school functions, and once asked me to go with her into the city, where she was supposed to perform at some Jewish social event and didn't want to travel alone, especially since she'd be coming back late at night; she was also worried about her expensive instrument, not to mention all those insolent men; actually, Hédi lived in the city, in Dob Street, not far from the Orthodox synagogue, in a gloomy old apartment house on whose ground floor was a hostel for workers, who washed themselves in the courtyard in huge wash buckets; Hédi's mother, whom I hadn't yet met, had sent Hédi to live with Mrs. Hűvös over in Buda, partly because of the fresh air — Hédi supposedly had weak lungs — and partly because Mrs. Hűvös had a big vegetable garden, kept animals, and her food would be richer; but Hédi told me this was just an excuse and the real reason she became a "foster child" was that her mother had a lover, a certain Rezsö Novák Storcz, whom Hédi "couldn't stand, with his smarmy manners"; her mother wasn't home but left a note tacked to the door telling Hédi that they'd be waiting for her at the party, and also what dress she should wear; I probably remembered all this because Hédi wore the same dark navy-blue silk dress that afternoon which Maja had on now, in the woods, and Hédi's mother had some reason to object to it then: we were standing outside their door on the depressing gallery, the inner balcony running along the apartments, and it suddenly occurred to me that her father must have been deported from this very spot, an appalling nightmarish scene it must have been, thickset characters hauling off a live human being as if he were a piece of furniture, a couch or a cabinet; now all I could see were gleaming brass door handles, the pretty, old-fashioned brass buttons on bells and nameplates, the walls showing traces of bullets, alterations, badly done repair jobs, smaller holes close together in the soot-blackened plaster, left there by bursts of machine-gun fire; it was autumn and still warm, rays of the sun were sliding languidly down the slanted roofs, and down below, workmen stripped to the waist were washing up, splashing each other playfully, the whole courtyard, decorated with oleanders, resounding with their cries; in a kitchen somebody was beating eggs, through an open window we could hear choral singing coming from a radio; pressing the huge black cello case between her knees, Hédi read her mother's note as if it contained some dreadful news, read it several times, turned pale, seemed incredulous; I asked her what it said, even tried to peek, but she pulled it away, and then, sighing deeply, reached down to get the key from under the doormat.

In the spacious apartment, dark and cool, the doors were tall and white and they were all wide-open. Hédi ran straight to pee; deathly silence; the windows facing the street were shut, fringed wine-red velvet drapes hung over the heavy lace curtains fully drawn; everything in the apartment seemed layered, piled up, and invitingly soft: dark-toned hangings on the silver-patterned wall, on which were hung gilt-framed landscapes, a still life, and a painting of a nude woman illuminated by the scarlet glow of a fire in the background; striped red runners were spread over the carpets, and the flowery slipcovers of the deep armchairs and the straight-back chairs all had lace antimacassars; from the ceiling of the central room, where I stood waiting for her, hung a chandelier, wrapped like the mummy of a frightful bloated monster in a white protective cover twisted in a knot at the bottom; everything was spotless, unpleasantly, too neatly, permanently arranged — glass, brass, silver, china, mirrors, everything polished to perfection and, at least in the dim light, mercilessly free of dust.

It took a long time for Hédi to return; I had missed the sound of her trickle but heard the flush; when she came out I could tell she hadn't gone to pee but to have a little cry; she had the look of someone who has just put an end to something that was terribly important but was now over and done with; "This is the sitting room," she said, wiping her eyes again, for the last time, though there were no tears, only redness from rubbing, "and that's my room over there," she said; her pain must have been the kind she wanted to get over quickly, yet as much as she tried to smile at me, I felt she didn't want me to see her struggle, would have preferred me not to be there.

She seemed to turn very quiet in that apartment, indeed said nothing after that, but opened the big black cello case, took out the instrument, and sat down with it by the window; she tightened the bow, tested it, applied resin, took a long time tuning, while I had a chance to walk around the apartment: each room opened into another, and it was easy to imagine someone being hauled out of here, but what could not be imagined was that every night, in the completely darkened bedroom that gave onto the courtyard, this Rezsö Novák Storcz was doing something to her mother that Hédi had said always "got on her nerves."

I got back to the sitting room just as she started playing; the piece began with soft, long, deep strokes of the bow; I loved to watch her tense, absorbed face, her fingers feeling the long neck of the instrument as she quickly attacked a chord, held down the strings, her fingers quivering; then, in reply, came rapid, plaintive sounds dying quickly, higher and higher notes, reaching a level from which, with unexpected shifts and the blending of two positions — highs and lows, long and short notes played simultaneously — the melody should have emerged, leading to a clear statement of the theme, but she missed some notes and after several tries, she stopped playing, obviously annoyed.

The annoyance was for my benefit, though she pretended I wasn't in the room.

Leaning the cello against the chair, she stood up and started for her room, but changed her mind, came back, effortlessly picked up the instrument by its neck, and carefully placed it in its case, put bow and resin into their compartments, closed the case, and stood silently in the middle of the room.

For some reason I didn't say anything either, just kept watching her.

She would flop today, she said; no wonder she couldn't concentrate, she said; it was bad enough that her mother dragged along that idiot of a disgusting beast everywhere she went, she said softly, with such hatred that her body trembled, even though her mother knew, knew damn well, that just seeing him drove her to distraction; at least she should have the decency not to bring him to her performances, because that really made her unbearably nervous; all of which seemed very strange to me, since I'd never heard anyone speak with such open hostility about their own mother, and it embarrassed and shamed me; I would have liked to protest, ask her to stop, I felt I was being dragged into something I wanted no part of; she couldn't stand it anymore, she went on, she couldn't stand this man sitting there, staring at her! and as though that weren't bad enough, she said with a bitter laugh, he always has to butt in about what she should wear — Yes, yes, your little white blouse, Hédi dear, and that pretty navy-blue pleated skirt — so she'd look ridiculous and ugly! she hadn't worn those things for two years at least, because she'd outgrown them, but she pretended not to notice, hoping that slimy animal wouldn't be staring at her.

Furious, she loosened her belt and began unbuttoning the little red buttons on her blue dress — the belt was red, too — and when she reached her waist and under her hand I could see bare skin, I thought of turning away, because she didn't seem to be taking off her clothes for me, she was simply undressing, but then, with a single move, she slipped out of her dress and stood before me in the dim light, wearing only her panties and white sandals, holding her dress turned inside out, her hair slightly tousled.

And she said quietly not to be scared, she'd already shown them to Krisztián; and then we fell silent again, just standing there, and I don't know when the distance between us slipped away, all I wanted to do was touch her; she didn't look so beautiful with just her sandals on, looked rather awkward with her dress hanging from her hand, but her breasts, her breasts were calm, the two nipples looking at me; what I do remember after that — without recalling whether she started in my direction or I in hers, or maybe we both took a few steps — is the deliberate way she let her dress drop to the floor, as if she had sensed her own little-girlish, almost laughable awkwardness, and, to appear more daring and shameless, put her arms around my neck, but in a way that kept me from seeing what she had offered up to me; I was overwhelmed by her skin, by the breezy smell of her perspiration, and with an unconscious move I hugged her, even though I would have preferred to touch her breasts; the situation could have been ludicrous, since she was at least a head taller than I, but I wasn't thinking about that then — it was painful not to have my fingers touch what my mind so badly desired.

Not from the touch of her arms or skin but from the movement of her breasts did I feel that she quickly and softly kissed my ear; then she laughed and said that if she couldn't have Krisztián, she'd steal me from Livia; but I wasn't interested, because all I wanted was her breasts, the flesh, I don't quite know what, the way they were touching me, their softness or their firmness, but she was careful not to press too hard against me, wanting the tender flesh to remain between us, keep us apart; and with that laugh she let go of me and, leaving her dress on the floor, walked into another room, taking her breasts with her; I heard her open a closet door, and it was as if all this had never happened.

And when Maja had whispered in my ear earlier that she knew all along that I loved only Hédi, the reason I hadn't protested — or insisted I loved only her, Maja, or told her I loved neither her nor Hédi but Livia— was that I would have liked Maja to steal me from the other two.

They got as far as the middle of the clearing when all three of them stopped at once, looking around somewhat foolishly, realizing at last that something odd and unusual had happened or was happening here, something dangerous they suddenly didn't know how to cope with; when I'd first sat up and noticed them, it even occurred to me that Krisztián might have sent them, this could be a trap, the trick we'd anticipated, but their genuine bewilderment made it clear that their showing up here was purely coincidental, and as astonishing as that seemed, I felt it was beautiful, simply beautiful; it was fascinating to see the three girls frozen in their tracks and listening, each in her own way, each in a different direction, their high spirits ebbing away as they grasped one another's hands even more tightly.

Their physical intimacy had always intrigued me, the mutually tender ways they touched, held hands, chased about, in constant bodily contact, put their arms around and danced with each other, and kissed so freely; the way they exchanged clothes, as if giving themselves to each other or lending some very precious part of themselves; the way they combed out, curled, and set each other's hair, polished each other's nails, put their head on the other's shoulder, lap, or chest, and cried unabashedly when they were sad, shared their happiness, locking themselves in a clinging embrace with every part of their bodies participating — all this evoked in me a desire beyond envy or jealousy which I could hide but, shameful as it was, could not suppress or restrain; and I tried, hard, for I knew that Father was forever on the lookout, noticing and censuring every so-called girlish gesture of mine, perhaps he, too, had something to fear, I don't know; at any rate, I saw, I had to see, that a perfectly innocuous gesture was enough to fill me to the brim with this desire, which may explain why I wanted to be a girl, and indeed often imagined being one, to have some unequivocal legal grounds for these unpunished contacts, even though I sensed far more impulse, fear, constraint, habit, and routine in the apparent freedom of the girls than I could admit; and whenever my longing for uninhibited constant bodily contact did not completely cloud my mind, I realized, of course, that this contact was but a parallel version of the same passionate rivalry that existed among us boys, even if we weren't permitted to touch one another physically or had to find complicated, tiresome, and often humiliating pretexts to do so, resort to trickery, outsmart one another just to share among us our most elementary emotions; I couldn't ignore, and in fact bitterly envied the profound attraction that made Krisztián want to fight with Kálmán all the time, choosing the uniquely boyish form of fighting, which girls never used; girls entered into physical fights only when in dead earnest, and then they would scream, tear, scratch, and bite one another; between us boys the game of fighting, unimaginable among girls, always erupted for no apparent reason, simply because we wanted to touch, hold one another, feel and possess the other's coveted body, and only this kind of playful fight could legitimate our desires; had we expressed them as openly as girls did, embraced and kissed as they did, had we not camouflaged the true intentions of these physical rivalries, the others would have called us fags, because clearly I was not the only one watching his step, the others were also very careful not to cross certain boundaries, although you could never be entirely sure what the word itself meant, it had a mythic character, like almost all our curse words and imprecations, implying a desire for something forbidden; for example, we say "eat my dick," because it's forbidden, or we say "motherfucker," alluding to another taboo; to me the word meant a prohibition against an entirely natural impulse, the meaning of which was only vaguely illuminated by a remark Prém dropped once, which he'd heard from his brother, who, being six years older, was considered an authority, according to whom "if you let a guy suck your cock, you'll never be able to screw a woman," a statement that needed neither comment nor explanation; it made it quite clear that everything faggy or having to do with faggots or faggotry endangered masculinity, the very thing we were striving for; in another sense, the whole notion was beyond the grasp of a child's mind; for me it meant one more of those disgusting, mean things adults did which one was never keen on following, but the word failed to stamp out the impulse, the lively desire, camouflaged though it was by the innocence of our playful fights, it merely held in check the desire that among boys constantly seeks expression; as I've said before, I wasn't alone in this; for instance, Krisztián would creep up behind Kálmán, throw his arms around him, and wrestle him to the ground, or — and this was one of their favorites — they'd grab each other's hand and keep pressing, squeezing, and bending it, the rule of the game being that no hand must be seen above the desk, and you weren't allowed to rest your elbow on your thigh — in other words, one arm had to wrestle down the other in the air; they'd turn red, grin, and, straining for support, would hold their bodies stiff by pressing their locked knees together; the object here was not to beat the opponent, as in a serious fight, but to get a lover's taste of his strength, agility, and resilience, to enjoy the preeminence of sexual sameness, and fulfillment meant the tender meeting of two like strengths; in the same way, with the tender intimacy of the girls, one could feel a certain amount of unpleasant, irksome falsity, although not so clearly or emphatically as with us, but when they were walking about hand in hand, giggling, whispering, gossiping, or dressing, consoling, teasing, or caressing one another, I couldn't help feeling that this degree of direct bodily contact was permissible only because it was merely the outermost layer of their bond, friendship, and alliance, a kind of necessary guise, like our playful fights, contact that seemed not to express real feelings but rather to demonstrate a secret conspiracy or even conceal a deadly hostility; this became especially obvious to me after the incident in the gym when Hédi accidentally discovered that Livia and I had been staring at each other, and of course she made sure word got out: that Livia and I were in love, for by doing this, she not only exposed Livia to common talk but delivered her up to me, and further, by spreading the rumor that Livia had fainted in the gym out of love for me, she saw to it that this act of deliverance became public knowledge; interestingly enough, Hédi's machinations did not make Maja jealous; on the contrary, she showed great enthusiasm, forever trying to arrange for Livia and me to be alone; yet it was clear that with their acts of kindness and maternal solicitude, Hédi and Maja would not let go of Livia; their kindness was a trap, their solicitude a noose, and what's more, buried in their approbation were underhanded concessions with which to get into a more confidential relationship with me, as if they knew that ultimately this would only confuse me, as if this had been their express goal from the start; they got me Livia, but on no account was I to be able to choose among the three of them: Livia could be mine, but only in the way and to the extent they allowed, and Livia had no objections to the arrangement, because the alliance the three of them had forged, for and against me, the conspiracy itself and their bond, was far more important to her than I was, or, more precisely, she knew it was in her own best interest not to let this secret alliance unleash their own fierce rivalry, not to let open hostilities between them make me take sides, and everything should stay as it had been: undecided, ambiguous.

In the clearing, Livia was the first to adapt herself to the new situation; she slipped her hand away, bent down, and with no little astonishment picked up the wounded alarm clock; she said something and giggled, maybe amused that the clock was still ticking, for she was pointing at it; at that moment she seemed to be the wildest of the three, but the other two paid no attention to her, and she proceeded to pick the pieces of broken glass out of the frame of the clock's face and drop them on the ground one by one; she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely; then she put the clock on her head, balancing it carefully, wearing it like a crown, and, self-possessed, stepping out majestically, she moved on.

The other two girls, more sensible, were still standing in place, hesitating, looking and listening, one to the right, the other to the left, and only when with an adroit gesture Livia wrapped the red blanket about her shoulders did they begin to move — maybe because the gesture was a kind of signal.

They ran after her; when Maja wanted to wrap herself in the white sheet, which she picked up on the run, a mild altercation ensued, for Hédi also wanted the sheet, and they tugged it back and forth; I assumed that Hédi thought the sheet would go better with her white dress, the one she had borrowed from Maja, and though the problem seemed to be solved with amazing speed, it became clear that the argument wasn't just over the sheet, over who would get it first, but there was a need to establish a pecking order appropriate for the current situation: the sheet went to Hédi, who on the strength of her beauty always got her way, which made Maja retreat into quiet petulance; the sheet became a train of the white dress, Maja helped tuck it in under the red belt, so now Hédi was the queen, Livia a sort of lady-in-waiting, and Maja the humiliated maidservant who, naturally, lifted the train all wrong, for which she received a kick, and that finally determined her place in the hierarchy.

They did all this quickly, like a well-trained team, but not at all seriously, acting it out, one might say, as if they were only playing at playing, and yet we couldn't laugh at them because, on the one hand, their silliness was so uninhibited and shameless and they were enjoying it so much, and on the other hand, they were very much out of place on this turf; we watched them with bated breath, too shocked to realize that in our hopeless situation they were our saviors.

But I also thought they were obnoxious for meddling in something that was none of their business.

Now they were marching in single file, led by Livia, with the red blanket tucked under the collar of her blouse, the alarm clock on her head, Hédi's train raised high by Maja, who picked up one of the castaway pots she stumbled on and humbly, smiling maliciously, placed it on Hédi's head; they kept perfecting their procession until they reached the collapsed tent.

I must have understood what they were doing at the very moment they themselves realized, without exchanging a single word, what it was they were supposed to be playing.

It had to do with a big book Livia had, Great Ladies of Hungary, which she often took with her to Maja's house — they liked to peruse it together — which had a mournful illustration depicting the dream of Queen Maria, widow of King Lajos, in which she searches for her husband's body among grisly corpses and bloated carcasses on the battlefield of Mohács.

Livia began to move in this dreamlike manner, and the other two quickly caught on and followed suit: they stretched their arms to the sky and walked as in a dream, without touching the ground; to show pain and grief, they raised their hands to their breasts, crying, like the queen in the picture with huge teardrops rolling down her pale blue cheeks.

In front of the tent Livia fell to the ground with her arms still outstretched, the alarm clock fell off her head and rolled away, and she enacted this little scene so the effect would be truly funny.

I didn't find it funny at all; it was disgusting to see her clowning like that for the benefit of her two friends.

Kálmán's mouth dropped open, stupidly; I wanted to step in, ruin the performance, put an end to it.

The two girls looked at Livia, commiserating, leaning over her, blinking their teary eyes, comforting her, and then they reached under her arms and tried to help her up, but now that she had found it, it was with great difficulty that the queen could be torn away from the body of her slain husband.

And when they did tear her away and led her off, supporting her on both sides, just as in the picture, Livia finally found her way into the part: for a few moments the clowning became a true performance, some real feelings appeared in her acting, her performance as a woman out of her mind, her eyes rolling and turning inward, thrusting out her hands and, though seeking the support of her helpers, lurching stiffly forward so the two others had to hurry along, because she was propelled by frenzied pain; before long, the spectacle turned my disgust with Livia into astonishment; she surprised me, caught me unprepared, and just as in the movies when something heartrending or awful on the screen made me want to scream or cry or even get out of the theater, I had to remind myself that it was only an act and therefore the truly felt emotions in it were not real, but in that very instant Maja pulled out her arm from under Livia, moved away, and began to run, which made the two other girls lose their balance and get entangled; Hédi, who couldn't see because of the pot on her head, rammed into Livia and pulled her down, and Livia sought support in Hédi's falling body; noticing none of this, Maja kept running toward the neatly stacked woodpile, most likely attracted by the matches placed next to it, and while the two other girls were rolling around with laughter, she squatted down and put a match to the pile.

A loud scream went up from among the trees, Krisztián's; like an echo, the reply came from the other side of the clearing, Prém's; then Kálmán began to scream, and I also heard myself screaming.

With this exultant harmonious battle cry, blasting through the still raging wind, we swooped down on the girls, Krisztián and Prém advancing from either end of the clearing; with sounds of crashing and crackling we hurled ourselves forward, dirt rolling down and stones flying in our wake; to the girls it must have seemed not that they were being surrounded by four different screams but that they were being hit by a single elemental blow of nature.

The flames tore swiftly into the dry twigs, the wind immediately stirred up the light, darting tongues, blowing them out in long stretches, then sucking them in again; Maja threw away the matches and ran to the other two for cover and then back again; the girls sprang up, and by the time we got there, the whole pile was ablaze.

The three girls took off in three different directions, but they were surrounded, had no escape; without knowing why, I went after Hédi, Kálmán chased Maja, and both Krisztián and Prém went after Livia, who was off like a shot; Hédi was running down the hill, one of her sandals flew off her foot, which she ignored, she threw her head back, her blond hair streaming in the wind, the white sheet sweeping the ground after her; I thought of stepping on the sheet and making her trip, and I didn't know what was happening behind us, the only thing I saw was that Maja had almost got to the trees when Kálmán managed to grab her; just then Livia began to squeal and scream so loudly — and there was no playacting in that — that Hédi abruptly changed direction and, while my momentum stupidly made me run past her, had time to swerve around and start running back up the hill to help Livia.

They were entangled in one whirling mass, twisting and grappling on the ground, the wind whipping long flames over them; like a lunatic, Hédi threw herself on them, screaming, perhaps to let the struggling Livia know she was there, ready to help, and I threw myself on top of Hédi, even though at that moment I could already see what was happening: they were pulling off Livia's red skirt, there it was under Krisztián's knees. It couldn't have been hard to get the skirt off, it was held only by an elastic at the waist, but now it looked as though they wanted to tear off her blouse; while Krisztián used his knees to pin down Livia's naked lower body to keep her from kicking, Prém, kneeling above her head, was trying to restrain her flailing, protective arms and get the blouse off; the completely incredible circumstance that Prém had no underpants on I noticed only at the very moment I was jumping on Hédi's back; Livia kept her eyes shut tight and kept on screaming; above her face, directly above her face, dangled Prém's famed member, flapping, swinging, swaying to the tune of the furious struggle, almost touching her face.

And even though I saw this, I still wanted to help the boys; I tried to get Hédi off Krisztián's back, which wasn't easy, since she was now scratching and biting.

In the end, this rather dubious help from me was totally superfluous, because as soon as Krisztián sensed that Hédi was on his back, clinging to him and sinking her nails into his shoulder, he let go of Livia and with one violent jerk of his back threw Hédi off, so powerfully that she slid down and turned over; Prém stopped, too, but when Livia tried to slither out from under him, he once more snatched at her blouse; I don't know whether the buttons had been ripped off earlier or popped off now as she sprang up and fled, but in any case her breasts were visible; Krisztián grinned at Hédi, something made him shake his head, his beautiful dark curls, and smartly feinting, he managed to slip away, because Hédi was again screaming and trying to attack him, while Prém started running after Livia — but actually to get his shorts, which he'd thrown away before — who, clutching her blouse to cover her breasts with one hand and her red skirt in the other, sprinted for the trees; Kálmán, who was just coming out of the woods, returning from his apparently unsuccessful foray, stopped, surprised, to watch Livia in her pink panties disappear; "You're an animal, an animal!" Hédi screamed into Krisztián's face, her voice choking, her scream turning into tears, but he somehow looked past this outburst, as though their love no longer mattered to him, his glance grazing mine, and I felt I was grinning just the same way he was; there were long scratch marks on his forehead and chin; he stepped toward me, we grinned into each other's grin, and, with Hédi standing between us, looked into each other's eyes; then he stepped around Hédi, lifted his arm, and with all his might slapped me in the face with the back of his hand.

Everything went black, and not because of the slap.

I seemed to have seen Hédi, who couldn't possibly have understood the reason for the slap, trying to defend me, but Krisztián pulled away from her, shook her off, turned, and started slowly for the fire swirling in the wind.

And I probably turned my back on the scene then and let my feet carry me away.

Kálmán was standing under a tree, looking at us impassively, Prém was pulling on his pants, and Maja was nowhere to be found.

Prém later claimed he'd been taking a crap when Maja lit the fire, but I didn't believe him; when you take a crap you pull down your pants, you don't take them off; but after what had happened it wouldn't have made any sense to tell him to his face that he was lying.

I also found out later that Kálmán had almost managed to catch Maja, but to get to her would have had to hug a tree trunk; he wanted to kiss her, but Maja spat into his mouth, and that's how she got away.

It took many a long week to get over this incident. We didn't go to each other's house; I barely dared leave our garden for fear of running into one of them.

By the end of that summer, though, things had got back to normal, more or less, if only because Krisztián began to hang around Livia, perhaps to win Hédi back by making her jealous or perhaps because he really got a good look at Livia that afternoon or because he wanted to make amends for assaulting her; anyway, he'd wait for her and walk her home from school; from her window Hédi must have seen them leaning against the schoolyard fence, engaged in conversation, long, absorbed, cozy conversation, for she complained about it to Maja, who, just to torment me, told me about it, on the pretext that she'd once again found something suspicious among her father's papers, something quite new, which I'd better go over to look at; she called urgently on the telephone, but in fact she hadn't found anything interesting or, rather, useful; it was a neatly folded copy of a memorandum in which her father requested the Minister of the Interior to confirm in writing that he'd acted on the minister's express verbal instruction when he had had a tap put on the telephone of a certain Emma Arendt.

Maja wanted to gossip, to see how I'd react to this new development, and the excuse came in handy, since I'd been looking for a way to patch things up between us, so I went over and pretended to be not the least interested in what was going on between Livia and Krisztián; we also decided that in the future we wouldn't talk about important things over the telephone, because if her father was told to listen in on certain phone conversations and if there was indeed such a listening device, then quite possibly our phones were tapped, too.

On my way out I saw Kálmán standing outside the front door; he turned red and said he just happened to be passing by — from the time of that incident we all began to see through one another's lies, yet stubbornly went on lying — and Kálmán and I walked home together, because he couldn't find an acceptable excuse for staying, having to be consistent in his lie; on the way I found out he had made up with Prém and Krisztián, the opportunity for which had been provided by the military maps Krisztián had left at his house; in short, by summer's end, slowly, not quite smoothly, and in a somewhat altered configuration, the old relationships were more or less re-established, but they could never regain the strength of the old closeness, no longer had the old flavor and fervor.

In his clever, cunning reasoning, Krisztián went so far as to call what happened that afternoon in the woods a piece of theater, and by using that phrase he tamed it; what's more, he planned more performances on the original site: we'd clear away the bushes under the flat rock, that's where the stage would be, and the girls would sew the costumes; at first he wanted to leave me out of the production, but the girls wouldn't let him — it seemed that even our differences meant something to them — so he finally relented and suggested I write the text; twice I went over to his house to discuss the details, but we only ended up fighting again, then he decided we didn't need any text; he wanted to do something dealing with war and I had a love story in mind, which doubtless resembled too closely our real-life situation; by stubbornly insisting on my version, I talked myself out of a job, because the girls far preferred playing amazonlike warriors to inamoratas.

The afternoon I visited her, Maja was getting ready to go to a rehearsal for one of these performances — I wasn't invited — but of course there could be no more performances, not after that unique, true performance born of a series of coincidences, the one we'd do well to forget; subsequent ones were prevented by other, strange coincidences, because without our feeling the changes in ourselves, our childhood games had come to an end once and for all.

But sometimes I still walked through the forest just to feel, for myself only, the thing we were so afraid of.

The following spring grass grew over the scorched spot.

And now, after what turned out to be a lengthy digression — so long that it's hard to tell what we had digressed from and to what — it's time to return to the point where we left off our recollections; it's to Maja's rumpled bed that I should return, to her open mouth, to her slightly alarmed yet hate-filled, loving eyes, as she simultaneously wanted and didn't want me to tell her what I knew about Kálmán, and there I am, unable to tell her what I want to tell her; desire, will, and intention falter and stumble on the strict dividing line between the sexes; something made itself felt, something with a will stronger than mine, like a law or an erection; at the same time, the mere mention of the woods was enough to make her lose heart, frustrate her designs, interfere with and even cancel some of her plans, and I could do all that without betraying my own smoldering jealousy.

That afternoon we were going to go through her father's papers, and there was nothing to stop us from getting down to business as soon as I arrived; her mother had gone shopping downtown, Szidónia was out on an early date, yet we had good reason to tarry: we were scared; now I should find my way back to our dark secret, mentioned only in hushed voices, I should tell about it, about how we conducted our searches, sometimes in my house, sometimes in hers, and I should remark, objectively, that it was more dangerous in my place, because Father knew all about my penchant for spying and snooping and kept his desk drawers locked.

It was one of those tricky locks, locking the middle drawer locked the rest as well, but the tabletop could be lifted with a screwdriver, and then the lock simply snapped open; Maja and I were convinced that our fathers were spies and were working together.

This, the most dreadful secret of my life, I have never told anybody before.

There were enough mysterious elements in the behavior of both men to make our daring supposition not altogether implausible, and we were constantly on the alert, searching and collecting evidence.

The two men had only a nodding acquaintance, or more precisely, we assumed they only pretended not to know each other well; we would have thought it more appropriate, and also more suspicious, if they didn't know each other at all; sometimes their travels — of unknown purpose — coincided, but we were suspicious even when they didn't and one of the men would leave just as the other returned.

Once I had to deliver a heavy sealed yellow envelope to Maja's father; on another occasion we both witnessed a particularly suspicious scene: Father was coming home, in his official car, and Maja's father, in his car, was on his way into the city; on busy Istenhegyi Road the two cars stopped, the men got out, exchanged what seemed like routine pleasantries, then her father handed something very quickly to mine; when later that evening I asked Father what Maja's father had given him — the question was a kind of cross-examination, of course — he told me to mind my own business, and laughed suspiciously, which I promptly reported by telephone to Maja.

If we had found a piece of incriminating evidence, like a cryptic note, some foreign money, a strip of microfilm — we knew from Soviet films and novels that there was always some incriminating evidence, and we went from cellar to attic looking for it — if we had found some tangible, incontrovertibly incriminating evidence against them, we swore to each other that we would report them, because if they were spies, traitors, we'd show no mercy, let them perish! and our mutual oath could not be broken because this mutual intrusion into our parents' lives made us fearful, terrified of each other, and so we kept searching feverishly, hoping to pick up a trail, stumble on a clue, get the thing over with; there was crime in the air, that much we knew, we felt it in our bones; and if there was crime there had to be evidence; at the same time, and equally, we feared being proven right, a fear we had to hide from each other because showing concern for our respective fathers might have been construed as a violation of our oath, a betrayal of our principles; so we stalled and dallied, deferring for as long as we could the moment of possible success, of possibly coming upon some proof positive.

The moment would have been wonderful, and awful; in my fantasies it implicated only Maja's father, and Maja behaved so heroically that only a single tear of anger and frustration glistened in her eye.

And that afternoon, in our fear, we got so entangled in each other's soul and body that we mercifully forgot all about our original goal, our secret, the solemn vow, and the search itself, although we knew we couldn't completely get away from them: our political alliance had revealed a mysteriously deep, to us incomprehensible, erotic pain and thrill which proved more powerful and more exciting than our unfulfillable spiritual and physical desires.

But to return, to pick up the thread of the narrative, even if my narrator-self hesitates at this point, and of course also urges itself to carry on, yes, please continue! go on! yet it fears, even today it fears, that the siren voices of charged emotions may lure it toward further digression, explanation, self-justification, self-exposure, an even more scrupulous unearthing of details, just to avoid this one subject! the analytical part of the self would find this justifiable, because without further detours it is even harder to explain why two children would want to denounce their own fathers, why they would suppose their fathers to be agents of an enemy power — what kind of enemy power, anyway, and who was the enemy of whom?

It would be overhasty and no less vulgar if I explained that our secret political alliance gave us the hope that by exposing these two men, whom we loved with the most ardent physical love above everyone else, by sending these fathers to the gallows, we could unburden ourselves of this impossible love; and in those years denunciations like these were not considered only the result of childish fantasies: the imagined scenario, like a broken record, kept going around and around in our minds.

But this was it: what had to happen did happen, and there was to be no more delay; Maja pulled her foot out from under my thigh, helping herself with her hand, slipped out of our closeness, quickly and mercilessly, as when one is compelled to cut something off, got up, and started for the door.

From the middle of the room she looked back — her face was red, splotchy, and most likely as hot as I felt mine to be; she gave me a strange, soft smile — I knew she was heading for her father's study, but I waited for my emotions to subside; again she was the stronger, which made me feel as if she had torn herself from my body, a feeling that would not subside, because as she was standing there smiling, in the middle of the room filled with flickering green shadows, I heard myself think, in Kálmán's voice, I should have screwed her; it was as if in his stead I had bungled something he had been waiting for in vain.

And the reason I called her smile strange is that it had neither disdain nor mockery but, if anything, perhaps a touch of sadness, meant more for herself than for me: a wise smile, a mature smile that tried to solve this seemingly insoluble problem not with the superficiality of force but by sensibly accepting the notion that when you are unhappy in a given situation, when you get no satisfaction from it, then you must, without repudiating anything, change it.

The slightest change in our situation holds out hope; even a restless little stirring can offer hope.

And this is so even if the new situation, like the one Maja was now offering to me and to herself as she headed for the other room, seemed at least as insoluble, and ethically as disastrous, as the previous one; still, it was a change, and change has an optimism of its own.

There I sat on her rumpled bed, my heat still feeling hers, all that heat and energy which ultimately had been conducted nowhere stayed in me, in the bed, in her, while the room looked back at us impassively, coolly; I could not break out of that heat to obey her summons now, and not only because my body wasn't presentable but because her smile generated new waves of gratitude and realization in me.

Today this realization seems more like obtuseness, and I think the reason I felt such great but by no means obligatory gratitude was that she was a girl, and though I didn't feel like poking around in her father's papers, I knew I was going to follow her.

It was as if she knew better, knew that our secret search would produce the same aching excitement in our bodies that could not be gratified before.

Then without a word she left the room.

I never loved her as much as I did then, and I loved her because she was a girl, which may not be so great a foolishness as it at first sounds.

When after long minutes my body was finally ready to move, to shift position, and walking through the deserted dining room I entered the study, she was standing by her father's desk with her back toward me, waiting — she couldn't start without me.

The enormous desk, with many drawers of various sizes and compartments in various positions, unattractively dark and unadorned, took up almost the whole room, looking like an old, overweight animal on short thin legs.

I shouldn't close the door, she told me quietly but impatiently, her tone almost hostile; it was fairly late, which meant her parents might be coming home soon.

She needn't have said that; we always left the door ajar, to give us some cover but also so we could hear approaching steps; the study was like a mousetrap, a dead end, the innermost room in the apartment, a kind of pit, as it were, from which there was no escape; you could leave here only by backing out, invariably bumping into an overstuffed chair as you did.

No matter how much we tried to discipline ourselves, as soon as we sneaked into this room our breathing turned loud, choppy, almost whistling, and we had to hold things too firmly, too deliberately, to hide our trembling movements, but the effort betrayed us anyway, making each of us vulnerable to the other, and that's why we spoke hostilely even when there was no reason for it, and somehow, in here, we each considered every move made by the other to be clumsy, wrong, sure to spoil everything.

It's hard to say which one of us was in greater danger; in her house, she was, I suppose: any incriminating evidence found in this room would have exposed, first of all, her father; consequently, irritated as I was, I felt I had to be more considerate with her than she might be with me; on the other hand, if we were caught red-handed, I'd be far worse off, because I had even less right to touch things in this room than she did, which is why I positioned myself so that if I heard footsteps I could be the first to slip out; even if it meant abandoning her, I had to have that slight advantage.

Of course I was a little ashamed of this attitude, but didn't have the courage to give up my advantage; I projected the worst possible scenario: if I heard footsteps only at the last minute, I'd quickly grab and hold the doorknob, like someone just standing there, observing her, not touching anything but the doorknob; I admit, even as an imagined scene this was very cowardly.

Yet our frantic excitement, the almost intolerable tension, could not be allowed to affect our activity; there was to be no haste but painstaking precision, infinite circumspection, we could not behave like amateur burglars who ransack the whole house looking for money and jewelry and then clear out leaving a huge mess behind; the nature of the work was such that we couldn't expect quick results and there was no detail we could afford to overlook; so in spite of all our excitement and impatience, we learned to exercise self-control, to be humble and meticulous, and we turned ourselves into expert sleuths.

Regardless of its boring familiarity, we first had to inspect the area under investigation, a procedure with a definite order, if not rules of its own; at their house she directed the work, while at mine it was my job cautiously to pull out the drawers — in each case the host had to assume responsibility for the operation's physical aspects — and together we had to ascertain whether there were any notable changes since the last search; generally two weeks, sometimes a whole month went by before we could reinspect each desk, a long enough period for substantial changes in the contents of some drawers: objects and papers might disappear, temporarily or permanently, the old contents might be differently arranged, or entirely new objects might replace the old ones; in this respect we had a harder time at her house, because her father, while not exactly untidy, was not nearly so neat and methodical as mine, who did not make our job harder by carelessly reaching into a drawer or poking around impatiently in another or pulling out something from the bottom of a pile.

To start with, Maja quietly pulled out the drawers while I watched over her shoulder, pulled them out one by one, without haste but not slowly either; we were familiar with each other's ability to observe, the pace with which to record what was observed; we knew how much time we each needed to take in the object as well as the direction of our search, to fix in our minds a picture of the drawer's inside, its overall shape that would enable us to make quick comparisons; and it was at such times that, without saying a single word, we had our most professional debates, touching on the very essence of our work; what was at stake was the integrity of our voluntary work as agents, and the heavy political responsibility that went with it: once in a while we might have pushed back a drawer too quickly, without noticing (or, worse, pretending not to notice) possible changes in its contents; at such moments the other person, with a mere glance, ordered a halt and demanded a correction; our roles changed according to the location — in my house she kept an eye on me, here I was the fussy one, though we made sure the control remained impersonal, and wanted to keep it skeptical but not mistrustful, overlooking the regrettable and unavoidable fact that, instinctively, against our better judgment, we were each protecting our respective fathers, which of course could prejudice our work; a drawer whose contents looked suspiciously different or that had been obviously gone through nervously, or the mere sight of a new batch of papers or an odd-looking envelope was enough to make us edgy, and it was the job of the other, acting as controller, to get us over this edginess so characteristic of amateurs, and to do so subtly and delicately, with the sober gravity of a glance reminding us of our commitment to professional honesty and objectivity, helping us overcome our intrusive albeit understandable filial bias; at the same time we couldn't seem sarcastic, aggressive, or rude; in fact, sometimes, for the sake of our ultimate goal, we'd even be slyly complaisant and act as if we hadn't noticed something the other one didn't want or dare to notice, and point it out only later, as if by chance, unexpectedly, and then pounce on the crucial item with all the rectitude of true conviction.

Only after these preliminaries could the real work begin: the close examination of notes, letters, receipts, papers, and documents; we never sat down but stood next to each other, in the shared sphere of each other's heat and excitement; we read the stuff together and in unison, devouring with greedy curiosity what were for the most part routine and boring, or fragmentary and therefore largely incoherent, pieces of information, and only when it was clear that the other didn't understand or might misunderstand something and therefore draw the wrong conclusion did we break the silence with a few whispered words of explanation.

We were not aware of what we were doing to each other and to ourselves; in the interest of our stated goal we didn't want to acknowledge that as a result of our activity a feeling was forming, like some tough stain or film, a deposit on the lining of our hearts, stomachs, and intestines; we did not want to acknowledge the feeling of repulsion.

Because it wasn't just official and work-related documents that we came across but all sorts of other material that we did not mean to find, like our parents' extensive personal romantic correspondence; here, the material discovered in my father's drawers was unfortunately more serious, but once we put our hands on it and went over it thoroughly, painstakingly, with the disinterested sternness of professionals, it seemed that by ferreting out sin in the name of ideal purity, invading the most forbidden territory of the deepest and darkest passions, penetrating the most secret regions, we, too, turned into sinners, for sin is indivisible: when tracking a murderer one must become a murderer to experience most profoundly the circumstances and motives of the murder; and so we were right there with our fathers, where not only should we not have set foot but, according to the testimony of the letters, they themselves moved about stealthily, like unrepentant sinners.

There is profound wisdom in the Old Testament's prohibition against casting eyes on the uncovered loins of one's father.

Maybe if we had uncovered this forbidden knowledge separately, each of us alone, we might have been able to conceal it from ourselves — forgetting can sometimes act like a good comrade; but our situation was exacerbated by our attachment, this passionate and passionately suspicious relationship which went far beyond friendship but had not reached love; we got to know these secrets together and, let's not forget! while still sexually unsatisfied: the very object of these secrets was passion and its mutual gratification, and as we know, a secret shared by two people is no longer a secret; with her full knowledge and approval I read through letters written by a woman named Olga and also by her mother, both women writing from the height of emotional and physical rapture, cursing, berating, extolling, admonishing, fawning, and above all imploring her father not to abandon them, and, in keeping with the conventions of such love letters, decorating their words with encircled teardrops, locks of hair, pressed flowers, and little hearts drawn in red pencil; though old enough to sense the raw power of passion, in our aesthetic squeamishness we found all this very repugnant; with my approval and eager assistance, Maja had a chance to acquaint herself with the stylistically more restrained letters that János Hamar wrote to my mother and the ones my father wrote to Maria Stein, but my father and mother also wrote letters to each other in which they discussed their feelings about being caught up in this inextricably complicated foursome; and since all this was revealed to both of us, we should have made some judgment, or at least have appraised and characterized the information, put it in its proper place; needless to say, this went way beyond our moral strength — which otherwise we thought quite formidable.

How could we have known then that our relationship reenacted, repeated, and copied, in a playfully exaggerated form — today I know it followed a diabolical pattern — our parents' ideals and also their ruthless practices, and to some extent the publicly proclaimed ideals and ruthless practices of that historical period as well? playing at being investigators was nothing but a crude, childishly distorted, cheap imitation; we could call it aping, but we could also call it an immersion in something real, for Maja's father was chief of military counter-intelligence and my father was a state prosecutor, and therefore by picking up on hints and remarks they dropped, we were both initiated, almost by accident and definitely against their will, into the professional pursuit of criminal investigation; more precisely, for us it was turning their activities into a game that enabled us to experience their present life and work — which we thought was wonderful, dangerous, important, and, what's more, respectable — and also to bring their past closer, which, judging by the contents of those drawers, was filled with adventure, real-life dangers, narrow escapes, false papers, and double identities — we could see their youth; and if I were to go a little further — and why shouldn't I? — I'd have to say that they were the ones who blessed the knife with which we sought their lives; in this sense, we not only suffered for playing our games but also took great delight in them; we loved being serious, we basked in the glory of our assumed political role, not only filled with terror and remorse but bestowing on us a grand sense of power, a feeling that we had power even over them, over these enormously powerful men, and all in the name of an ethical precept that, again in their own views, was considered sacred, nothing less than the ideal, self-abnegating, perfect, immaculate Communist purity of their way of life; and what a cruel quirk of fate it was that through it all they were totally unsuspecting, and how could they have guessed that, while in their puritanical and also very practical zeal they were killing scores of real and imagined enemies, they were nurturing vipers in their bosom? for after all, who disgraced their ideals more outrageously than we? who put their ideals more thoroughly to the test than we, in our innocence? and since we also harbored the same witch-hunter's suspicion toward them and toward each other, which they had planted in us and bred in themselves, with whom could we have shared the dreadful knowledge of our transgressions, whom? I couldn't talk about things like this with Krisztián or Kálmán, nor could Maja discuss them with Hédi or Livia, for how could they have understood? even though we lived in the same world, ruled by the same Zeitgeist, this would have been too alien for them, too bizarre, too repulsive.

Our secrets carried us into the world of the powerful, initiated us into adulthood by making us prematurely mature and sensible, and of course set us apart from the world of ordinary people, where everything worked more simply and predictably.

These love letters referred openly and unequivocally to the hours in which, by some peculiar mistake, we had been conceived — by mistake, because they didn't want us, they wanted only their love.

For example, in one of her letters to my father, Mária Stein described in great detail what it was like to be embraced by János Hamar and then by Father. In her letter, and I distinctly remember this, it was the stylistic value of the word that troubled me most; I would have loved to understand "embrace" as a hug, a kind of friendly hug and squeeze, but of course there was no doubt that the word alluded to something else, which for a child was a little like watching an animal in heat that suddenly starts speaking — interesting but incomprehensible; the letters Mother got from János Hamar before I was born were no less ardent; this was the same János Hamar who then disappeared from our lives as mysteriously and unexpectedly as Maria Stein did; neither of them came around anymore, and I was supposed to forget them, because my parents wanted it that way; Maja, on the other hand, was visibly pained by the fact that her father was still seeing this Olga woman, even though as far as her mother knew, the affair had ended long ago; Maja was forced to become her father's silent accomplice, though she loved her mother more.

I imagine the archangels covered God's eyes while we pored over these letters.

We made things somewhat easier on ourselves by quickly dismissing the letters as unimportant and silly — how could respectable, middle-aged people scribble such smutty things to each other? — thus extinguishing the flames of our interest, which had been fanned by our own nature, we went about even more desperately looking for crimes that did not exist, at least not in the form we imagined.

Except I couldn't take it anymore: there was nothing premeditated about my decision; it was a sudden and complete indifference toward the whole business, a feeling, that these drawers with all the papers in them no longer interested me; they had before but now for some reason didn't, and I must leave.

While the setting sun still shone outside, a soft dimness was already spreading within; it was nice, and somehow made the large desk loom even larger and more gloomily, and in the fine layer of dust covering its smooth dark surface, I could see Maja's telltale fingerprints.

And there was something else: a strange, unfamiliar, and infinitely light sensation that I in fact existed, not irresponsibly but in full awareness of my responsibilities, and that I should stop doing what I was doing, and it would be not cowardly to stop but, on the contrary, an act of courage; I was still bothered by how tensely and crookedly she drew up her shoulders, that movement bothered me, and so did the traces our search had left behind; it may have been the feeling of being conscious of my body, that earlier erection provoked by her nearness, which now removed me from the childish games that we had transformed into a seemingly serious activity; I don't quite know what it was, except I felt that I must break out of this, and now! it seemed that all I wanted was that these lovely, slender, restive shoulders of hers — I did love it that she looked so impossibly thin in her mother's dress, I liked them more than Hédi's fuller, broader shoulders, which would have no trouble filling out such a dress— yes, I wanted these shoulders to relax, to be like, like.. but just what they should be like my wish failed to spell out; and if I had said anything then, if I had said that I didn't want to go on, her probable reaction would have been quite different from what I wanted.

And I also knew I would lose her, something would come to an end, but this knowledge caused me neither pain nor fear; the feeling was as if, within me, what would occur between us only in the next moment had already come to pass; some things had to come to an end, and one need not regret them.

But I did not want to be rude to her; this had gone too far, but still, I mustn't end it rudely.

Somebody's coming, I said quietly.

The hand with which she had just pulled out the bottom drawer stopped for a moment; she listened, then quickly pushed the drawer home, but since there was not the slightest noise to be heard, it was the sound of my voice rather than the situation that made her wonder; she couldn't understand why I was lying so obviously as to give myself away; it wasn't a decent thing to do.

And as if she'd just been slapped in the face — which she wouldn't have minded as much — she looked up, her hand still on the drawer.

It's nothing, I thought somebody was coming, I said a little louder; to make it more believable, I should have shrugged my shoulders, but I indicated I was still lying, and deliberately, by leaving my shoulders motionless; in the meantime, my eyes followed the subtle change taking place in her as the result of an emerging but still unfocused emotion; she blushed as if embarrassed, and at the same time the very thing I hoped for actually occurred: her whole body was relaxing, and as she crouched there in front of the drawer her shoulders relaxed.

She didn't understand me, but she didn't seem offended.

I have to go home, I said, sounding pretty dry.

Had I gone crazy? she asked.

I nodded, and sensed the feeling of lightness growing stronger, because I felt no need to explain anything and there was no point in spoiling this feeling.

Because it was so fragile, I was afraid it might vanish altogether and then everything would be as difficult as it had been before; this feeling had to be treated with care, and this game of maintaining my inner balance had to do with the fact that I couldn't just suddenly turn around or back out of the room, I had to do it so that she would wish it, too, or at least so it wouldn't happen without her, even though she'd stay — at least that's how I felt.

Come with me, I said, because suddenly I wanted to be magnanimous.

She stood up very slowly, her face lingering near mine; she looked serious; in her surprise she opened her mouth just a little, wrinkled her nose and forehead, as she did when she was reading and wanted to understand from a distance what was there in front of her eyes.

But I immediately felt it was impossible; she had to stay, and that was a pity.

You chickenshit, she said, as if she had opened her mouth only to close it again so I wouldn't see that she understood everything.

She understood all my hidden motives; the smile she saw playing on my lips — I didn't want to smile but felt it anyway — filled her with such hatred that she turned red again, because seeing my treachery made her feel ashamed for me.

What the hell was I waiting for, then, she said, I should go, get the fuck out of there, miserable coward that I was, what was I standing there for like a prick?

My head began to move toward the mouth spewing the invectives, I wanted to bite into it, and as my mouth, my teeth, reached the light playing on the dark skin of her spitting mouth, before making contact, she quickly closed her eyes, but I didn't close mine, because I was involved not with her but with my own feelings; I saw that as her lips stirred under my teeth, her eyelids were trembling.

I wanted to stop her mouth with my teeth, but those warm, soft lips, parting curiously, seemed to be longing for my mouth, and we drew back, simultaneously, because her mouth sensed the sharpness of my teeth.

And when I stepped out the garden gate and began walking up the hill, I would have liked Kálmán to be there waiting for her again; I imagined motioning to him casually: Go on in, she's all yours; this could happen only in my imagination, because in reality they were far from each other, everyone was far away, and at last I was alone with my own feelings.

It was as if nature had unveiled to me the feeling created by the union of two bodies.

Today I know that this peculiar, powerful, and triumphant feeling began to germinate when my body made me experience what "girl," a word familiar to me for thirteen years, really meant, and the feeling blossomed to fulfillment the moment my body made me refuse any further rummaging through those drawers; I took this feeling with me that day like a rare treasure, to be shielded, protected, and kept out of harm's way, submerged so deeply in myself that I didn't notice where I was walking, I was merely putting one foot before the other, as though my body was not mine but that of this feeling; coddling this feeling, my body kept walking on the familiar street, in the summer twilight, between the shores of the forest, only vaguely aware of being accompanied, behind the fence of that restricted area, by the watchdog on duty; and my body felt neither fear nor aversion, since this wonderful feeling was there to shut out everything obscure, secretive, and forbidden; today I know that as the afternoon turned into dusk that day this feeling caused a complete change in me: it did not want me to know or understand what I could never hope to know or understand, it kept me from plunging to the depths of despair and revulsion and at the same time let me know where my place was among the world's creatures, which, for a body, is certainly more important than some ideals and their degree of purity; I was happy, and if I didn't believe that the feeling of happiness is nothing but concealed remembrance I'd say I was happy for the first time, happy because I felt that this sweet tranquillity, surfacing so suddenly and guiding my every move, had extinguished all my pains, conquered them once and forever.

It extinguished them with a kiss, and it is also true that in that kiss there lingered the memory of another, grievous kiss; at that moment, on Maja's lips I said goodbye to Krisztián, said goodbye to my childhood, feeling strong, omniscient, as one who, annealed by dread and sorrow, can size up all his possibilities, understand the meaning of words, rules, regulations, one who need not go on searching and experimenting; this was the nature of my happiness, or this is what made me happy, even though this feeling, which seemed to explain and resolve so many things, was nothing else, nothing more than a reprieve of the body, necessary for its own self-defense and granted to us for only a brief moment of transition.

That is how our feelings look out for us, deceiving us so as to protect us, giving us something good, and while we hold on to our momentary pleasure, distracted by happiness, the evil is quickly taken back, which is not really deception, because every evil feeling leaves a residue behind.

I am talking about a momentary reprieve, though Maja and I never again played detective; my precious feelings, my final shrinking back, my blissful defense mechanism ended our perverse activities, and our relationship also broke off almost completely; we no longer knew what to do with each other, because what could be more interesting than mutually perverting the emotional ties we had for our respective parents, and since nothing was more exciting than that, we pretended to be offended, barely saying hello to each other, so that under that pretext we could forget the real reason for our anger.

And I would have forgotten about the whole affair, and in the meantime maybe a whole year had gone by.

When, on an innocent afternoon in the earliest spring, having returned from school, I saw that strange coat hanging on the rack in the foyer, and the chain of events that followed reawakened in me a world of secret feelings, suspicions, and forbidden knowledge which, following the wrong path but enjoying the dark pleasure of our reckless games, Maja and I had acquired.

Our silly searches were also dictated by a singular feeling, hinting and intimating that despite our environment's aggressively maintained appearance of wholesome well-being, something was not quite right: we looked for reasons and explanations and, finding none, discovered the frightful agony of doubt, became well acquainted with a feeling which, in a way, was the emotional form of the day's historical reality.

But how could we have understood, how could our childish minds have conceived that in our feelings the most complete form of truth was made manifest to us? we were after something more tangible, something to hold in our hands, and that is how our feelings were guarding us against our feelings.

We couldn't have known yet that destiny, which would eventually also reveal to us the palpable contents of our feelings and explain in retrospect the connection between seemingly disparate emotions, always travels in roundabout ways, arriving secretly, inconspicuously, and quietly, and one need not rush it; it cannot and should not be rushed.

It arrives one afternoon very late in the winter, almost like all other winter afternoons, announcing itself in the form of a strange overcoat with an unpleasant, musty smell, shabby-looking, and only one of its buttons resembles the buttons on Krisztián's coat, maybe its color is also like that of his coat.

The dark coat on the rack could mean only one thing: a guest had arrived, an unusual guest, because it is a stern-looking coat, quite unlike those that usually hang on the rack; it cannot be the doctor's or a relative's, which would have a different smell; this is more like a coat emerging from the depths of imaginings, from the distance of anxieties, from oblivion; I heard no strange noises or anyone talking, everything seemed as usual, so I simply opened the door to Mother's room and, without fully comprehending my own surprise, took a few steps toward the bed.

A strange man was kneeling in front of the bed, holding Mother's hand and bending over it as it lay on the coverlet; he was crying, his shoulders and back shaking, and while he kept kissing the hand, with her free hand Mother held the man's head, sinking her fingers into the stranger's short-cropped, almost completely white hair, as if wanting to pull him closer by his hair, but gently, consolingly.

This is what I saw when I walked in, and like a knife tearing into my chest the thought hit me: So it's not just János Hamar, there was another one! oh, the hatred welling up in me! but I did take a few more steps toward the bed, driven now by hatred, too, and saw the man lift his head from Mother's hand, not too quickly, while Mother abruptly let go of his hair, leaned forward, raising herself slightly off her pillows, threw me a quick glance, and, terrified that I might have just discovered her repulsive secret, told me to leave the room.

Rut the man told me to come closer.

They spoke simultaneously, Mother in a choking, faltering voice, at the same time her hand rushing to her neck to pull together her soft white robe so I would not see that her nightgown was open, too, and then I knew immediately what they had been doing; she had shown him, she'd shown her breast to the stranger, her breast that had been cut off, she had shown him the scar; the stranger spoke in a kind, soft voice, as if he were truly glad to see me come in now, unexpectedly, at the wrong moment; in the end, embarrassed and confused by the contradictory signals, I stayed where I was.

A slender shaft of late-afternoon sunlight pierced the window, outlining with wintry severity the intricate patterns of the drawn curtains on the lifeless shine of the floor; and it seemed that everything was booming, even the light; outside, the drainpipes were dripping, melted snow from the roof sloshed and gurgled through the eaves so loudly it sounded amplified; leaving Mother and the stranger in the shade, the shaft of light reached only as far as the foot of the bed, where a small, poorly tied package lay; as the man straightened himself, wiped the tears from his eyes, smiled, and stood up, I already knew who he was, though I didn't want to know; his suit also seemed strange, like his coat on the rack outside, a lightweight, slightly faded summer suit; he was very tall, taller than the János Hamar preserved in my memory, the man my turbulent feelings did not want to recognize, these booming emotions were trying to protect other emotions; he was very tall, his face pale and handsome, both his suit and white shirt wrinkled.

He asked me if I recognized him.

I was watching a red spot on his forehead and saw that although he had wiped his eyes, one of them still had tears in it, and I said no, I didn't recognize him; I didn't want to, and somehow there was something totally unfamiliar about him, though the real reason I said no was that I still wanted to hold on to the lie with which my parents for years had eliminated him from my life; I hoped that insisting on this lie would keep him away from Mother.

But my adored mother did not or, rather, would not understand my insistence, and she lied again, she felt she had to, and with her lie she pushed me away, crushed me; she pretended to be quite surprised that I didn't recognize this man; she was doing this for his benefit, with this pretended surprise trying to suggest that it was only my forgetfulness, and not them, she and Father, to blame for erasing this man from my memory; the excitement of her own lie dried and choked her voice; it was repulsive to listen to it then; today, however, having recovered from the shame of my powerlessness and from the deep wounds of childhood injuries, I rather admire her self-discipline; after all, I did come in at the most dramatic moment of their reunion; what else could she have done but seek refuge in a familiar role; she felt she ought to play the mother now, a mother speaking to her son; she very quickly wanted to change back into being a mother, her face underwent a complete alteration as a result of this mental exercise: a strikingly beautiful, red-haired woman was sitting in that bed, her cheeks flushed, her slightly trembling, nervous fingers playing with the cord on her bedjacket — she seemed to be choking herself with them; this woman seemed a stranger, her voice phony, as she refused to believe I'd so quickly forgotten this man, the man I hated, but her lovely green eyes, narrowing and fluttering, betrayed how completely defenseless she was in this painful and embarrassing situation.

And this, in fact, made me happy; I'd have loved to come right out and say she was lying, shout to the whole world that she was lying, deceiving everyone, but I couldn't say anything, because I was stifled by the constant booming in my ears, and tears that wanted to spill from my eyes were trickling down my throat.

But the stranger, who sensed nothing of what was happening between me and Mother, burst into a loud resounding laugh and, as if coming to my aid and neutralizing the tone of resentment in Mother's voice, said, "It's been five years, after all," which made it clear to me how long had passed since his disappearance, and now I was touched and consoled by his voice and by his laughter, he seemed to be laughing off those five years, making light of it all; as he began walking toward me, he indeed became familiar; I recognized his easy, confident stride, his laugh, the candor of his blue eyes, and, most of all perhaps, the trust I could not help having in him; my defensive and self-protective attitude was gone.

He embraced me and I had to surrender; he was still laughing and saying that it was five years, not exactly a short time; his laughter was meant more for my mother, who kept on lying, saying they had told me he was abroad, which of course wasn't at all what they had really told me: only once did I ever ask them where János was, and it was she, not Father, who said that János Hamar had committed the greatest possible crime and therefore we must never talk about him ever again.

She didn't have to tell me, I knew, that the greatest crime was treason, and therefore he was no more, didn't exist, never had, and if by any chance he was still alive, for us he was as good as dead.

My face touched his chest: his body was hard, bony, thin, and because I automatically closed my eyes, submerging myself in that loud booming, withdrawing into the only refuge my body could provide, I was able to feel a great many things in his body: his tenderness radiating warmly into my body, the excitement of his joy still unable to break free, his lightness, and also a wound-up, convulsive strength that seemed to cling to his sinews, bones, and thin flesh; still, I did not yield completely to his embrace, I could not tear myself away from my mother's lies, and the way I trusted his body seemed much too familiar, harked back to a buried past, spoke to me of the absence of my father's body and, somewhat more remotely, of the pains I'd suffered for loving Krisztián; his body spoke to me of the perfect security provided by a male body and the repeated withdrawal of that security; reopened the past of five years earlier when I could still touch anything with absolute confidence; precisely this excessive openness of feelings made me undemonstrative in his arms.

I could not deny and absorb time any faster; I couldn't have known that the time of fate cannot be stopped; they began talking above my head.

Why should they lie, he was saying, he'd been in prison.

At the same time Mother mumbled something about not being able to explain to me exactly what that meant.

Then he repeated, more lightly and playfully, that yes, he'd been in jail, that's where he'd come from just now, straight from the slammer, and although he was talking to me, he meant the mischievous undertone for Mother, who, finding some possibility for evasion in this playful tone, assured me that János hadn't stolen or robbed or anything like that.

But he wouldn't let her have her little detour and retorted that he'd tell me about it, why not?

But then Mother's voice, deep and filled with hatred, pounced on him, challenged him to tell me if he felt he must, which meant of course that she was forbidding him to say anything; she was trying to protect me and to invalidate him.

It felt good that she hadn't thrust me away from herself, after all, that her protective voice was lashing about behind my back, even if this odd sort of protection quickly pushed me from the threshold of knowledge back to the dark realm of suppressed information; the stranger made no reply, their argument remained suspended above my head, and though I felt I must know, had the right to know, his eyes told me hesitantly that perhaps now was not the time; gripping my shoulders firmly, he pushed me away from himself so he could see me, take a good look at me, and as I followed his glance sweeping over my face and body, I felt time opening up in my body, because the sight before him, me, with all the changes and growing, made him happy and infinitely satisfied; his eyes seemed to devour the physical changes my body had undergone in five years, with great delight making them his own; he shook me, slapped me on the back, and for a brief moment I, too, could see myself with his eyes, and I was hurting terribly, everywhere, in every part of my body that he now looked at, his glance hurt me, because I felt as if my body were deception itself; he was enjoying it so much yet I was standing before him unclean, and that hurt me, hurt me so terribly that the tears stuck in my throat broke out in a quiet, pitiful whimper; he may not have noticed it, because he planted a loud smacking kiss on each of my cheeks, almost biting me, and then, as if unable to get enough of my sight and touch, kissed me a third time; that's when Mother behind us told us to turn away because she was getting out of bed; by then I was sobbing, making gurgling and rattling sounds, and after the third kiss I clumsily, the clumsiness caused by my emotions, touched his face with my mouth, that musty smell on his face, I was touching this erupting pain of mine to his face; but he didn't care, roughly he yanked me to himself and kept me pressed to his body, and of course he cared, he cared for me because he wanted to drink up my sobbing with his own body.

The booming seemed to gush out with my sobs; I didn't know why I was crying, I didn't want to cry, I didn't want him to feel, or for the two of them to see, what was happening, because it was my impurity that was flowing out of me in those tears; and while I was still struggling with myself, entrusting my body to him, the turbulence in his body came to an end.

Tenderness seemed to be carried along by capillary-like tributaries, by swift underground rivulets, and driven out of the honeycombed darkness of the body, it surfaced as inert strength, strength of the arms, the loins, as a trembling of the thighs; nothing more was happening, nothing was changing anymore; he was holding me in his embrace with the gentle strength of his tenderness, and at the same time his sources had dried up, nothing more was flowing from him into me, he became like silence itself.

I don't know how long Father had been standing in the open door.

I had my back to the door and was the last to notice him — when the vanishing tenderness made me realize that something had happened behind my back.

Above my head he was looking at Father.

Mother was standing in front of her bed, about to reach for her robe flung over the back of the armchair.

Father had his coat on, his soft gray hat was in his hand; his straight blond hair fell over his forehead but he did not push it back as he usually did with his long, nervous fingers; he was pale, looking at us with clouded eyes; he didn't seem to be really looking at us but at something incomprehensible located where our hugging bodies were standing, at an apparition, or at nothing at all, as if he could not possibly understand how this apparition had gotten here; maybe that's why I thought that his always clear, stern gaze was dimmed — his expression made almost idiotic — by his own astonishment; his lips kept trembling and he may have wanted to say something but then changed his mind because the words wouldn't come.

The cooled-off tear smudges on my face were now superfluous; the silence of the men was so deep and immovable that I could feel my own superfluity in my limbs, or perhaps what an animal feels when escape is made impossible by not only a perfectly constructed trap but its own paralyzed instincts.

Slowly he let me go, languidly; one lets go of an object with such indifference; Mother did not move.

A great deal of time must have passed like this; all those five long years must have passed by during that silence.

What I had learned about Father while rummaging through his papers seemed trivial compared to what was now becoming visible on his face; perhaps once again it was something I should not have seen: his body shrank somehow, his figure — I always thought of him as tall and slender — sagged under the weight of his coat; his comportment, the strength of his proud bearing, seemed to be illusory now; all these changes produced a curved back and stooped shoulders, and he had difficulty holding his head up, it was wobbling, hovering helplessly above his coat, because not only what he would have wanted to say but couldn't made his lips tremble — the trembling radiating to his nostrils, eyelids, and eyebrows, knitting his forehead in deep furrows — but also another force was stiffening his head in a twisted position, and what his mouth wanted to say was stuck in his windpipe, in his shoulders; always an impeccable dresser, Father now looked disheveled, his tie twisted to the side, the tips of his shirt collar standing straight up, his coat and the jacket under it both unbuttoned, part of his shirt slipping out of his pants over his belly, so many signs of frantic, undignified haste, embarrassment, and agitation, but of course he couldn't have been aware of them; I still don't know how he got the news — to all indications János's arrival at our place was completely unexpected — but I imagined that the moment Father heard the news he jumped into his car, he must have been both overjoyed and devastated, his soul, if there is such a thing, silently split in two, while at the command of his instincts he tried to maintain the impression that he was still a whole person; two irreconcilable emotions must have been raging in him with equal force, that's what made his face twitch, his head float and wobble.

But so far I've spoken only of the strength and rhythm, the dynamics, of emotions, that ebb and flow in which their colors and directions manifest themselves, their pulse and breathing, but by no means the emotions themselves, only one of their many characteristics; what really must have happened in him I can only approximate with a metaphor: he became a child and an old man, as if these two ages had yanked his features in two different directions; he turned into a very offended child whom up to now the world had pampered with false appearances, whose good mind had been nursed into idiotic complacency, and now that this same world had revealed its cruel face to him and he didn't like what was happening, wasn't used to it, the child withdrew from reality into sulking, into hurt-fulness, into hate-filled, sniveling regression, unwilling to see what he saw, hurting to the point where he should have been whining and whimpering with pain, which is why he tried so desperately to force himself back into the world of comforting appearances, wanting to be coddled and nursed again, to be dumb and complacent, to stick his thumb back into his mouth, to have his mother's nipples; consequently everything I had once seen as clear, bright, and pure, the sternness of moral behavior reflected in his face, now seemed to be exposing their sources: inane, childish trust, and the fact that he was holding on to somebody's hand; his mouth and nostrils quivered, his eyelids fluttered, his brows twitched like a child's, and all this superimposed on adult features made his face look malformed and freakish; I glimpsed within the ravaged face of this man the child who had never managed to grow up; at the same time, the child seemed older than his years, his pale face was full of shadows; he had turned into a very old man so utterly shattered, crushed, pulverized by real, cruel, bloody, criminal phenomena hiding behind the world of appearances that nothing in him was still innocent, his life force was barely flickering; now he knew, saw, and understood everything, nothing could catch him unprepared, and anything that did was but the recurrence of something that had happened before, and thus behind the fine veil of his intelligence and insight there was a weary boredom rather than affection or love; he seemed to be thrashing between the extremes of his childhood and old age, between his past and his possible future, and being unable to find the noble expression appropriate to coping with the situation, his face simply fell apart.

And János Hamar kept looking on, calmly, almost moved, seemed to be peering out at Father from a strength reduced and clinging to his bones, looked at Father as if at the erstwhile object of his love, as if smiling at his lost past, with the soft expression we use when we're trying to help someone, to identify with him, urging him sympathetically to go ahead and say what's on his mind, we'll understand his feelings, or at least we'll try to.

I was certain, or rather my feelings were certain, that Janos was my real father and not this ridiculous figure in the clumsy, oversized winter coat; that's when I suddenly remembered that János's hair used to be dark and thick, and the only reason I didn't immediately recognize this real and profound inner closeness which I had always carried with me was that the color of his skin had changed, too, having lost its lively brown hue, and was now clinging, white and wrinkled, to the powerful bones of his face.

Mother's face, the most mysterious of all, confirmed my feelings about the men; without having moved from her place or having picked up her robe, she came and stood with her face between the two men.

And then the trembling mouth belonging to my father with the winter coat finally thrust the first sentence out into the silence; he said something to the effect of, You've come to see us, then.

On the other man's face pain rolled over the smile, and when he said he'd come against his will and couldn't help it, the smile and pain united again, and he continued: his mother had died two years ago, as Father must surely know, of course he went home first and found out from the people who in the meantime had taken over his apartment.

We didn't know, said my winter-coated father.

But then, in a very sharp, shrill voice, almost like a saw stuck in a knot of wood, Mother shouted, That's enough!

Again there was silence between the two men, and while my mother added — her voice deep and choked, sounding as if taking revenge on someone — that they did know but hadn't gone to the funeral, I felt all my strength flowing out of me, which is why I couldn't move from my spot.

Everyone was quiet, as if they all had retreated into themselves and also needed to gather their strength.

All right, János said a little later, it didn't matter; and the smile vanished completely from his face, only the pain remained.

This made my winter-coated father feel stronger; he moved finally, started for János, and although he didn't do anything but walk with his hat in his hand, making no other gesture, it still looked as though he was going to embrace János, who, as if alluding to his pain, apologetically raised his hand, imploring him not to come closer, to stay where he was.

He stopped, in his winter coat, his hair shone as it caught the slender shaft of sunlight, and I don't know why, maybe because of the unfinished movement, his hat fell out of his hand.

We must get over this, Mother whispered, as if trying to take the edge off János's rebuff, and then repeated even more quietly that they must get over this.

They both looked at her, and the way they did showed that both were hoping that she, the woman, would help them.

And this one look brought them together, made them a threesome again.

Except that here no one could help anyone; after a little while János turned away, it must have pained him that they were again three; and as soon as they felt János could not see them, the other two exchanged a hateful glance, some kind of signal, behind his back; he seemed to be looking out the window, listening to the water dripping in the drainpipe, watching the bare branches swaying in the wind, and a sob broke from him, a whimper, tears spilling over the brim of his eyes, but just as quickly he pushed it all back, swallowed it down; Yes, all right, he said, I know, he said, and then he broke down completely, and Mother began yelling at me, What was the matter with me, couldn't I see I had no business being there? and like a madwoman she shrieked at me that I should get out!

I would gladly have obeyed her, but I couldn't, just as they couldn't take another step toward one another but all stood in their places, too far apart to cross over.

So you want to settle the account, after all, Father said, too loudly, for at last he could say the words he'd been afraid to say earlier.

No, no, I'm sorry, János said, wiping the tears from his eyes with his fist, but, as before, one eye remained filled; I'm sorry, it's not you I came to see, I did come to this house, but not to see you! and then he said that my father had no reason to be afraid, there wasn't going to be a showdown, why, he couldn't even talk to Father; and if he planned to wipe out Father's family, he would go about it differently, wouldn't he? but either way, from this moment on, no matter how unpleasant it might make their reunion, or however uncomfortable it might be, my father had better get used to the idea that János was here, was alive, hadn't rotted away in jail, and would say whatever was on his mind; Didn't he think, my winter-coated father asked very quietly, that he, too, had something to do with it?

With getting him into jail or with getting him released? János asked.

With getting him released, of course.

No, frankly, he didn't think so; as a matter of fact, because of certain circumstances, he had reason to believe just the opposite.

In other words, János thought that Father was responsible for the first.

Unfortunately, János said, he couldn't forget the circumstances; five miserable years hadn't been long enough for that; only the dead could conveniently forget things; those responsible should have done the job more thoroughly, with greater foresight! making sure no one was left to remember.

Would he be good enough to tell him just what circumstances he was alluding to, my winter-coated father asked.

At this point Mother let go of her robe, as if something terrible had happened inside her, hunched over, placed both hands on her stomach, and pressed down, trying to stop whatever was going on inside her.

No, he didn't think circumstances were right to discuss trivial details.

No, don't! not now, Mother whispered to them, not now!

What did he mean trivial details, his honor was at stake, and Father demanded, most emphatically demanded, to know the circumstances János was hinting at: Come on, out with it!

János remained silent for a long time, but this was a charged silence, unlike the earlier one; turbulent emotions seemed to have had a purging effect on Father, helped him to regain his equilibrium, to put his feelings back on the smooth, well-worn track of conviction, and this gave him strength, though behind the brittle guise of regained strength he was still fearful and humbled as he kept on listening to the words of the other man, who, because of the quarrel that had erupted between them and against his will, was now strangely less self-assured; as he tried with elaborate and carefully chosen words to keep his contemptible opponent at a distance, all the tender sentiments vanished from his face, gone was the lovely pain caused by the shock of his sudden freedom, the news of his mother's death, his passionate reunion with us, not to mention the sight of Mother's mutilated body, which in itself would have been enough to turn a man into mush in the maw of fate; unlike Father, János reacted to the argument by casting off the burden of his sentiments and now seemed ready to resume the fight naked, with nothing to protect him; he struggled, he wanted to smile, but he was struggling not with his emotions but with the freedom the gods had inflicted on him; pain made the wrinkles around his eyes contract and deepen, with a bit of fanciful exaggeration one might even say that Mentor was standing next to him, urging him on; he became somber, the wrinkles relaxed, and he grew weary but not weak, with the weariness of a man so confident in his own truth and in the justice of his cause — way beyond the personal, this was nothing less than part of universal truth and justice — that he was already bored by, and found superfluous, the very process of having to present evidence; at the same time, from a moral standpoint, this struggle could hardly seem elegant, since only he, and he alone, could have truth on his side— after all, he was the victim; and although this was the role that in his freedom he was most loath to take on, the fight could not be avoided— indeed, they were already in the midst of it; for several minutes they'd been speaking in that secret language only they could fully understand, the language of alertness and suspicion, of constant readiness and accusation, whose sources and origin Maja and I had tried to trace while playing detective; this was their language, their only common weapon, the language of their past, which János, unless he was determined to annihilate himself, could consider neither irrelevant nor useless; he hated their shared past, and so he was looking for a chink in the armor, a phrase, a piece of information, with which he could still avoid his former self.

Look, he said, drawing out the word as if with this one word he could gain precious time for himself, you must know much better than I what you may or may not ask of me, but first of all, don't shout at me, don't try so desperately to be right! and second of all, please let me ask you, like this, very calmly, that aside from my so-called case — because in our relationship that case no longer makes any difference — tell me, how many death warrants have you signed? I'm curious, purely for statistical reasons.

Father remained quiet for a while, but they kept looking at each other, their eyes locked; and now it was Father's turn for fancy language, saying that he did not consider the question justified, since János must know that he could not have signed a single death warrant, that wasn't part of his job, therefore the question, at least in this formulation, was inappropriate.

Oh, of course, sorry! he'd completely forgotten about that — he begged Father's pardon.

That's right, Father said, he too drawing out his words, as a prosecutor he might ask for the death penalty in a given case, but as is well known, two members of the people's tribunal and a people's judge brought in the verdict as they saw fit.

Why, of course, János cried, that's how it is, this jurisdiction, these legal proceedings, it's all so complicated, Father should forgive him, but he always got lost in them, got everything all mixed up.

Yes, that's how it is, and one shouldn't mix it all up.

Well, in that case, everything's all right!

I would have liked very much to get out of there, but I didn't dare move the air in the room.

Because he was of the opinion, Father continued ominously, slowly and quietly, that based on their former acquaintance, and he didn't know which one of them had been more radical, János wouldn't have acted differently in a similar situation; he would have discharged his duties to the best of his beliefs, wouldn't he? and therefore he saw the roles they had been assigned during the past five years as the work of mere chance.

Their voices were lowered to the level of whispering, of hissing, while Mother also kept up her whispering: No, don't, not now, I beg of you, not now.

There, you see, János whispered, I would have forgotten about the role of chance, but even if it was a series of chances, they've become facts which now, for some reason, seem to bother you, why? why this ludicrous display of emotion? if that was my role, as you say, then it's all right, we're all set; I'm over here, and you're over there, and there's nothing I want to tell you, you understand?

He was ready to tell him everything he knew, everything, Father said; all he was asking now — asking, not demanding, because he really had no right to demand — all he was asking was that János tell him what circumstances he had been alluding to earlier.

Because your honor is at stake, János said.

Yes, my winter-coated father said, my honor.

It got very quiet again, and in this quiet I started for the door; the silence made Mother open her eyes, because she wanted to see what was happening in the silence; I walked past her, right in front of her eyes, but she didn't notice that I could walk again.

You're conducting my interrogation very skillfully, János said, but then you really know me, you know almost more about me than I do myself.

What was he talking about? Father asked.

He wasn't talking about anything, and he didn't want to talk to him about anything at all.

This I heard as I was on my way out, but I couldn't actually leave, because Father began to scream; it was as if the earth itself was shaking and everything that man had ever built on its thin crust was going to collapse, crash, crumble; the sound was that of crying and wild yelling, the kind of male sobbing that's only a breath of self-discipline away from murder; pressing his hands against his temples so he wouldn't murder the other man, or maybe to keep his head from splitting open, he was crying and screaming, But why? why like this? I can't stand it! I can't! and he went on screaming that János didn't understand anything, how could he ever tell János about the nights spent waiting, when he thought he was going to be next, when he felt completely alone; yes, he was ashamed, but didn't understand; no, he wasn't ashamed, just didn't understand why his best friend, who made him die a thousand deaths, didn't want to talk to him.

You are disgraceful, ridiculous, you are disgusting, János said clearly and calmly.

I was holding on to the doorpost, to the white wood.

But why, why? he can't see it, he can't stand it anymore, it hurt so much.

When you walked in here, János said, and I looked at you, I thought there was enough decency left in you — no, not decency, just common sense — to take a look at what you've done.

Father's hands dropped, for an instant his breath seemed to stop, his lips were parted by the child's pain that erupted with those murderous manly sobs; still, I felt that these were not signs of weakness, his body remained strong.

It was as if this body were telling him that his life was nothing more than a minute curiosity and nothing mattered except what this other body was telling him.

All right, János said gravely, let's get it over with, and with his big blue eyes growing even bigger he looked into Father's blue eyes, and every last wrinkle on his face relaxed; order returned to his face; but I don't want you to misunderstand, he said, listen: on the second day, and you should know very well what the second day means in there, they showed me a piece of paper signed by you, a confession stating that when I was released in May '35 I'd told you, in tears, that I couldn't take the beatings anymore, and Sombor and his fascist thugs got me to work for them as an operative — he faltered for a moment and took a deep breath — and you took it on yourself not to report me because I was crying so hard, he said, and under some pretext you let me lie low for a while so I'd have nothing to report to my new handlers; no, this is not a confrontation, not a settling of accounts, I'm not calling you to account! he shouted, but when I prevented our operation at Szob and Mária was caught because of me, then you became convinced I was working for them, after all.

But that's ridiculous, Father said, everybody knows we worked together in our hideout for two whole months after that.

From the second day on, make that the third day, János corrected himself, because he'd needed a bit more time to grasp things, he admitted everything, anything they wanted him to.

But he never signed any statement, Father insisted.

Not only did he sign it, he even corrected the typos, as always, as János remembered his friend and his meticulous ways.

No, no, there must be a misunderstanding; he never made out a deposition about János, nobody ever asked him for one.

You're lying, János said.

I was holding on to the smooth white doorpost, hoping it would help me slip out of the room, and I almost made it, I was almost out.

János, believe him, he's telling the truth now, I heard Mother's faint voice.

He is lying, János said.

At that moment, without the sound of her footsteps announcing her, Grandmother appeared, our bodies nearly colliding in the open doorway.

No, János, I would know about it, I heard Mother say inside the room; I wouldn't have let him, János; but nobody ever asked him to do it.

Grandmother had come from the direction of the kitchen, and her face was flushed with the steam and vapors of cooking, with the gentle expression of bashful triumph and anxious anticipation that is inscribed on a housewife's face only when cooking is not a bother, not a burdensome daily chore but a myriad of tiny conditioned gestures and moves, when peeling, grating, lifting the lids, tasting the food, yanking pots off the fire, scalding, rinsing, stirring, and straining receive their true, lovely, and festive meaning from the heightened attention and dedication of the cook, because sitting in a distant room, a beloved guest is waiting for the meal, and now that it's all ready it must be announced, but will they really like it? and it was clear that she wasn't coming straight from the kitchen but had first stopped in the bathroom to fix her hair, touch a powder puff to her face, and put on a little lipstick; she probably changed, too, so as not to bring the kitchen smells with her; she was wearing the silver-gray corduroy housedress that went so well with her silvery-gray hair, and now, as she hugged me for a second to avoid our crashing into each other, I got a whiff of her freshly applied perfume — two dabs behind the ears, always.

It was unlikely that she hadn't heard the last few sentences spoken in the room, and even if she hadn't caught their meaning, filled as she was with the excitement of her own activities, it was impossible that she wouldn't have sensed from the intonations, just from the way the three of them were standing — far apart, frozen in place, stiff in the grip of their emotions — the awesome tension in the room; but she was not to be distracted, and with a deliberate but not rude gesture she swept me aside, in her high-heeled slippers she stepped quickly into the room, and with a solemn face, as though she were blind and deaf or incredibly stupid, made her announcement: Come on, everybody, dinner's on the table!

Of course she sensed what was going on, but with her gentility and fastidiousness, her long stiff waist, puritan humorlessness, fuzzy upper lip, and chiseled, somewhat dry features — at the moment made more lively and feminine by the kitchen heat and the excitement of János's presence — Grandmother was like an antediluvian creature of bourgeois decorum; she came, and with the cruelty of her obtuseness she plowed through events and phenomena of human life that, in her view of the world, could not be reconciled with the demands of propriety and dignified behavior, as if to say with her superior air (in which there was nothing aristocratic because she was not above but only bypassed the things she was critical of) that what we cannot find solutions for is better left unacknowledged, or at least we should not let on that our eyes see everything, and with the illusion thus created we ought to facilitate the inevitable unfolding of events, and we ought to deflect, stall, wait, let ride, and evaluate things before taking action, because action is judgment, and that is a very tricky business! as a child, I was terribly disturbed by this attitude, disgusted by the lying it implied, and a very long time had to pass before, in light of my own bitter experiences, I made its wisdom my own, before I understood and could sense that seemingly phony, willful blindness and feigned deafness require much more flexibility and understanding than openly demonstrated sympathy and helpfulness; her approach assumes more considerateness and a greater allowance for human fallibility than so-called sincerity, a more forthright, truth-seeking response, does; her mode of behavior is a way of curbing innate aggressiveness and hasty judgment, albeit at the price of another kind of aggressiveness; at that moment she must have been in her element; without batting an eye she entered the room as if it were a drawing room in which guests were making small talk while sipping aperitifs; just how fully aware she was of the seriousness of the moment became apparent when, without giving herself time to catch her breath, she turned to Father, expressed surprise at seeing him there — we'll need another setting— and in her most casual manner, in a kind of chatty, slightly military tone, told him he should take off his coat, wash up, and then let's go, yes, everybody, she wouldn't want the food to spoil! and she had already turned to János, to whom this playacting was addressed, the performance meant to say that no matter what happens, we are a normal, loving, smoothly functioning family; perhaps it wouldn't be inappropriate to interject here that the last qualifier points to the wise moral of bourgeois propriety, to its practicality, which was that life must remain functional at all times and at all cost; this won't be much of a lunch, just something I've thrown together, she said, smiling; she looked at János for a long time, giving him a chance to collect himself, then gently touched his arm and told him he couldn't possibly imagine how happy she was to see him.

My grandmother's staunchly resolute dissembling in itself could not have cooled emotions which had reached the boiling point, or steered them to the calmer waters of reason and understanding; in their present state, it was not only difficult to see how these murderous emotions, which required clarification, could be cooled from one minute to the next, since they all desperately needed to arrive at the truth, but was also conceivable that Grandmother's obvious falsity might be the last straw, and all the anger, shame, despair, suspicion, and pain that had erupted during those few moments, seeking solace in a palpable truth, would now rain down on her head; Mother turned red with hatred for her mother, as if she wanted to yell at her to get out! or to fall on her, grab her by the throat, and smother that detestable false voice, but she was prevented from yielding to the impulse by their moral code, my parents' the exact opposite of Grandmother's, whose essence lay in making the finest, most subtle distinctions among the means of their tactics and strategies in pursuit of a certain end, between their legal and illegal conduct, and in making these distinctions they must remain appropriately discreet and unpredictable, which is what ensured them of moral superiority and practical power; therefore, any extreme manifestation of word or gesture, would be tantamount to treason, a betrayal of their mutual trust; they wouldn't allow themselves to express their emotions freely, the inner conflict of their secret lives had to remain a secret; this was the restricted area they guarded with the same conspiratorial means they had used to set it up, they had to settle everything between themselves and totally exclude a hostile and suspicious outside world; for me, the most remarkable thing about this whole scene was the way the two modes of behavior — nourished by two totally opposite motivations and with dissembling and illusion for their common ground — wound up blending peacefully into each other.

Of course, later they continued where they had left off, but for the moment Father, as if really in the midst of some frivolous chitchat, said yes, of course, he'd wash up promptly, he was on his way, and this was a kind of warning to Mother, whose face turned even more deeply red, but she readily reached for her robe, if only to turn away so she could hide her face, trembling with rage; she said she'd have to change, she wouldn't want to come to the table in her robe, she'd hurry, it would only take a minute; and the nervous twitch of embarrassment on János's face quickly dissolved into a smile, as if by this rapid change he was protecting what had to be kept secret; this was habit, too, the conspiratorial smile matching most precisely the genuine joy, expressed with phony exaggeration, which Grandmother had beamed at him; in their own way both smiles were perfect, since by hiding their feelings both Grandmother and János managed to produce real emotions.

He wouldn't describe himself as happy, exactly; János grinned, and reciprocated Grandmother's touch by touching her arm, but he was glad to be here, of course, though he couldn't quite comprehend just what was happening to him; Grandmother's face assumed a properly sympathetic expression: your poor, poor mother, she said with real emotion, her eyes welling up; there was a real kinship between them now, producing, most likely, the same emotional cliché, namely how sad it was that his mother couldn't have lived to see this day, but the cliché was effective enough, and because they were looking for a possible common ground, the sigh, the pitying intonation, the misty eyes harked back to the first time they had broached the subject, soon after János's arrival; this, then, was the closing of the subject, its quiet and heartfelt burial; Grandmother composed herself and gently, consolingly, as if embracing his dead mother as well, took János's arm.

I did not move; nobody was paying any attention to me anyway; Father disappeared and Mother went to change.

Ernő must be beside himself with excitement, Grandmother said with a laugh, he's so anxious to see you.

And they started for the dining room.

János, who adopted this convivial, conversational tone easily, was somewhat embarrassed about his oversight and asked a little too eagerly, How is Ernő? which made his voice ring false.

How clearly the mind can see now what back then was absorbed by the eyes as gestures, by the ears as sounds and stresses, and by memory, who knows for what reason — all stored away.

Hearing this stray tone in János's voice, Grandmother suddenly stopped before the dining-room door, as if she had to tell him something important before going in, withdrew her arm from his, turned to face him, and with eyes slightly dim with age looked up at him; all the brilliance she had forced on her eyes moments before was gone, replaced by sadness, fatigue, anxiety, and still she wouldn't say what she really wanted; she changed direction, pretended to be distracted, and grasped János's lapel, which she tugged with the apparent embarrassment of a young girl; this seemed like something serious again but was only a further hiding of something inexpressibly real.

Just when János felt that his features were safely under control, when he thought he'd found the only (properly false) voice to suit the situation, the discipline of his face broke down, nearly fell apart, and all the suppressed excitement, not of this moment but of the earlier moments, rose to the surface, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes began to twitch and vibrate, and he seemed to be dreading what Grandmother might have wanted to say but wouldn't, although he knew what it might be.

You know, Grandmother then said very slowly, almost whispering so no one else would hear, he's been a very active man all his life — she pronounced the word as actif—he could never stay put, and now this whole thing — I don't know much about politics, and I don't want to say anything — but this thing has also destroyed him, this helplessness! and your tragedy caused him much suffering, too, I know, although he never talks of it, or of anything else, he just keeps to himself, not saying anything, and that's how he lives his life from one attack to the next, he's driven everybody away, doesn't talk to anybody; Grandmother's whispering grew ever more passionate, and signs of her own deep hurt began to appear on her face, for she really wanted to talk about her own grievances; that man couldn't be helped anymore, he didn't want anyone's pity.

János stroked Grandmother's hair, not as if he was comforting a silly old woman, but as a bashful, faltering attempt to reach out.

Grandmother laughed again, wanting to elude the true meaning of János's gesture; So that's how things are, she said, come on, she added, and opened the door.

But she opened it only for him, she didn't go in; she and I watched this meeting through the open door.

And he most certainly needed all his presence of mind to accept as natural the sight that was waiting for him, which caught him unprepared.

One can bear life's vicissitudes only because our reflexes do for us what should be done with one's whole being, which in turn gives the impression that the body is not quite present when it is indeed present, and that's how our feelings protect us from our own feelings.

It was clearly visible on his back, his protruding shoulder blades, and his neck reduced to skin and sinews, that it wasn't he, János, who stepped into the room, because he was shocked and rooted to the spot; it was his humane duty that borrowed his legs and brought his body into the room.

In the dining room, the chandelier glowed brightly above the long, elaborately set, festive table, and my grandfather was standing behind his chair, feeling ill but fighting it, grasping hard the back of the chair, not even looking up, his gaze somewhere between the cream-colored china, the silver flatware, and the crystal glasses, but in fact he was listening to his own breathing, seemed almost to be looking at his breaths; his fragile face was dark, and above the two deep hollows of his temples, high on his arched forehead, whose sternness was relieved by the smoothed-down waves of his feather-light white hair, two thick blue veins protruded; he had to pay attention to every single breath, how to inhale and exhale, making sure it all went smoothly, not to let choppy breathing slip into an uncontrollable attack; he was an ancient but still beautiful man; at the other end of the table, my little sister sat on her chair on a stack of pillows, all dressed up in a smart blue outfit with a round collar, her hair neatly combed; deeply engrossed, and totally undisturbed by the opening door or the approaching stranger, she kicked the table with evenly paced kicks and banged her little tin plate with her spoon; naturally her mouth was open.

Grandfather slowly peered out from behind his glasses, he hadn't lifted his head yet, his gaze did not want to reveal more than what he was feeling, but that was so much, and so true, that what he could say with words would be much less, and so he couldn't really lift his head, but the artificially prolonged whistling of his breathing began to subside, his face grew even darker, his forehead turned whiter; he had things under control.

And with his glance he immediately perceived unease in his guest's eyes; he didn't smile but remained serious, and yet something appeared on the surface of his eyes that we might call cheerfulness, and with this cheerfulness he was helping along János's eyes.

Somewhat playfully, tilting his head sideways, he threw a glance at my little sister as if to say to János, You see, that's how she is, and I'm standing here, making sure she's allowed to bang on that plate to her heart's content; yes, that's what he seemed to be saying, giving János a chance to take a good look at her so he wouldn't have to pretend not to notice what he couldn't help noticing.

Then their eyes met again, and while my little sister continued banging on her plate with her spoon, they slowly began to walk toward each other; they grasped each other's hands, two old hands holding two mature hands over the head of an idiot child; and then I could see János's face again, which had returned to its former look; the two men held each other.

I thought a lot about you, Ernő, said János after a long silence.

If that's true, Grandfather said, then there was nothing more János could possibly tell him.

He had no choice, János said; besides, he had plenty of time to think.

As for himself, Grandfather said, he'd been preparing for eternity; he didn't think, didn't hope, that it would be over one day, or at least that he would live to see it, though he should have known.

Known what? János asked.

Grandfather shook his head, didn't want to say, and then, as if the thing they had meant to cover up — not for fear or shame, just wanted to — erupted from them, they fell on each other and stood for a long time hugging.

When they separated, my sister stopped her banging and watched the two men, her mouth wide-open; a small sound issued from her, not clearly of fear or happiness; behind me, Grandmother sighed and hurried back to the kitchen.

And they just stood there helplessly, their arms dangling at their sides.

He'd begun to understand a lot of things, János said, so many things that he'd almost become a liberal, would you believe that, Ernő?

What d'you know! Grandfather said.

Can you imagine that?

Then maybe you should run for office in the next election.

And one pair of hands again grabbed the other pair, and the two men literally laughed in each other's face, coarsely, loudly, knocking against each other in their drunken laughter, and then the laughter suddenly drowned in silence, which must have never left them, not even during their laughter, which had been there all along, biding its time.

I was still standing in the door, unable to tear myself away or to follow the events with my body and make it enter the room; I suppose this is the state we describe as being beside oneself; I had to turn away; I saw my little sister, still clutching her spoon, with her big head tilted, who was staring at the men; now with little giggles and a grin, now with drooping lips and whimpering sounds on the verge of sobbing, she also seemed to be experimenting, trying to decide what would best suit this unusual occasion; she could experience any emotion now, most likely experienced a great many, could perceive the situation as friendly, just as easily feel it to be hostile, and because she was not choosing between fine shades of emotion and was perhaps terrified by the impossibility of choosing, she began a dreadful bawling.

Which anyone who had never lived in close proximity to a mentally defective child might have considered the capricious creation of chance.

Later, it was Father who had to push me to the table; I was so paralyzed by my sister's bawling I couldn't make it there on my own; I remember using the excuse that I wasn't hungry.

Grandmother came in with a steaming soup tureen.

As precisely as my memory has preserved the events leading up to this meal, it has buried just as deeply those that followed it; I know, of course, that memory mercilessly retains everything and I do admit my weakness: some things I don't want to remember.

Like how Mother's face slowly turned yellow, a very dark yellow, I could actually see it happening, but she kept pretending there was nothing wrong, and that's why I didn't dare say anything to her or to anyone else.

Or what happened earlier, when she came in wearing her navy-blue skirt, a white shirt, showing off her long, pretty legs in high-heeled lizard shoes which she saved for the most special occasions; as she hurried over to my little sister, I saw a colorful silk scarf tucked under the wide-open collar of her blouse; I hadn't seen her dressed for months, and that scarf showed just how much weight she had lost, she looked as if she had been put into the clothes by accident and the scarf was supposed to hide the weight loss; when my little sister behaved like that, it was best not to touch her, so Mother crouched down next to her and made a bunny rabbit from the napkin.

And the way János was watching all this.

And how Father yelled, Get her out of here!

And how, as she was dragged out, the silence of the three men remained behind, and how her screams faded away.

And the feeling during the hours that followed, that somebody had to be silenced, and the silence, and the voracious eating.

And how the end was so long in coming; the thing was not going to end, kept lasting, there was still more of it no matter how much everyone tried to eat it off their plates; and how everything that occurred to any of them as a solution or possible evasion, everything was part of the end that wouldn't come.

And then they shut themselves in another room, and only random words and stifled cries could be heard; but I didn't want to draw any conclusion from these scattered words; the message, to me, was the same.

And it must have been late at night when I took the screwdriver, I didn't turn on the light and didn't even close the door behind me — there was no point in being cautious anymore, and in fact I didn't much care what I was doing — inserted the screwdriver between the desktop and the drawer, raised the top, the lock snapped open, and just as I was taking the money out of the drawer Grandfather walked across the dark room.

He asked me what I was doing.

Nothing, I said.

What did I need the money for? he asked.

No reason, I said.

He stood there for a while longer, then very quietly told me not to be afraid, they were just straightening things out among themselves. And then he left the room.

His voice was calm and serious, and this voice, as if coming from a different source, this reasoning of his, coming from such a different way of thinking, exposed, showed up for what it was, what I'd intended to do; for a long time I stood in the dark room, thus exposed to myself; Grandfather wrecked my plan, yet also put me at ease a little; the money, two hundred forints, I put in my pocket anyway.

I left the drawer open, with the screwdriver on top of the desk.

I also remember that I fell asleep that night with my clothes on, which I noticed only the next morning; during the night somebody covered me with a blanket; at least I didn't have to get dressed in the morning.

And I mention this not to be amusing but to point out with what trivial little advantages one is ready to console oneself at a time like this.

And when I came home from school, the two coats, Father's heavy winter coat and that other coat, were still hanging on the rack; and I heard the men's voices from the room.

I did not eavesdrop.

I don't remember how I spent the afternoon, though I vaguely recall standing in the garden and not taking off my coat all afternoon, I stayed just as I was when I'd got back from school.

I remember it growing dark as some kind of mitigating circumstance, a red twilight with a clear sky, the moon was up, and everything that had thawed out during the day now refroze, snapping and crackling under my feet as I cut across the forest.

Only when I got as far as Felhő Street up on the hill, and saw Hédi's window, the closed curtain and the light inside, did I become conscious of the air, of the piercing cold I was inhaling.

Two little girls were coming down the darkening street, pulling and yanking a sled that kept getting stuck in the dips and mounds on the icy roadway.

A hell of a time to go sledding, I said to them, the snow had just about melted.

They stopped, gave me a dumb look, but one of them tilted her head a little, stuck her neck forward angrily, and said very quickly, That's not true, on Városkúti Road there's still plenty of snow.

I offered them two forints if they went in and told Livia to come out.

They didn't want to do it or didn't understand, but when I took a handful of change from my pocket and showed it to them, the one with the big mouth took a few coins.

I'd taken the money from János's coat before I left the house; I just scooped it all out, every last coin.

They dragged the sled with them across the schoolyard; I kept pointing and yelling to show them which door to take to the basement.

It took them a long time to maneuver the sled down the stairs, but at last it was quiet, the horrible grating and scraping sound stopped; they just had to drag that rotten sled with them, the little jerks, fearing I might steal it; for a long time nothing happened, and I was about to leave — I decided several times that I wouldn't wait anymore, I didn't want Hédi to see me — when Livia appeared, wearing sweatpants and a blouse with its sleeves rolled up; she'd been washing dishes perhaps, or mopping the floor, and was now lugging the sled up the stairs.

She wasn't so surprised to see me standing by the fence; she put the cord in the girls' hands, they could now pull it themselves, which they did, and again the sled made terrible sounds as it scraped along the slushy schoolyard, but they also kept looking back, whispering and giggling, curious to see what the two of us might do.

Livia strode across the yard with deliberate steps, she seemed cold, kept slapping her shoulders, stooped over a little to protect her breasts from the cold; when she heard the giggling, she gave the girls such a stern look they shut up and tried to get away as fast as they could, though their curiosity slowed them down.

She came very close to the fence, and the warm kitchen smell emanating from her body and hair enveloped my face.

Those little idiots, now at a safe distance, yelled something back at us.

I said nothing to her, but she could see I was in big trouble, that's what she was seeing in my face; and my eyes were glad to see what her face had brought from their kitchen — the perfectly ordinary, warm and friendly evening — and we both felt that this was almost like that summer when I always waited for her by the garden fence and she'd come and walk past me, except now I was the one outside the fence, and this belated switch of positions pleased us both.

She pushed her fingers through the fence, all five fingers, and I immediately leaned my forehead against them.

The lukewarm tips of her fingers barely touched my forehead, and when my face also wanted to feel them, she pressed her palm on the rusty wires and through the spaces my mouth found the warm smell of her hand.

She quietly asked what had happened to me.

I'm leaving, I said.

Why?

I said I couldn't stand it anymore at home, and just came to say goodbye.

She quickly withdrew her hand and looked at me, trying to see on my face what had happened, and I felt I had to tell her, even though she didn't ask.

My mother's lover is more important to her, I said, and I felt a short, stabbing pain, as if hitting a live nerve, but what I'd said could not be expressed any other way, and so even the pain felt good.

Wait, she said, truly alarmed, I'm coming with you, be right back.

While I waited for her, the short stab-like pain passed but left behind a queasiness, because, although less intensely, the pain caused by my not-exactly-precise sentence was still coursing through my body, spreading, branching out inside me, reaching every nerve, every cell, with some kind of sensation, like the root of a thought, swinging at the tip of each nerve ending; yet there was nothing more, or closer to the truth, that I could tell her; the pain ran its course and was subsiding, but at the same time— more significantly than the pain and in apparent tune with the beating of my heart — my brain kept repeating the words "with you, with you," but I didn't understand how she could come with me, how she could even think about it.

By now it was almost completely dark, the yellow glow of streetlamps softened the cold blue darkness.

She must have been afraid I'd leave, because I didn't have to wait long before she came running, her coat still unbuttoned, holding her scarf and red cap in her hand; but she stopped and carefully closed the gate, the lock was missing, it had to be fastened with a piece of wire.

She looked at me expectantly, and this would have been the time to tell her where I was going, but I felt that if I did, it would be all over, the whole thing would seem impossible and absurd, like saying that I wished to leave this world — which in fact was true; when I had pried open the desk drawer, for a moment I had hesitated between the money and the pistol, but this was something I couldn't tell her.

I did want to run away, for good, but we were no longer children.

With a beautifully peaceful, circular motion she wrapped the scarf around her neck, waiting for me to say something, and because I didn't, she pulled on her cap, too, and just looked at me.

I couldn't tell her not to come, and against my will I squeezed out the words, Come on; if I hadn't said that, my decision would have become meaningless even for myself.

Thoughtfully she looked me over, not just my face, and said I was pretty stupid not to wear a cap and where were my gloves; I said I didn't care; she purposely didn't put on her gloves and gave me her hand.

I grasped the small warm hand, and we had no choice but to get started.

She was marvelous for not asking any more questions, for not asking anything, for knowing exactly what she had to know.

Walking along Felhó Street, hand in hand, there was no need to say anything; our hands were talking excitedly, about something entirely different, naturally enough; when one hand feels the warmth of the other and finds its place inside the other, it's a good sensation, but also unfamiliar, and the palm gets a bit scared; then, with little squeezes, the fingers come to help, and the reluctant muscles of the palm relax into the soft frame of the other palm, fit into its dark shelter, and that seems so right that with great relief the fingers clasp each other, closely entwine; but this poses a further complication, because the very pressure of the hands keeps them from feeling what they really want to feel.

The fingers should be completely relaxed to the point of having no will of their own; they should just be, wanting nothing, and they should be allowed to stay entwined; but then a light, playful curiosity surfaces from the fingertips: what's it like to touch, to stroke, to want to feel, and yes, to want the tiny little cushions of that other palm, to go down into the little valleys created by the clasping fingers and in gentle brushings against and cautious retreats from the skin to explore the other hand, until slowly and gradually these contacts are transformed into a firm grip; and then I was deliberately squeezing her hand hard, pressing her into myself, let her ache, too; and she cried out — but of course it wasn't too serious— just as we began the steep climb up Diana Road.

We didn't look at each other after that; we wouldn't have dared.

Hands is what we were then, because it seems that the pain was serious, after all; offended and hurt, her hand wanted to pull out of mine, but my gentleness wouldn't let it, and with diminishing force we glided down from the peak of her little pain to a quiet reconciliation, which was so final that all previous struggle and play lost their meaning.

We continued on Karthauzi Road, and though I had no set route in mind, I led her instinctively and confidently in a direction I felt proper, which would take us to my uncertain, distant destination, which I'd picked out with a rather childish self-assurance; still, I don't regret my impulsiveness; but for her hand, the feeling that we could not change the situation would have paralyzed me; if I had been alone, if her hand hadn't forced me to take responsibility for my impulsive, senseless adventure, I would certainly have turned back at some point, the remembered warmth would have lured me back to the place whither, in my right mind, I could never have returned; but with her hand in mine, there was no turning back; and now, as I reminisce and follow the two of them with my sentences, I can only keep nodding like an old man: yes, let them go on, good luck to them; their foolishness, I must admit, is very dear to me.

Above us, on the still snowy embankment, two lit-up but nearly empty cars of the cogwheel train passed by; only a few people were trudging along the road, meaningless shadows of the world we had left behind.

We carried our shared warmth in our clasped hands. When the two hands rested motionless in each other for a little too long, it seemed, not only because of the cold but also because of having grown used to each other, that one hand began to lose the other; it was time to change position, but carefully, so the new hold wouldn't upset the peace and calm of the old one.

At times our two hands fit so well, found such a natural and balanced position, that it was hard to tell which one was mine or where exactly was hers, whether I was holding hers or the other way around, which caused the vague fear that I might lose my hand in hers, a fear that then became the reason for shifting position.

The strange shadows were gone, we were alone; the crunching of our hurried, perhaps too hurried, steps echoed into the ill-lit road, into the darkness the moonlight conjured out of the bare trees; we heard dogs barking, sometimes in the distance, sometimes close by; in the air — so cold that the fine hairs in our noses froze with every breath, a very pleasant sensation — we could smell the acrid smoke of chimneys; on the left side of the road, in the gardens below, snow was glimmering in large patches; the smoke was coming from these mostly darkened villas.

There was a full moon that night, and walking up the Swiss Steps we came face-to-face with it; there it was, glowing at the top of the steps, as if its motionless round visage had been waiting just for us.

This interminably long set of steps confused our hands; on the flat road our steps had automatically assumed a harmonious rhythm, but now either I pulled her or she pulled me, and it wasn't even the stairs disrupting the rhythm, for we still managed to stay together on them, but the interim landings; every third stair was followed by a landing that took four steps to cross; on one of these, in the middle of taking the four flat steps — I was actually counting them — she asked me where I wanted to go.

She didn't ask where we were going but where I wanted to go, and asked it as if the question were part of her heavy breathing, and therefore the wording didn't seem crucial, so I didn't have to stop.

To my aunt, I said.

Which wasn't quite true.

But luckily she didn't ask me anything else, and we kept climbing the stairs, still not looking at each other, which was just as well.

Perhaps a half hour went by, and when we reached the top we looked down, as involuntarily one always does from the top.

And as we did, to see how far we had come, our faces brushed against each other, and I could see that she wanted to know, but I had nothing to say, or rather, it would have been too complicated to tell her, and then, both at once, we let go of each other's hand.

I started walking, she followed me.

Rege Street is mildly steep here; I quickened my pace, fleeing from having to explain things; and then, after a few steps taken in this state of nervous estrangement, she reached out her hand to me.

She reached after me because she already knew, and I could feel it from her hand, that she would leave me, and my hand did not want to make her stay, it wanted to let her go.

We kept walking on the treeless hilltop, past the hotel's long wire fence, and where the fence ended, the city's last lamppost waited for us with its yellow light in the blue darkness, as if illuminating thé outer limits of our possibilities; the road ended there, only a trail led farther, nothing but a few lonely oaks and sparse shrubs; and after we left this last yellow light behind us, I sensed that at any moment my hand might let go of hers.

We walked on like this for another half hour, maybe a little less.

We were inside the deep Wolf Valley, whose high rims were covered with untouched, bluish snow; snow crackled and crunched under our feet; and there it finally happened.

She stopped; I immediately let go of her hand, but she held on to my open palm and looked back at me.

She kept looking, but could not see what she wanted to see, couldn't see the lights we had left behind; we were deep inside the valley.

She said I should go back with her.

I said nothing.

Then she let go of my hand.

She said I should put on her cap, but I shook my head; it was silly, but I didn't want to wear a red cap.

Then at least I should take her gloves, she said, and pulled them out of her pocket.

I took them from her and put them on; they were knitted woolen gloves, nice and warm, and red, but that I didn't mind.

This frightened her, and she started begging and pleading; it wasn't for her sake but for her parents', and no, it wouldn't be a sign of weakness; she said all sorts of things, speaking quickly and quietly, but the valley snapped up even these tiny sounds.

The echoing sounds made me shiver, and I felt that if I let a single sound escape me and it echoed like that, I'd have to turn back myself.

She was scared, she said, scared to go back alone; I should walk her back a little way.

A little way, way, said the valley quietly.

Quickly I started off, to continue, to make her stop talking, but after a few steps I stopped and turned around; perhaps like this, from here, it might be easier for both of us.

We stood like that for a long time, from the distance we couldn't see each other's face anymore, it was much better this way.

For me it was better if she went back, yes, to let her go, and perhaps she sensed that for me it wasn't at all a bad thing if she went back; she began to turn away, slowly, and then she turned around completely and began to run; she was sliding on the snow, looked back and ran, and then I kept looking at her for as long as my eyes saw what they wanted to see; maybe she turned around again, or stopped, or walked faster, or ran, a dark little spot hovering over the blue snow, until she disappeared altogether, though I still seemed to be seeing her.

For a while I still heard her steps in the snow, and then I only thought I heard them; they were no longer footsteps but the cold breeze fingering branches, echoes of creaking, snapping sounds, secret crackles; still, I wouldn't move from my spot, waited for her to be gone, walking her back in my mind, away from here, wanting her to disappear completely.

A tiny, cold scraping in my throat still hoped she'd turn around; and if she did, then she should reappear just about… no, not yet; now, now the little spot should appear! but nothing did.

And I was glad I was rid of her, because this did not mean that I'd lost her, on the contrary, this way I'd possess her for good, precisely because I had the strength to stay alone.

The road was waiting, and I did take it, though I don't think it would make much sense to describe the details of my flight.

My foolishness had me believe that I was the story, and this bleak cold night merely its setting, but in fact my real story played itself out almost independently of me or, more precisely, occurred parallel to my own little adventures.

It was eight in the evening when we'd left home, I remember hearing the church bell, and it must have been a little before ten when she got home, just about the time I left behind the cliffs of Ordőgorom and reached the wide plain that starts at the foot of the mountain; I was glad to see the dim lights of Budaörs, which were far away, but it wouldn't be hard to stay on course in their direction.

I found out later that she sneaked into her room unnoticed, threw off her clothes, slipped into bed, and was almost asleep when they discovered her; they turned on the light, started yelling at her, but not wanting to give me away, she said she'd had a headache and gone out for a walk; then she started to cry, her mother slapped her, and she was so afraid of what might happen to me that she told them.

By then I had reached Budaörs via a long, dark, winding road that was hardly more than a pass, very like an unpaved trench, with frozen cart tracks; tall thickets on either side gave some protection, and it seemed warmer there than in the open field, but also spookier, because I never knew what might be lurking around the next bend, and also because I kept thinking I was going in the wrong direction, and by way of consoling and encouraging myself I decided that if I did reach the distant lights I'd pay for a night's lodging somewhere, I had the money, or simply ask to be allowed in for the night, but reaching the first village houses brought no relief, because a dog dashed out from one of them, an ugly, frostbitten mutt with a stringy stump for a tail, and it kept following me, yapping and snapping, with every step I took I had to kick so it wouldn't get at my pants; it kept baring its teeth, snarling and yelping, and that's how we passed by the village inn, where they were just pulling down the shutters; two women and a man gave me a long stare, wondering why the dog was following me like that, it looked suspicious to them; and I quickly gave up the idea of looking for lodging there.

In the meantime, Livia's father put on his coat and went over to my house.

It must have been around midnight when I left the village and when Livia's father rang our bell.

With its legs spread wide apart, the dog stood barking away, in the middle of the street leading out of the village, which sloped slightly, while all around us the crisp outlines of silent hills were etched against the shimmering sky; I realized the dog had stopped following me, wouldn't snap at my legs anymore, and I was safe, I was all alone, incredibly happy to be able to breathe freely; as the barking turned into a long, soft whine behind me, I marched out of the village so jauntily that I even forgot how cold I was, and of course the excitement and the walking were warming me up a little.

At home they were waiting for the ambulance to take Mother to the hospital.

Livia's father was standing in the hallway, telling them what had happened, when the ambulance arrived; János went with Mother so Father could stay home and call the police.

Having lost track of time, I kept dragging myself along the silent road and didn't even realize that what I now wanted to hear, with all my young and immature being, was the sound of an approaching car, which first I thought I'd flag down and, whatever its destination, ask for a lift, but since I was afraid to do that, I got off the road, stepped into a ditch, into ankle-deep snow, and waited for it to pass.

It zoomed by and I thought they hadn't noticed me, but then I heard the screeching of brakes, of wheels, and the car spun around on the slippery road, banged against the shoulder that was slightly higher than the road, and, rebounding, slid into a stone marker; the engine stopped, the lights went out.

After the sounds of screeching, skidding, and banging, there was a split second of silence, then the two front doors flew open and two dark coats were running toward me.

I tripped and slid down the side of the ditch, and then started running on the frozen ground of a snowy meadow, spraining my ankle in the effort.

They grabbed me by my coat, near my neck.

You little motherfucker, you; almost wound up in that ditch because of you!

They twisted my arm behind my back; they both held on to me as, pushing and shoving, they dragged me to the car; I didn't protest.

They threw me on the back seat — bash your head in if you so much as move! — and had a hard time starting the car, so they kept up their swearing the whole way, but it was so nice and warm inside, my body tingled, and in this tingling softness and with the droning engine, the swearing slowly receded and I fell asleep.

It was getting light when we stopped in front of a big white building, they showed me the dent on the bumper — they're not gonna be the ones to pay for it, that's for sure, and they'll teach me not to fall asleep at a time like this.

They took me upstairs and locked me in a room.

There I tried to pull myself together; I wanted to think up a story I could tell, but I had to rest my head on the table.

For a while the table felt too hard, I tried to cushion it with my arm, but that was also too hard, and then it turned soft.

A key turned in the lock, I must have fallen asleep, after all; a woman in uniform stood in front of me, and behind her, out in the corridor, I saw my grandfather.

In the taxi, just as we made the turn from Istenhegyi Road to Adonisz Road and drove past the high fence of the restricted zone, he told me what had happened during the night; it was as if not a single night but several years had passed in the interim.

It was a bright morning, everything was melting and dripping in the sunlight.

Mother's bed was covered with a striped bedspread, as it had been years ago, before she got sick.

The way it was covered made it feel as though she no longer lived here.

And my feeling did not deceive me, for I never saw her again.

Description of a Theater Performance

Our poplar tree was holding on to its last leaves, which had to turn their deathly yellow before they could fall; they rustled in the breeze— too slight to disturb the arching branches, which merely trembled now and again — twirled and twisted on their short stems, bumping into one another.

It was sunny outside and the flickering, twisting spots of pale yellow made the distant sky even bluer; you could see deep into the mistless blue, as though eyes could distinguish between far and near and one weren't staring into a void that ended somewhere only because it wasn't infinitely transparent.

It was pleasantly warm in the room, the fire humming quietly in the white tile stove, and with our slightest move the smoke of our cigarettes sank and rose in thick, sluggish layers.

I was sitting at his desk in his comfortably wide armchair — he always let me have this special corner of his room — working on my notes, which really meant that while staring out the window through the softly curling layers of bluish smoke, I was trying to recall what had happened during rehearsals the day before, superimposing image on image.

There are gestures and words the meaning and motives behind which we comprehend all at once, and we also notice the minute irregularities that at the moment of occurrence may seem contingent and accidental, cracks and chasms of imperfections that separate the player from the play, the actor from his role, and that the actors, in accordance with the strict rules of their craft, would somehow like to bridge, as if to eliminate the sad truth that total fusion, total identification, does not exist, even if it is the ultimate desire of many a human endeavor.

Already while jotting down my notes, which I was doing rather mechanically, I had realized that the principle I was really interested in, if there was a principle, was to be found not in the obvious, logical unfolding of events, in describable gestures and meaningful words — although these were very very important, for they embody human events — but rather in the seemingly contingent gaps between the words and gestures, in these irregularities and imperfections.

He sat a little farther away, typing steadily, lifting his fingers from the keys just long enough to take a quick drag on his cigarette; he couldn't have been writing a poem, for the typing was too even and uninterrupted for that, perhaps it was a script for one of his radio programs, though this wasn't likely either, because I never saw him bring home notes or papers from the studio or take anything back with him from home; he moved empty-handed between the two main locations of his life, as if deliberately isolating one from the other; his legs stuck out from under the table, which must have made for discomfort in sitting, but this way the streak of sunlight slanting in from the tall window could warm his bare feet.

And when he felt I was staring out the window too long, he said, without looking up, that we ought to wash the windows.

His toes were long and as attractively articulated as his slender fingers; I liked pushing my fist gently into the arch of his foot and with my tongue touching each toe, feeling the sharp edge of each nail.

I never took notes right after a rehearsal; I waited until late in the evening or, if I managed to get up early, the next morning; to see more clearly the source of, and reason for, the effect a given scene had on me, to gain a better perspective on it, I had to free myself from the effect itself.

I didn't answer him, though the idea of a joint window cleaning did appeal to me.

This note-taking began as a kind of idle diversion, a solitary mental exercise which often filled me with guilt, especially when riding home in the crowded city train, jostled by grim throngs of commuters; I would often think I was enjoying the privileges of the intellectual elite and decide I simply had to stop playing the observer condemned to inaction and should at least try to profit from the bitter fact that for several years I'd been not an active participant in so-called historical events but rather their pathetic victim and in this sense a part of the faceless crowd— significant or insignificant, it hardly mattered which — an alien, self-hating element, maybe just a giant eye with no body to go with it; yet when this mental exercise became a regular routine it did have an effect on my daily life.

On casually filled pages, out of comprehensible and therefore not wholly uninteresting notes, the picture of a performance in preparation began to emerge; thus, without my noticing the changes occurring within me, I found myself so deep within the labyrinth of my uncertain and risky undertaking, allowing me to experience vicariously the lives of a group of strangers, that it was no longer just a personal obsession to describe the performance down to its minutest details, every word and gesture, each latent and overt connection, to follow the process of realization, to become its chronicler, to respond to their work with my own, which, after all, is the indispensable condition of human fellowship, but within the small community whose activities my notes hoped to follow I also found a place for myself, however peripheral, a role to be played that gave me the joy of having an identity, if only in relation to the people in that theater.

It was Sunday morning, a day of rest, and since it was his turn to make lunch, every once in a while he would kick the chair out from under him, go into the kitchen, come back, and resume banging on his typewriter.

I seem to remember dropping a remark to Frau Kühnert about my notes, which she mentioned to Thea, who, in her usual overeagerness, must have passed on to the others, for I began to notice that they were more cautious with me, indeed took precautions, trying to talk to me differently, more coherently and confidentially, as if they each wanted to shape the image I'd create of them.

I asked him what he was writing.

His last will, he said.

The truth is, I hadn't noticed how deeply I was being affected by the seemingly insignificant and uneventful times we spent together, by his place not merely being familiar but becoming a home, and that I no longer asked what home meant but thought I knew.

He asked me what I was thinking about.

It was quiet — I didn't remember when but at some point he had stopped typing, which meant he had been staring at me staring out the window at the tree and the sky.

As I turned to him and told him I wasn't thinking about anything, I could tell from his eyes he'd been watching me for quite some time; a smile had gathered on his mouth.

You must have been thinking about something, at least about nothing itself, he said, chuckling a little.

No, really, I wasn't thinking of anything, just watching the leaves.

It was true, I wasn't thinking of anything worth formulating in words, and in any case, one doesn't think in thoughts; it was a pure sensation to which I was yielding unconditionally, without thinking, with no tension between the peaceful sight and my body's comfortable position, between perception and the perceived object, and this is what he must have noticed on my face, body and soul in a state that might even be called happiness, but his question made this sensation rather fragile, and I felt it needed protecting.

Because what he'd been thinking, he continued, was that I might be thinking of the same thing, which was that maybe we should stay like this for good.

How did he mean that, I asked, as if I hadn't understood.

The smile vanished from his lips, he withdrew his searching glance from my face, lowered his head, and, pronouncing the words with difficulty, as if we had exchanged roles and now it was he who had to speak in a foreign language, he asked if I had ever thought of the two of us in this way.

Some time had to elapse before I managed to utter the word that in his language makes a deeper, throatier sound: yes.

He turned his head away and with a delicate, absentminded motion raised the paper in the typewriter, and I looked out the window again, both of us being silent and motionless: as fervent as our shyly voiced confessions had been, so charged with fear was the silence that followed— one would want to hold back one's breathing in this kind of silence, even the beating of one's heart, which is why one hears it and feels it all the more.

He asked me why I hadn't mentioned it before.

I said I thought he'd feel it anyway.

It was good to be sitting far from him and not to look at him, since a glance or physical proximity might have shattered what we had, yet the situation was becoming dangerous because something final and irreversible would have to be said; the sharp beam of sunshine streaming through the window seemed to raise a wall between us through which the words would have to pass; addressing the other, we were each talking to ourselves; we seemed to be sitting in our separate rooms in the shared warmth of our single room.

If I had thought about this before, he pressed on, how was it that it had occurred to him only now?

That I didn't know, I said, but it didn't matter.

After a short while he got up, but didn't kick the chair out as was his wont, rather he pushed it gingerly out of the way; I didn't look at him and I don't think he looked at me, and he was careful not to cross the beam of light that was now a wall between us as without a word he left for the kitchen, and judging by the weight and rhythm of his steps he was walking in order to reduce the tension generated by our words but, not letting down his guard, taking his caution along with him.

And the cozy, familial silence became more significant than the allusive words wrapped softly in silence and suppression, because the words alluded to something final, to the possible end of our relationship, while the wrapper of silence alluded to circumstances known to both of us that, contradicting the meaning of our precisely and reticently spoken words, denied the very possibility of an imminent end, and the fact that we could communicate in a language of allusions whose aesthetics we could share gave the impression, at least to me, that of the two options the possibility of our continued relationship was stronger; I think he remained more skeptical and cautious.

As soon as he left the room, I was overcome by a strange, humiliating restlessness; my movements became independent of me, the compulsion to move and at the same time to restrain movement made me play out, in the covert and overt language of gestures, the emotional struggle unexpressed in our dialogue: I couldn't take my eyes from the poplar tree, kept fidgeting and scratching — all of a sudden every part of me felt like getting out of there, I was itching all over — rubbing my nose and smelling my fingers, sniffing the nicotine on the skin, I didn't light up, though I'd have liked to, in irritation I flung my pen on the desk as no longer needed, but right away started groping for it in the pile of papers, picked it up again, kept pressing and twirling it, hoping it would help me get back to my notes, though at this point I couldn't have cared less about those idiotic notes; I wanted to get up, to see what he was really writing, what sort of last will it was, but I stayed put, didn't want my changing of place to disturb the stillness of some unknown possibility, felt I had to protect something I would be better off getting over, something I should somehow evade or wriggle out of.

That's when he came back, which immediately reassured me, being on the alert, waiting eagerly to see what else might happen, what else there was in us to be said out loud, to be known only when actually spoken or soon thereafter; but my new calm was only a grotesque mirror image of the earlier restlessness, since I still couldn't turn to him — I wasn't calm enough — wanting him to believe that nothing had changed in me while he was gone.

The soft patter of his bare feet betrayed the tiny change that had taken place in him, not hesitation or kind consideration, as he had shown earlier, but increased attentiveness, an absorption in his own quickening footsteps, perhaps an objectivity he'd gained in the kitchen when with the help of a dishcloth he lifted the lid off the pot of cauliflower cooking in its salt water; the water had come to a violently bubbling boil, the steam hit his face, and though the cauliflower seemed soft enough, he nevertheless took a fork from the drawer and carefully poked it to make sure that the white rose-like heads did not fall apart — with this kind of cauliflower, if it is overcooked, that can easily happen — and only after that did he turn off the gas under the pot; sitting in his room I'd heard or thought I heard, seen or imagined I saw, every move he made, and in his footsteps I sensed that these routine gestures had taken back some of that emotional effusion which in me had rather unpleasantly intensified.

He stopped behind my back and lowered his hands to my shoulders; he did not hold my shoulders but simply let the weight of his hands rest on them; I felt not the slightest tension in his muscles, no body weight was communicated through his hands, which made the gesture rather friendly but guarded, too.

I leaned back and looked up at him; that palm-size area on my skull that so enjoys the caressing softness of another's hand — a spot not sufficiently appreciated for its sensitivity — was touching his belly; he looked down at me, smiling.

What's going to happen to us? I asked.

Now he did grip my shoulders just a little, squeezing some of his strength into me; Nothing, he said.

Just enough strength to take the edge off the meaning of that word.

This area of the skull with its peculiar nature is called the fontanel in an infant, and even after the bones fuse and harden, the spot continues to respond to stimuli as sensitively as if it were still a piece of throbbing purple-veined tissue, in some respects even more sensitively than our sense organs, because it seems to specialize in reacting exclusively to either friendly or hostile stimuli, perceiving them with unerring accuracy; I wanted to be aware of, wanted to feel, this area of my skull, and I pressed the spot against his stomach with the same force with which he was grasping my shoulders.

Articulating his words carefully, he said I had to understand, and I certainly mustn't misunderstand, that it was no accident, could not be construed an accident, that until now I'd kept my thoughts to myself about what we mentioned earlier; but he wouldn't want to tell me how to lead my life, wasn't taking back what he'd said before, either, which would be silly; he wouldn't want to influence me in any way.

Looking up at him I laughed, and said I had to laugh, because if he really meant that, then he should have behaved differently from the beginning.

The smile moved from the corner of his eyes back to his mouth; for a while he stared into my eyes, then, across the back of the chair, he pressed me to himself.

It was too late, he said.

For what? I asked.

Just too late, he repeated, his voice deeper.

The position of our bodies, with him looking at me from above and with me looking up at him, as the fragrance of his voice reached me with his every word, seemed to give him more security.

What did he mean, I asked, he had to tell me.

He couldn't tell me.

His white shirt was open to the waist, the gentle warmth his skin exhaled on me was like a memento, its odor containing at least as many meaningful particles as a word or an intonation, a gesture or a glance, except, unlike sight or hearing, smell works in our minds with more insidious and mysterious signals.

He didn't want to tell me, I said.

That's right, he didn't.

Very gently, I peeled his arms away, but now he leaned closer, gripping the armrest of the chair, so the wings of his unbuttoned shirt touched and enclosed my face; in this position our faces came very close, although I would have wanted not his body to speak but his mouth, for him to say not with his body but with his mouth the opposite of what his mouth would have said and what he couldn't say with words.

And so as not to comply with this impossible demand, he kissed my mouth, angrily almost, and I let him, couldn't do otherwise, and in the soft warmth of his lips, under their hard little grooves, my lips did not move.

I should go on with my work, he told me, and he'd have to finish his, the meaning of his kiss now matching that of his words earlier, both intended as a conclusion.

He wouldn't get away so easily, I said as he was about to walk away, and held on to his hand.

It's no good insisting, he said, much as he would like to tell me, and I must understand that he really did, he couldn't help himself, didn't want to know what the next moment would be like, didn't want to know, wasn't interested, that's the way he was, it would make him sick if we started talking seriously about this, and what did I want from him? should we chat about rearranging the apartment? or should we, now there's an idea, go to City Hall and declare our serious intentions? we'd be a great hit with that! perhaps we should plan for a nice little future together? let this be enough, what we had, why wasn't it enough for me that he was happy, all the time I was with him he was happy? he'd say it, if I wanted to hear it, but that's all there was, he couldn't do more, and I shouldn't spoil things.

All right, but he had wanted more before, he'd wanted something else; he talked differently, not like this, why was he taking it back now?

He wasn't taking back anything, that was only my hangup.

I told him he was a coward.

Maybe, maybe he was.

Because he never loved anybody and nobody ever loved him.

Talking like that wasn't exactly attractive.

I couldn't live without him.

With him, without him — these were idiotic phrases, but what he was telling me just a few minutes ago was that he couldn't either.

Then what did he want?

Nothing.

He pulled out his hand from under mine, a movement that perfectly matched his last word; he walked away, to return to what may have been the only secure spot left for him in this room, his typewriter, back to the task that he'd set for himself and that he had to complete, but in the middle of the room he stopped, under the slanting sunbeam, his back to me, and now he, too, looked out the window, up at the sky, as if enjoying the warmth of the light, basking in it, and through the white shirt I could see the outlines of his slender body, whose fragrance was still with me.

And in that fragrance was the memory of the night before, and in that memory all the morning-after recollections of all previous nights.

And in the night, the glimmering darkness of the bedroom, and in the darkness the luminous spots of closed eyes, and in the flashing, flickering patches of light the smell of the coverlet, the sheets, the pillows, and in them, too, signs of what had gone on before: the chill of the room being aired, and in the hot, dry clouds of foaming detergent and steaming iron, his mother's hand.

And under the covers our bodies, and in our bodies our desire for each other, and in the afterglow of sated desire our sprawled bodies on the crumpled bedding, the skin, the vapor of the skin pores, and in the pores the moisture of secretions, the cooling perspiration settling in body hair, the pungent sweat in curves and bends, the smell of vehicles, offices, and restaurants trapped in the tangled strands of wet hair, and in the accumulated smells of the city the sea-salt taste of odorless semen, the bitter taste of tobacco in sweet saliva, food dissolving in saliva in the warm cave of the mouth; decaying teeth, and scraps of meat, fruit skins, and toothpaste stuck between the teeth, and from the depth of the stomach, alcohol reverting to yeast, the cooling fervor of the body in the solitude of sleep, and the fluids of dreams' indefinable excitements, the cool awakening, bracing water, soap, mint-scented shaving cream, and, in yesterday's shirt flung on the back of the chair, the day that's just past.

All right, then, I said, at least now there'll be something we won't be able to talk about, I like that.

Oh, I should shut up.

A little girl was yelling in the courtyard, calling her mother, who of course didn't hear her or didn't want to, and I envied the little girl, perhaps because she was born here and therefore didn't have to leave, or for her desperate and innocent stubbornness, with which she refused to accept being ignored; her high-pitched shouts became more and more hysterical and nerve-racking, then stopped as suddenly as if somebody had strangled her, and only a bouncing ball could be heard.

He sat down at his desk and I knew I mustn't look at him anymore, for he was getting ready to speak, and if I looked he might not.

I picked up my pen and found the last word of my manuscript; it was on page 542, which is where I'd have to continue.

He hit a few keys; in the silence we decidedly missed the little girl's screams, I had to wait until he typed a few more lines when, just as I'd expected, he began to fill the silence, speaking softly, saying we had two months left, and I couldn't possibly be serious about not going home.

I kept staring at the image evoked by the two last words on the paper— "empty stage" — and asked him why he was so damn defensive, what was he afraid of? a question that of course couldn't hide the fact that I could not or would not give him a straightforward answer.

He'll keep in mind what I just said, he continued, as one who'd finally hit upon tangible proof of my true intentions, won't forget it and will try to live with it.

With malicious pleasure we eyed each other from across the shaft of sunlight separating us; he was smiling triumphantly at having exposed me, and I borrowed some of his smile.

Then I'll come back, I said, without being in the least sarcastic, because I didn't want to let him off the hook.

I'd find the apartment empty, then, since I should know by now he had no intention of staying in it.

Idle fancies, I said, how could he possibly leave this place?

Maybe he wasn't as much of a coward as I thought he was.

So he had been making plans for a nice little future, except not with me.

To be frank, he had been planning something; he was going to vanish before my departure, so I'd have to leave without saying goodbye.

A wonderful idea, I said — maybe it was his smile, flashing ever more sharply from his eyes with every spoken word, or maybe it was the fear or joy evoked by this smiling emotion bordering on hatred, but I found myself laughing out loud and saying, Congratulations.

Thanks.

Grinning, we looked into each other's eyes, distorted by grinning, a look that we couldn't escape, so ugly we couldn't make it worse either.

It was odd that he didn't seem ugly and distorted to me as much as I did to myself, seeing myself with his eyes.

There was nothing remarkable about this moment, hour, or day, it was like all the others we'd spent together, except this was the first time we had put into carefully chosen words what we had been looking for ever since that evening when, led there by fate, we wound up sitting next to each other at the opera, although what we felt as so extraordinary that evening kept on presenting and formulating itself always as if for the first time; perhaps one might say that what we were looking for in each other was the ultimate in feeling at home, and every word and gesture seemed to be a form of new discovery in the course of our search, but we couldn't possibly find what we were looking for, because the true home of our longing was the search itself.

It was as though we were trying to deepen and somehow make permanent an already extreme emotion, a bond which can and does exist between two human beings but with which there is not much more that can be done, and perhaps the reason was, as he once had tried to explain, that we were both men, and the law of the sexes may be stronger than those of individual personalities; at the time I wasn't ready to consider or accept this, if only because I felt the freedom of my individuality was at stake, my selfhood.

That first moment encompassed all our subsequent moments, which is to say that in all that followed something of that first moment persisted.

As he stood with his French friend in the dimly lit lobby of the opera house, in the midst of the milling theatergoers on the stairs, I felt I knew him, and knew him from long ago, not just him but everything about him: not just his well-cut suit, his loosely knotted tie, his tiepin, but also his casually dressed friend, and even the relationship that so clearly bound them together, although at the time I had only the vaguest notion of what a love relation between two men might be like; yet the sense of familiarity gave the meeting a quick lightness, an inexplicable closeness we feel only when everything seems so natural that we ask no questions, just let down our guard and don't even know what is happening to us.

When he slipped out of Thea's embrace, which his friend obviously found too effusive and not at all to his liking, we shook each other's hand, not any differently than any two people would in such circumstances; I told him my name and he told me his, while I heard his friend introducing himself to Frau Kühnert and Thea — in the manner of a tough guy, giving only his double first name, Pierre-Max — repeating it twice in succession; only much later did I find out that his family name was Dulac.

After that handshake we didn't pay much attention to each other, yet the inner compulsion of our feelings so shaped the situation that while walking up the red-carpeted gleaming white staircase — I was conversing with his friend and he was chatting with Frau Kühnert and Thea — we seemed to be steering each other with our shoulders; though our bodies did not touch, from that moment on they became inseparable, they wanted to stay close to each other, that's how they proceeded up those stairs, our bodies doing their job so assuredly that we didn't have to pay special attention to our closeness, which was neither surprising nor controllable, setting itself immediately on the right course, with aims and possibilities of its own — about which, as it turned out later, only I had certain misgivings — so he was free to go on chatting without having to look at me, and I didn't have to look at him either, because by then I had gained so much confidence from being close to his body and to its fragrance that I could also converse freely with the young Frenchman walking on my left.

But I wouldn't call this a collusive or complicitous feeling, being much darker and deeper; to use an analogy, I'd say it was as if one was arriving in the present after a quick journey from one's own faraway past, and the present is as improbable and dreamlike as a city that at the moment of arrival one moves about in dazed — no, the meeting had none of the excited cheerfulness and joy peculiar to erotically charged little conspiracies, unless it was the much deeper joy of a long-awaited homecoming.

Actually, what made the moment special for me, and perhaps that's the reason I remember it so well, was the stir Thea created, being a well-known and celebrated personality who attracted the audience's curiosity, which was extended to us as well in the form of furtive, sidelong glances, everybody being eager to see, to know, in whose company and with what sort of men the famous actress was making her appearance here, and we, four very different non-celebrities, must have seemed rather unusual, almost scandalous in this formal, overdisciplined setting.

Thea was onstage here, too, playing the offstage role of famous and notorious actress; and let it be said to her credit that with the most economical means she managed to pretend she noticed none of the eager, respectful, sometimes envious and contemptuous glances, since she devoted all her attention to Melchior — behold, this is the man! she declared by her gesture as she leaned lightly on Melchior's arm, rewarding him with almost the same adoring look she was getting from her admirers, and adjusting her own face — bony, Oriental-looking, no makeup — to look just as pretty as her audiences were used to and always expected to see, of course looking for some protection as she gazed with those narrowed, impishly smiling eyes into his, protection to help her stay incognito — make it so she wouldn't have to look anywhere else! no, she didn't want to mind her steps, she'd go anywhere she was led — though all along she was leading him, in her long, tight black skirt slit to her knees, her dainty spike-heeled shoes, her slightly translucent lead-gray silk blouse, more fragile and vulnerable, altogether more shy and modest-looking than she was in any of her other roles.

She spoke in a voice deep and warm with feeling, softly but volubly, her hushed tones keeping the content of her words from the earshot of the curious, spoke only with her mouth, while her smile, perfectly disciplined, mimicked flawlessly the artless mimicking of social banter, smuggling into her act some of the tension we'd left behind in the rehearsal hall, thriftily using her unexpended energies to reduce and deflect the elemental joy and passion evoked by Melchior's mere presence, by the proximity of his body, but however sparing her histrionic means, or because they were so masterfully pared down to perfect proportions, no one could ignore her presence; people stopped, turned, followed her with their looks, whispered behind our backs, clandestinely or quite openly stared into her face, jabbed each other, pointed fingers, the women checking out her clothes, ogling her supple walk, the men affecting cold indifference, imagining kneading her breasts gently or wondering what it would be like to feel her slender waist or slap her shapely round behind; in a word, they all had her; while she was walking up the stairs, seemingly fully absorbed in her man, her audience, each in his or her way according to his or her taste, made as though she were their exclusive property, their lover, their younger sister, and we, too, gained attention, becoming in the spectators' eyes professional extras in this little scene of Thea's procession.

Prompted more by the situation than by genuine curiosity, and feigning ignorance and surprise, I inquired of the lanky, dark, tousled young Frenchman how he happened to be here; we were still walking up the stairs as he leaned over to me with an expression at once friendly, reticent, and condescending, with his surprisingly narrow, flatly cut eyes in which there didn't seem to be much room for the eyeballs to move freely, which is perhaps why his gaze was so rigid and piercing, but what I really wanted to know was what Thea was buzzing so lullingly into the ear of the man whose closeness my shoulder, arm, and side were registering.

The Frenchman answered in perfectly idiomatic though heavily accented German that he didn't live here, at any rate not in this part of the city, but liked to hop over, and did so frequently; our invitation couldn't have come at a better time, because he'd meant to see this performance, but frankly, he didn't quite understand why I was surprised, why shouldn't he be here? for him this world was not nearly so alien as I might think, on the contrary, he felt more at home here than in the western part of the city, for he was a Marxist and a Communist Party member.

The cleverly manipulated rhetoric of his reply, the unmistakably antagonistic edge on his assertion, the touchiness with which he discovered in me a possible adversary, his self-righteous tone, his flippantly insolent though hardly lighthearted demeanor, his rigid and provocative stare radiating both narrow prejudices and something attractive, youthful, combative — all this I found so remarkable that I took up the challenge right away, though a heated political debate in these coolly, lifelessly formal surroundings seemed out of place: teased by contradictory impulses, I had a strong urge to laugh: what kind of drivel was he trying to palm off on me? his statements struck me as a pleasantly irreverent joke might, an impression only intensified by the childishly defiant expression on his handsome face and the animated elegance which another culture gave his appearance, which, judged by local standards, was rather slovenly: a thick, soft, slightly threadbare sweater, not quite clean, a fire-engine-red woolen scarf wrapped twice around his neck and tossed over his shoulder, attire that the gathering audience, scrubbed to the required level of festive cleanliness and therefore looking pitiful and lacking style, scrutinized with such shock and disapproval you could almost hear the indignant groans, but I didn't want to offend him, if only because I, too, scrutinized by the same audience, felt obliged to remain collected, and so I smiled politely, somewhat superciliously, and without bothering to take the sting out of my words replied that he must have misunderstood my surprise, since no rebuke or calling to account was intended and I considered it a privilege to meet him, it was just that in this eastern hemisphere during the last six years — and, I emphasized, for at least six years — I hadn't met anyone who'd call himself a Communist and claim careful personal consideration as the reason for being one.

Just what was I getting at?

With the superior air of a native I said I wasn't getting at anything, but he could check the arithmetic.

If I was referring to the spring of '68, he said somewhat less confidently — I, enjoying my advantage, nodded that that's exactly what I'd had in mind — and he stared into my eyes, waited for me to stop nodding, and then continued all the more vehemently, he did not believe that the lesson to be learned from those events was to give up the struggle.

The ringing, slogan-like phrase issued so innocently from his youthfully soft lips, so engagingly, strongly, and therefore convincingly — Thea was meanwhile vilifying her director to Melchior — despite the implied question of what sort of struggle he was talking about, struggle against whom or what? that I lost the presence of mind for a proper answer, staggered by the humor of the situation, and in the lull, at once comic and serious, I could hear Thea's unceasing chatter — Langerhans would make a splendid ambassador in, say, Albania, or maybe only a good stationmaster somewhere, well, all you had to do was look at him, the way he kept pushing his glasses up and down his pug nose, the way he dug his stubby fingers into his greasy hair, he reminded you of a large sheet of white paper with nice round stamps on it, he could bang away all day with his official-looking stamps, blues and reds and who knows what other colors, but for God's sake he shouldn't be directing! and this was no exaggeration, no joke; Melchior knew the scene, yes, Act III, Scene 2, the one with the privy council, now that scene had become the only one worth watching in the whole production, that awful council session, with six impossible characters sitting around this huge table, he'd had this impossibly long table made especially and picked six of his lousiest actors for this scene, and Melchior could just imagine how much those poor suckers must enjoy doing it, how grateful they were to Langerhans for the opportunity, but that's what made the scene! the way they sat there shuffling their documents and scratching themselves, and stammering, and chewing their nails, Langerhans chewed his nails all the time, too, disgusting! — and these six weren't even eager to go home like everyone else, it made no difference to them, they'd been waiting thirty years for these tiny parts, for thirty years they hadn't understood a thing, and now it was certain they never would, and just try to imagine, but he'll see it for himself, the whole thing was so incredibly, stupefyingly boring you could fall off your chair, and this was the only thing Langerhans could come up with, this boredom, because what a woman was really like or what she could want from a man he hadn't the foggiest, this bloodless theater bureaucrat.

After a slight hesitation the young Frenchman said he was sure we were thinking about and talking about two entirely different things; he was thinking, naturally, about the Paris of 1968 and I, just as naturally, of the Prague Spring.

Or if Langerhans did have the foggiest about such matters, it was bound to be common, indecent, gross, she'd tell Melchior a little story about that, a racy little adventure, actually.

It wasn't the first time he'd encountered this kind of unpleasant, though from a historical perspective quite insignificant skepticism, the Frenchman continued, and he refused to believe that the Russians' clumsy military action could cast any doubt on the incontrovertible truth that this part of the world was the home of socialism, and then he mumbled something irrelevant about ownership of the means of production.

The thing happened between the two of them — she had to blush about it in retrospect — when they finally reached the point of not knowing what to do with each other, and she decided that she was going to tease the man out of Langerhans, wanting to see what he was like, whatever happened.

To me, this kind of demagoguery was at least as amusing as my skepticism was unpleasant for him, and I didn't really think, I said, that he'd be talking about "clumsy military action" if a foreign army had crushed the student riots in Paris.

It was usually mindless aristocrats who referred to revolutions as riots, the Frenchman said.

Just as it was usually obtuse ideologues who believed that the end justifies the means, I replied.

We both stopped on the staircase while they continued on, though Melchior, as if I were holding him back with my shoulder, quickly turned around before taking the next step, and I could see that the Frenchman, however irritated, was still enjoying what I not only did not enjoy but found disgracefully painful, ludicrously unnecessary, having let myself be dragged into a conversation like this in which I wasn't even expressing my own opinion or, rather, was mouthing a fraction of my own nonexistent opinion, since I had no whole opinion, since the all-too-thin membrane of self-discipline had been ripped open by the seething of raw, deeply repressed emotions, by my willful blindness, by something that knows only the language of the senses, which we ought to hide rather than show, and consequently I was angrier at myself than at him, while he seemed to feel so comfortable with his impossibly lanky body and impossible views that he didn't even notice these people staring at him so indignantly, so enviously! people among whom he supposedly felt at home but who saw him with his uncombed hair and dirty red scarf as a buffoon, as a living mockery of their lives and miserable ambitions, though the real clown, I knew, was not he but I.

It seems, he said calmly but testily, that we were speaking in entirely different languages.

It seems that way, doesn't it? I said, but since he felt so at home here, I went on, no longer able or willing to contain my irritation, hadn't it occurred to him that while he could freely come here from the other side of the Wall, we weren't allowed to go over there?

I said this a little too loudly, and the two women stopped, if only because Melchior's arm slipped out of Thea's hand, and they all turned around, Frau Kühnert's eyes flashing with fright behind her thick glasses — careful, they seemed to be saying, every word can be heard — but I couldn't stop, and though I was mortified I went on, he shouldn't be too surprised, I said to him, if our notions of individual freedom made us speak in different languages.

But then Melchior, with schoolmasterly authority, stepped between us, shaking a finger at me in mild admonition: I should be careful, he said, his friend spoke with the words of a Robespierre, a Marat, and of course I had no way of knowing that I was talking to a fearless revolutionary.

Completely frustrated with myself, and with the last breath of my ridiculously envious anger, I said that was precisely the reason I was talking to him.

You mean you're one, too? Melchior asked, cocking his bushy eyebrows in mock alarm and disbelief, having a little fun at his friend's expense.

Why, yes, of course I am, I said, grinning up at him out of my anger.

The common ground we found in the intimately conspiratorial tone of his voice promptly relieved me of my shame, for he well understood my feelings, understood my shame, and knew how to dissolve it, with his understanding drew me to himself, distancing himself from his French friend; because of him I could breathe again.

But now unexpectedly the Frenchman broke into laughter, silent laughter, maintaining his aloofness, standing apart even as he laughed, his aloofness being meant for Melchior: the two of them were no doubt beyond such debates, beyond the point where they could reach a pact or agreement, which itself may have become a pact, but now, regarding Melchior and me, as if he were brushing away the filth of our cynically supercilious common stance and, with it, the disgust we had evoked in him, he waved his hand, dismissing us, shooing us away, rubbing us out of his space, indicating that we were frivolous and irresponsible, unworthy of further debate.

And there was something of a heroic pose in his bearing, in the way he threw back his handsome head and at the same time turned it away from us, while our carriage somehow remained servile despite our shared victory.

And then an old, gray-liveried usher, an apparition from a bygone era, with a look of complete attentiveness fixed on and meant exclusively for Thea, flung open for us the doors of the former royal box.

From there, from a height of nearly four meters, we could look down at the orchestra level with its curving rows of crimson and white seats, at a sea of pink faces, an animated expanse still stirring, rippling, then suddenly coming to rest; beyond the rigidly classical proscenium arch with its Corinthian columns and gilded capitals we could see the huge open stage: under the cyclorama painted steely gray to suggest the dawning of a dreadful day, grimy towers and jagged fortress walls loomed, enclosing a prison courtyard still sunk in the cheerless night; from here, darkly yawning passageways led to an even grimmer world of subterranean dungeons; farther back, in the vaulted caves of barred cells carved into the massive walls, one could sense the shadowy presence of human forms.

Nothing moved, yet everything seemed to be alive: there was a sudden gleam, perhaps the weapon of a guard, and the clang and rattle of chains heard over the peaceful uniform murmur of the audience and the bright flourishes of musicians tuning their instruments; and a little later, way upstage, deep in the impenetrable shadow cast by the brooding towers, the pink of a woman's dress seemed to swish by, and a breeze appeared to be carrying the snatches of a melodious offstage command, and indeed there was a breeze, because whenever a stage this size is open, and before the audience's warm breath has had a chance to heat up the vast space thus created, one can always feel a kind of cool breeze blowing from the stage, smelling faintly of glue.

Inside the empty box we engaged in a silent round of politeness over the seating arrangements; from behind a façade of good behavior and courtesy we were sharply observing one another's complicated intentions, indicated by looks and careful gestures — the task was clear: a hard-fought battle had to be brought to a peaceful conclusion, and it was a matter of no small importance who would wind up where — I would have liked to stay near Melchior, which was his intention, too, but I couldn't separate myself from the Frenchman or he from me, for this would have announced too harshly that we were incompatible not only ideologically but physically, found each other's proximity irritating, unpleasant, even repellent, an emphatic mutual rejection that would have hurt Melchior's feelings, which I didn't want to happen, yet at the same time it was so evident that Pierre-Max and Melchior were a couple and that neither Thea nor I had the courage to come between them, though Thea, who had after all organized this whole theater party because of Melchior, wasn't going to yield her place next to him for anyone, while Frau Kühnert, although seemingly unconcerned for the moment, nevertheless let us know in her diffident and unassuming way that we were all just part of the scenery to her and she wanted nothing to do with us: she was most definitely going to sit next to Thea, no discussion about that, which again put me in an awkward position, because sensing Thea's silent displeasure over my loud, tactless, uncooperative behavior, I'd have liked to end up between her and Melchior so that, without having to give up Melchior, I could also somehow mollify her, but of course this was not viable, since I had no right to separate the two of them.

There it was before us: five chairs made up the front row of the box, and our task seemed to be to take the gently entangled strands of the various relationships and smooth them out according to the positions of these chairs.

Of course, in situations like this it's always the rawest impulses that go into action: self-interest sets the true proportions of feelings for others, sets the sounds of raw feelings ringing out under the silly cover of "consideration," and sets the center of those feelings around the dominant victorious persons: from our cautious and polite movements two deliberate signals emerged, two brief phrases with the appropriate gestures to go with them: Come on! Melchior said in French to his friend, who until then had been watching the awkward byplay like a neutral bystander, Yes, please, please, an annoyed Thea said coolly to me.

And now it was perfectly clear that as much as Melchior might have objected to this meeting, Thea was right, after all, or more precisely, her sixth sense did not fail her when she had insisted on it, for she could insist only on something that Melchior must also have wanted.

It wasn't out of politeness or thoughtful consideration for Thea that Melchior so quickly and unceremoniously gave up being close to his friend but because he was attracted to her; he had to choose, and in choosing he was guided by the realization that he and Thea were the dominant persons here, the rulers, meant to be at each other's side, belonging together.

Thea also had designs on me, romantic ones with the intent of possession; we were both constantly aware of the other, but what between us remained only groping and sniffing teetered on the verge of fulfillment between the two of them; their relationship was by no means as one-sided as Frau Kühnert would have liked me to believe, not to mention that the age difference between them was not twenty years, as she would have it, but no more than ten, which made them a strange couple but not a ridiculous one; either way, the moment they made their decision, it became clear that to their ruling duet we provided only a royal escort and nothing could make me forget this, not even the pleasant discovery that in the ceremonial lineup I was assigned a slightly better position than the Frenchman.

Since I wasn't particularly adept at perceiving the subtler signals sent out by another male, I may have been led astray by Frau Kühnert's emotional revelations, and those streams of attraction I seemed to have sensed with and in my shoulders may have been not for me at all but emanations of Melchior's feelings for Thea; we were both in the same orbit around her.

This is how we finally took our places: the Frenchman, now locked in his silence, took the inside seat, I sat down next to him, with Melchior on my right, then came Thea, followed by Frau Kühnert, who, by the way, was the only one to get everything she wanted.

I was careful not to touch even accidentally Melchior's elbow on the armrest we shared; however, as befits wise rulers, he sensed right away that I was ill at ease in the seat he graciously yielded to me, that depriving the Frenchman of his rightful place gave me no satisfaction, and that I also felt the sting of jealousy on account of Thea; it seemed I laid claim to someone who not only wasn't mine but whom I did not even desire as far as I was consciously aware, yet here I was feeling hurt and jealous, I didn't want to lose her yet I was losing her, she was being snatched from me before my very eyes, and I'd have to compete for her with another man; as if wanting to complicate the already painful situation further, Melchior placed his hand on my knee and, smiling, looked into my eyes for a brief second, during which our shoulders touched, then made a face, withdrew his hand, and, as if nothing had happened, rearranged his smile and quickly turned back to Thea.

With that smile stirring on his lips he was apologizing to me for the unpleasantness of what had just taken place, and this was only an introduction to a deeper meaning of his smile, for he drew me into his huge blue eyes where the smile opened up even more and conveyed to me that the man he was parading here as his friend, his alibi, his protective shield, so he shouldn't be completely at Thea's mercy, that man meant, well, something to him, but nothing serious, I needn't worry or make much of it, and let's consider it settled between us; in other words, with that smile he betrayed his friend, abandoned him, yet managed to dig into me even more deeply, his grimace clearly implying that I should rest assured, yes, this woman was clever and manipulative, she was crazy about him and he found her irresistible, too, when she was being her foxy self, yes, by puckering her shapely lips she was mocking the situation no less than herself, which made her charmingly supercilious, but no reason to get excited about that, either, since he had no intention of seducing her, and let that be settled between us, too, between two men.

Neither his gesture nor his expression could remain unnoticed by the people they were meant for; all the same, his unabashed openness and falseness — because more than at any other later time when lulling my own jealousy I would believe him, at this moment I felt his confession was false — his brusqueness, crude interference, and betrayal made a very unfavorable impression, yet strangely I had neither the strength nor the emotional wherewithal to reject his unbecoming and unethical confidence but I sat there numb and rigid, disgusted by my position, pretending to be looking at the stage but in fact glancing to the left and to the right, like a thief, to see how much of this the others might have noticed, yet truth to tell, enjoying the riskiness of our situation.

My guilty conscience was whispering to me that were I to take seriously his silent communication I'd be stealing him from two people, from someone I didn't know and from someone I'd be deceiving despicably in the process, and my anxiety swelled into alarm — needless, because the Frenchman couldn't have noticed anything, he was leaning forward with his chin on the velvet-covered banister, watching the noisy audience below, and as for Thea, even if she did see Melchior's hand on my knee, she couldn't have found it significant; only Frau Kühnert's look issued a kind of warning: I could go ahead and do what I would, there was no way to escape her watchful eyes, she was there to protect Thea's interests.

Traces of Melchior's smile and grimace stayed with me while I also leaned forward in my chair, wanting to move away from both of them, and put my elbow on the banister; I didn't want to feel the emotional confusion radiating from the warmth of his body, to think he had addressed me with real words in a real voice; his voice seemed to be lost in some echoing space, swirling in a vast, dark, empty hall.

The applause first broke out in the upper gallery, then directly above us, and became thunderous when the conductor appeared in the little door leading to the orchestra pit, sweeping over the orchestra seats, reaching all the rows, and just then the lights went out in the huge crystal chandelier hanging from the heavily ornamented domed ceiling.

His voice was familiar, warm and deep, suggesting strength and self-confidence but also knowing not to take itself seriously, to be playful— not for the purpose of putting on a false front, but to keep a sensible distance — deepening to a good-natured growl; I had no idea where I knew that voice from, and I didn't bother to search my memory or explain why it felt so familiar and close, yet it kept streaming and swirling inside me, ringing, rising, grumbling as if testing its pitch and various ranges within, trying to find its place in the grooves of my brain, looking for the very spot, the nerve cells, the tiny space where its previous utterances were stored, a carefully sealed and, for the moment, inaccessible compartment.

When I had first arrived in Berlin, about two months before this performance, a room had been rented for me near the Oranienburg Gate, in the first corner house on Chausseestrasse, a tiny sublet on the fifth floor of one of those hopelessly grim, gray, and ancient apartment buildings; of course there was no city gate anywhere near, the name alone remained from an old city map, the name of something that history quite literally swept away, knocked off the table and cast into the fire, and if I say grim and gray, I haven't said much, because in that part of the city, at least in the sections where the ravages of war had not destroyed reminders of things as they once had been, this was how all the houses looked, grim and gray, but not without style, provided we do not limit style to mean conventionally decorative but allow that every human construct carries in itself and absorbs into its image the material and spiritual circumstances of the act of building; that is the style of any structure, that and nothing more.

And style includes destruction as well — like building, destroying also forms a continual chain in human history, and wartime destruction, in this district at least, was not quite so complete as in others, where nothing remained standing and where between the brand-new buildings only winds of emptiness blew, since here the cracks could be filled, the skeletons of fire-gutted houses could be fleshed out with new walls, enough stones were standing to offer crude shelter and protection from inclement weather, so it made sense to pile new stones on them, enough remained of the pre-destruction foundations, which were familiar, reliable, and therefore most attractive, and though the walls raised on them, patched up and reinforced, could not duplicate the prewar look, the old streets and squares kept their spatial configurations, the city's former layout, its spirit, was somehow carried over, even if nothing but mere traces could be detected of its lively, ostentatious, at once frugal and lavish, frivolous and grave, energetic and voracious style.

The guts of the old style, the principles of yore, the dead visage of the old order showed through the new style of the façades.

The intersection of Hannoverstrasse, splendid Friedrichstrasse, Wilhelm Pieck Strasse (formerly Alsatian Strasse), and Chausseestrasse, which once had formed a pretty little square, was now in this sad resurrection more dead than alive, nearly always deserted and lifelessly silent, an empty hull of different times piled one on top of another, with only a streetcar rumbling through now and then, in the middle of which an advertising pillar stood, left over from the old days, its belly ripped out by shrapnel; in the filthy plate-glass shop windows, blinded by dust, you could see the clock on the pillar top reflected; its glass cover long smashed in, it defied time by not showing it, or more precisely, it showed time arrested, since it clung to the half past four of a long-ago day.

And down below, under the pavement's thin crust, subway cars rumbled past at regular intervals, their clatter heard and felt under our feet, roaring in and out, their rumble dying away in the deep tunnel, but one couldn't get to these trains, since the stations that had escaped destruction were walled off; in the first few days I didn't know what to make of these unused stations on the little traffic islands along Friedrichstrasse, until Frau Kühnert was kind enough to enlighten me: this particular line, she said, connected western sections of the city and didn't belong to us, that's how she put it, so there was no point looking for them on the new maps, they weren't there; I didn't understand, and Frau Kühnert offered to explain, if I'd be willing to listen: Suppose I lived in West Berlin, I was a westerner, all right? say I got on the train at the Kochstrasse station, the train would pass under here, there was a station right under us; it would slow down, but couldn't stop, and simply pass through this part of the city and wind up in the so-called western sector, where I could get off at the Reinickendorf Station — it was that simple, did I understand better now?

It's our own city that we truly understand; in a strange city, even with the finest sense of direction and a thorough topographical knowledge of the place, street names and locations like east and west remain abstract, the street names conjuring up no images or the images lacking lived experiences, but I did understand — for that I didn't have to be a native — that something was under the streets that really wasn't, or rather, we had to pretend it wasn't, there, something allowed to live only in memories of the city as it used to be, yet part of the entire city's lifeline even today, which meant that it did exist, but only for those on the other side, who couldn't get out at the heavily guarded walled-up stations, if only because phantom trains have no stations, and in this way these people were at least as nonexistent for us as we were for them.

I said I understood almost everything, but why did the trains have to slow down at these nonexistent or, rather, existing stations? why the guards? what sort of guards were these, anyway, from here or from there? and since these stations were sealed off, what were they guarding, and how did they get out at the end of their shift? yes, I did understand, more or less, only I found it less than logical, or the logic of it escaped me.

If I continued to use this sarcastic tone, Frau Kühnert said with a native's offended pride, she wouldn't answer any questions in the future, and that finally shut me up.

And somehow this was also the style of that fifth-floor apartment on Chausseestrasse: as you walked through its ornately carved massive brown doors into the entrance hall the size of a reception room, you could smell the aroma of that same style; the entrance hall was completely empty now, and the darkened parquet floor, its worn-out strips replaced with ordinary plywood, creaked at every step, yet you could easily imagine a lighter, finer creak, muffled by rich Oriental carpets, while under the bright light of chandeliers a buxom chambermaid hastened to the door to let in elegantly attired ladies and gentlemen; plain-floored, winding passageways connecting the kitchen, the servants' quarters, the pantry and lavatory led to the masters' living space — five spacious interconnecting rooms whose elegantly arched windows now looked out on one of those cheerless new façades; I was put up in what used to be the maid's room.

From my window I could see only a dividing wall blackened with soot, so close it kept my room almost completely dark even during the day, and my accommodations could be described as extremely modest: an iron bedstead, a creaking wardrobe, the usual table covered with a stained tablecloth, a chair, and on the wall at least twenty neatly framed diplomas that for some reason had ended up in this room.

If, reclining peacefully on my bed, I stared out the window long enough and let my imagination go, on the map of that black wall I could follow the path of huge flames as they must have swooped down from the burning roof, accompanied by thunderous sounds of crackling, crashing, crumbling, could almost feel the wind, or windstorm, of that day as it was stirred by the fire, the enormous conflagration that left these traces for posterity, for me: protruding, peaked stains, colored by soot, where darting tongues of flame had licked the wall, which survived it all and remained intact.

I tried to consider this tiny room temporary in every respect, and to spend in it as little time as possible; and if it happened that I had nothing else to do, I undressed, climbed into the tub-like bed, plugged up one ear, and stuck the earphone of my small transistor radio into the other so I wouldn't have to hear the noises of people in the other rooms; four small children lived in the apartment, along with their grandfather, their invalid grandmother, their father, who'd come home drunk almost every night, and their pale-complexioned mother, who seemed heartrendingly young next to them, whose fragility, harried look, warmly expressive brown eyes, and feverish energy reminded me a little of Thea, or rather the other way around; it was as if Thea were telling me, in one of her older roles, who she would really be if, just once, she could give a full account of herself.

So I ended up listening to radio programs I never intended to tune in to, didn't really listen to them, but stared out the window, and I can't even say that I thought of anything in particular, simply let my body lie suspended in a rootless, transient state, not wanting it to have memories of its own.

And then slowly, gradually, approaching from afar, a man's voice penetrated my consciousness, still fighting off memories, a deep voice, pleasantly soft, smiling or laughing, which is to say that as the man spoke I could almost sense, almost see, the imperturbable good cheer ruling this unknown face, and after a short while I caught myself listening, not so much to what he said as to how he said it, and wondering who he might be.

He was interviewing a prewar chanteuse, a real old-timer, chatting with her lightly and amiably, as if they were sitting over a cup of coffee and not in front of a microphone, which the old lady had probably forgotten was there, because she kept giggling and gabbing away at phenomenal speed, at times actually cooing as if to a baby, which made their intimate tête-à-tête almost visible; and it wasn't just superficial chatter either, for they interspersed their conversation with old recordings, and the man seemed to know all there was to know about the songs, the circumstances of their recordings, the period that had become so fragmented and became the past, the real subject of their conversation, the vibrant and captivating, frivolous and cruel metropolis whose life was now being evoked by the old woman's girlish giggling and cooing; the man knew everything but never flaunted this, on the contrary, cheerfully letting himself be corrected, friendly little humming and growling sounds indicating his assent, or openly admitting his mistakes, though with certain intonations holding out the possibility that it might be the elderly lady whose memory was somewhat erratic, but again, there was nothing offensive about this, because his gentle, filial affection and scholarly dedication simply embraced and beguiled her; when the show was over and I learned he'd be back again next week, I felt as if all my physical and intellectual needs had been satisfied; I pulled the earphone out of my ear and quickly turned the radio off.

The following week at the same time he did come on again, but to my great surprise he didn't talk at all; in this program famous opera singers sang popular songs, he played vintage recordings of Lotte Lehmann, Chaliapin, and Richard Tauber, and all he did was announce names, nothing more; in spite of my disappointment, this made me happy, for he was modest and became talkative only when making his guests talk, I was hoping he wouldn't spoil the first impression, I wanted him to be consistent.

And he was, but I never heard him again, forgot all about him; one evening I went out to the kitchen, probably to get a drink of water, and the young woman of the house was there, peeling onions — she, too, was away during the day, I seem to remember her saying that she worked in an asbestos factory, and because she had small children she always got the day shift and did her cooking in the evening — so I sat down next to her and we talked quietly, which meant that I was talking and she hesitantly responding, thrusting each word reluctantly out of her mouth, while she went on peeling onions; I went as far as to risk the question whether she'd mind if I took down all those diplomas, just temporarily, while I was using the room.

The knife stopped in her hand, she glanced at me with her warm brown eyes, and for this brief silent moment her face remained so soft and calm that I returned her glance without any suspicion; I enjoyed looking at her, she was beautiful; the only thing I found odd and not quite comprehensible was the way she pulled up her narrow shoulders, as a cat does with its back when getting ready to purr, and at the same time lowered her hand, with the knife in it, into the bowl of water in front of her; she seemed about to break down and cry, or as if her whole body might begin to convulse, but instead, with her eyes closed, she started screaming at the top of her voice directly into my still unsuspecting face, using words that were strangely literary, stilted, complicated, and, for me at the time, mostly incomprehensible, hurling at me all the hurt that people like myself caused her: Who do these people think they are that they can just come here and do as they damn please and push us around, these filthy foreigners, these shitty little Vietnamese and rotten niggers, that she should have to work even on her Communist Sunday off! they don't care, they've got the nerve to come here, they've got the gall, and expect her to clean up their shit! and now they won't even let her be in her own apartment, not for a moment, they stick their tongues into everything, stink up her pots and pans, just what the hell do they think, who are they anyway, and who are we to them? she'd had enough of not knowing where the hell these people came from, not that she cared, she couldn't care less, but they wouldn't even learn that when they shit into the toilet bowl, the fucking brush is there for a reason, to scrub off the shit coming out of their foreign asses.

As soon as she mentioned the Vietnamese and the blacks, I stood up and because I really did want to help her, I would have liked to put my hand on her trembling shoulder in an attempt to calm her, but the mere possibility of physical contact made her body recoil violently, her screaming climbed higher and higher into shrill squeals, and she began groping so frantically for the knife floating in the bowl among the cut-up vegetables that I thought I'd better pull my hand back, and fast; having completely lost my linguistic presence of mind — the words wanted to slip out in my native tongue, and I was literally snatching them back with my tongue — I stuttered, and mumbled that she shouldn't get excited, if she liked I'd move out at once, but my quiet words only added oil to the flames, she kept on screeching, the pitch climbing ever higher; I left the kitchen, she followed me with the knife, and screamed her last words into the blackness of the cavernous hallway.

Inundated by waves of applause, the conductor finally took his place, looked to the right, looked to the left, arched his back, and, as if getting ready to swim, raised his arms into the light beams over the music stands; silence fell on the theater, a warmly expectant silence; onstage cold dawn was approaching.

Leaning very close to the Frenchman, I whispered into his ear: As you can see, we are in prison; in the soft dimness his face remained motionless.

I did catch his surprise, lasting only a split second, before the thunder of the overture's first chords seemed to beat back the surging waves of applause, pound them into us, shatter everything showily theatrical, sweep it all away, silence it, shut it out; the four crashing chords, as the earth split open, seemed to make all our strivings petty and laughable; and then, following a consummate silence, the breath caught at the sight of horror in the gaping abyss was released through the mouth of a clarinet in a soaring melody of longing that began in the depths and rose tenderly, lovingly, yearning for grace, was taken over by gentle bassoons and imploring oboes, still rose, seeking freedom; and though the sigh is thrown back by the craggy walls of the abyss, like a furious thunder, the sigh itself swells, gathers strength, now flows like a river, fills the holes and cracks of evil fate, the whole abyss; but roar and rage as it may, sweep away crags and stones, it is helpless, its strength is that of a mere brook against the powerful force that allowed it to swell, the one that rules it, the one that it can never overcome — until that bugle call; from somewhere, from above, from far away, from outside, the familiar, long-awaited yet unexpected, unhoped-for bugle call is sounded: triumphant redemption itself, the simplest, ludicrously symbolic redeemer, the sound of freedom in which the body can strip itself, as it does with bothersome clothes when making love, down to its bare soul.

When the overture ended I finally felt free to move; until then it would have seemed improper, but now the Frenchman and I leaned back in our chairs at almost the same time; he grinned at me, pleased; we both approved of what we'd just heard, and with this joint approval peace was restored between us; a thin strip of light fell through the openings of the fortress wall — morning — a thin strip of stage sun lit up the prison yard.

Later that Sunday morning we didn't have much to say to each other: Melchior was ashamed of his grin, his little acts of cruelty, and we exchanged a few words when we set the table for lunch, but we ate quietly, studiously avoiding each other's eyes.

We hadn't yet finished our meal, there was still a bit of cauliflower, some mashed potato, and a piece of meat on his plate when the phone rang, and looking annoyed and mumbling under his breath, he dropped his knife and fork, though there was just enough curious anticipation in his quick response, the way he reached back for the phone, pretending to be irritated, to make clear that his grumbling and annoyance were meant for me; he was apologizing to me in advance.

Still, in all fairness, he didn't like it when our meals were interrupted, because eating together was first of all not the taking of necessary nourishment but the performance of a ritual that gave significance to the time we spent together and dignity to our relationship.

I never asked him, or myself, how he ate when I wasn't there, but I don't imagine it was very different; most likely he set the table with the same meticulous care, but probably without making such a point of it, or being so demonstrative, a conclusion I came to after our weekend visits to his mother, in his native town, when during those meals among the old furniture of the dining room, I could sense from each gesture, from the tidiness of the table setting and the manner in which food was served, the several-centuries-old Protestant eating habits — frugal, giving each bite its due — that were second nature with them, a tradition that Melchior not only continued but in my presence deliberately exaggerated with his discriminating fastidiousness; but that Sunday, as we ate in silence, I could observe his movements for the first time, the rhythms of his chewing and swallowing, as if through a keyhole, because we were trying so hard to retreat into and isolate ourselves, not disturb the other with our presence, that we were each in separate and complete solitude, and then it became clear to me that his systematic and elaborate ways, his exaggerated decorum and solemnity, which extended to every meal, indeed to every so-called routine activity, were not so much signs of some affectation whose origin and nature I could not fathom and therefore tended to misunderstand as something meant for me, more precisely for us — the exaggeration being there for extra emphasis, that with his ceremoniousness he was marking the time we spent together, measuring and consecrating it, that with every move he made he was gauging our time, counting back from a terminal point that could be ascertained and calculated to the day, down to the hour; and he wanted to celebrate each moment, make it as festive and as aesthetically pleasing as possible, so that when it was all over between us, in a time beyond the terminal point, each moment could become an easy-to-recall, tangible, usable memory.

A candle was burning in an antique silver candlestick, which he put on the table not only because of its beauty and festive look but to avoid having matches or a lighter on the white damask tablecloth for our afterdinner cigarettes; no mundane object should profane the artificially created flawlessness that meant to shut out this world he felt to be alien and despicable; he put flowers on the table, and we pulled our damask napkins from monogrammed silver napkin rings, he would allow no ordinary wine bottle on the table, and though it was not necessarily good for the wine, before the meal he transferred it into a decorative crystal flask; yet there was nothing stiffly formal about our meals, as one might expect as a consequence of this meticulousness; he ate with gusto, chewing each bite carefully and helping himself to huge portions, and if I left something on my plate he'd polish that off, too, down to the last crumb; and without ever becoming drunk or even tipsy, he guzzled his wine from a tall glass.

It was Pierre on the phone, and after swallowing my last bit of food and looking for an excuse to leave the room so as not to disturb them, I began collecting the dishes; they were talking in French, which had an electrifying effect on Melchior having nothing to do with Pierre's person; I won't deny the possible influence of my jealousy, but at such moments he looked to me a changed man, became eager and ambitious, gave up his natural attractiveness for an acquired casualness, turned into a kind of model student who in hopes of the teacher's praises is willing to sing a whole octave higher than his own range, and while the whole class is in stitches even holds his neck differently so he can pronounce each word properly, pursed his lips, pushed the words out, not so much pronouncing as thrusting them out, kneading them, motivated by the desire to sound as perfect as he can while speaking a foreign language and by the need to find another potential self that only flawless pronunciation and phrasing could coax out of him; seeing him like this made me feel a bit ashamed for him, but also reminded me of similar behavior of my own; he leaned back comfortably, settling in for a long chat, motioned to me to leave his plate on the table and not to take away his glass either.

In the kitchen I arranged the dirty dishes on the table next to the sink but didn't wash them — I wasn't so permissive or magnanimous as to leave them completely to themselves — I could have gone to the bedroom, but didn't, and when I went back, they were still chatting, or more precisely, Pierre was talking for what seemed like a long time, with Melchior listening and smiling and absentmindedly picking crumbs off his plate and licking his fingers.

I opened the window and leaned out, not wanting to understand even the few French words I did catch, but letting him know I was there.

In this game, this ambitious linguistic game of his, in which he tried to raise part of his personality and shift it into a different identity, there was a subtle message for me, but after our conversation earlier that morning, my ears registered its subtleties in a new way.

The more he succeeded in adopting the cadences of the foreign language and losing the intonations and accents of his own, which had eaten themselves into his face, his lips, his throat, his posture, the further he moved from the ease with which one speaks in one's native tongue, which was natural, because one never speaks in perfect sentences or with flawless diction in one's own language but chatters away freely, obeying some strong inner purpose and personal sense of equilibrium, the perfection expressed being rather the innate one of a linguistic community, its infinitely broad yet inviolable consensus; in one's own language even a clumsy sentence includes the extremes of total abandon and strict constraint, freedom within the commonly accepted bondage, and in this sense there's no mistake or false intonation, can be no linguistic error, for every mistake or lapse or false turn is an allusion to something real, a mistake, a falseness; but with him it was different: the more imperfect and unnatural he became in this strange, mimicking perfection, the more perfectly he acted out the message that I, who knew him only in his native tongue and in the gestures and demeanor that were part of it, didn't really know him at all, that he was not to be identified with himself, because here he was, I could see for myself, capable at any moment of this kind of metamorphosis, and I shouldn't trust the person I thought I knew, he was two different persons with two different languages, who could choose at will between the two, so try as I might to pin down his emotions, or blackmail him with myself, and especially with Thea, it wouldn't work, a part of his soul would always be free, off limits to me, in a whole different world, a secret realm I couldn't even glimpse, there was no use being jealous, because if he didn't love this particular Frenchman, he must love the Frenchman within himself who was his real father and in whose language his own soul could and wanted to speak; I might look upon his life as a distant accident of history, but I was too dense to understand anything, didn't understand that this fatal physical and spiritual split was his real story, that over the German father he had to choose the French father killed by the Germans, his soul over his body, his body over his mother tongue, not only because that man was his real father — who could possibly care about the sperm of an unknown man! — but because the justice of the story demanded it, he had to reject the German father whom he hadn't had a chance to know either, whom he loved, whose picture he would stare at for hours, whose name he carried, and who in a trench or in some snow-covered field had frozen to death.

And if up to that time even the moments of tension between us had been pleasant, this drawn-out telephone conversation excluding me in more ways than one managed to render them unpleasant; for a few more minutes I let my face be warmed by the feeble winter sun — it had been receding since midmorning and was now only a thin strip of light on Melchior's eyes and hair and on the wall over his head — then I withdrew into the study, took out the blanket from under the pillow, lay down on the sofa, turned to the wall, and, like someone who has finally found rest and solace, wrapped myself in the soft blanket, for perhaps he was right: I didn't take his story quite seriously, and considered his undying hatred for Germans a form of self-hatred stemming from very different causes, just as he shut himself off from the heartrending story of my life, at times shedding real tears over it but in the end making the cold remark that he saw in it nothing but merely the personal, and of course in that sense moving, consequence of the final collapse of anarchistic, communistic, socialistic mass movements caught in the struggle between two superpowers, we were both unfortunate products of that same collapse, two odd mutants, he said, and laughed.

Slightly offended, I reminded him of the special aspects of Hungarian history, offended because of course nobody likes his entire existence to be seen as the symptom of a disease, even an aberration of European proportions, but all my arguments proved futile, he stuck to his guns and launched into a comprehensive geopolitical analysis in which he elaborated on his theory that the 1956 Hungarian uprising — he said uprising, not revolution — was the first and most substantial symptom, one might even call it a turning point in contemporary European history, signaling the collapse and liquidation, the practical demise, of all traditionally motivated struggles, and while at the time the Hungarians appealed very heroically but just as foolishly to a traditional European ideal, that ideal, as it turned out, no longer existed, all that was left of it were a few slogans and a few Hungarian corpses.

Several thousand dead and executed people, I put in reproachfully, my own friend among them.

These ideals and principles, he continued as if he hadn't even heard me, had ceased to be viable with the end of World War II, except that Europe, ashamed at having been unable to defend itself but also euphoric in victory, failed to notice that at the Elbe River the soldiers of the two great powers were already representatives of two superpowers, embracing over the charred corpse of Hitler.

Whatever the aim of the struggle — national self-determination or social equality — to the new world powers it was all the same, he said, because in their respective spheres of influence, reshaped in their own image, they both strove to thwart independent development.

What on the one side meant a return to pre-democratic conditions, suppressing all attempts at democratization or national independence, and to which, I should please note, the other superpower, espousing principles of freedom and self-determination, gave its ready blessing, that very same thing meant on the other side keeping in check all practical achievements stemming from and spread by the movement of bourgeois emancipation, denying them room to grow and flourish, forcing all radical initiatives inspired by the principles of equality before the law, of social justice, into the Procrustean bed of conservatism, to which the superpower on the other side, championing the cause of social justice, gave equally ready blessing, because, for one thing, it too was basically conservative, and also because it felt that any social transformation based on ideals of equality would threaten its own hierarchical practices.

That's how it is, he said, somewhat amused by his own political philosophizing; taking advantage of a momentary, hesitant pause in which he seemed to gather further strength from his own thinking and self-mockery, I expressed my doubts about so crudely equating the two superpowers, whether in intention or practice.

And I shouldn't think, he went on, ignoring me again, that he hadn't heard our little debate as we were walking up the stairs in the theater; he was listening to Thea but heard it just the same, and thought that in our little verbal duel the breakdown of traditional European aspirations was even more evident than it was in the so-called political arena, where crude rhetoric and overcautious diplomatic phraseology tended to blunt the edge of real conflict or push it to absurd extremes; we were being ridiculous, we didn't need a Wall, we kept snarling like mad dogs, not interested in guessing or inquiring what really was happening on the other side, forgetting completely that the Wall was erected to make us bark at each other.

At least three times they said goodbye and then started talking again, so engrossed in each other they couldn't let go; they must have talked for at least forty minutes, and I not only sensed but understood that having retreated behind the protective screen of another language, Melchior was talking about me, gossiping, or, in the squabble going on between the two of them, using me to his advantage — they were jabbering, arguing, fighting, and gabbing like old hags — fuming silently, I huddled under my blanket, hoping that on the waves of his annoying, nasal singsong I might drift off into a light sleep, for I wanted everything to fade away into the distance; if I had to be alone, then let me be really alone.

His arguments seemed persuasive enough, even more so because, unlike me, he never got worked up, never exploded or flew into a rage, not even when his analyses touched on the most sensitive subjects, as if he were short on excitability but long on being cool and reserved, with an uncanny analytical ability, highlighted with ironic overtones, sticking to his own self-chosen matter at hand; but for all that I almost always remained distrustful of his showy theories, for he gave me the impression of a man who talked this way because at each crucial point in his life he had avoided, and still continued to avoid, himself, so that all he did was analyze the evasions with an unerring, seamless logic which he used to conceal his open, bleeding emotional wounds.

True to myself, I paid attention not so much to what he was saying as to the more revealing stylistic elements of his delivery, tried to absorb this emotional block, this ironic, cool, conscious maneuvering with which he distanced himself from himself, tried to understand it by pressing forward to a point where the evasion might occur, gaining a foothold on the slippery soil where his being, the system of his gestures, might be deciphered and he would become touchable, but it was like moving among shadows, for all his gestures remained emphatic allusions to something else, his external features, his smile, his voice, even the people around him were allusions, including Thea, whom he desired yet rejected, and Pierre-Max, whom he no longer desired but was unable to give up, not to mention that I myself was also no more to him than an allusion.

In a foreign city a visitor's eyes, nose, tongue, and ears make extremely curious, and for the natives incomprehensible and hair-raising, connections between the orderly or disorderly layout of streets, between houses — including façades and the feel of the insides of apartments — and their inhabitants' build, dress, behavior, and pace of actions and reactions, because in a strange city the familiarity of routine is absent, the so-called inner and outer natures cannot be separated as sharply as in our home city, where we are used to distinguishing between what we believe to be external constraints and what we assume to be our inner drives; in a foreign city the essential and the trivial merge in an impenetrable blur, a stone façade and a human face, a staircase and the people climbing it become one; colors, smells, lights, kissing, eating, lovemaking — all flash before us, though we cannot know their origins and histories, and their impact is all the stronger, lack of awareness and knowledge transporting you back to the paradisiacal state of a child's urge to observe and discover, a sensual state of unaccountability! perhaps this is the reason why twentieth-century people like so much to be on the move, the comforting, familiar state may be the one they are searching for as they roam about, singly, in pairs, or as part of a herd, in foreign cities all over the world; weighed down by duties and responsibilities, they want out, and this may be the only universally accepted state in which, with no particular danger, they can breach the thick wall erected to isolate the events of one's unconscious childhood from the experiences of what one believes to be conscious adulthood: what infinite joy, what bliss, to be able, once again, to trust oneself to one's nose, taste buds, ears, and eyes, to one's elemental and undeceivable sense organs!

No matter how persuasive his arguments may have been or how self-tormenting and vindictive his theories and assumptions — and therefore apparently not self-hating — according to which he wasn't even German but a fraud who wallowed in his own lies, and since this was the only truth he could squeeze out of himself here, he had to get out, no matter what he said; his apartment, to me at least, exuded the same peculiar style that I felt, for example, in the opera house rebuilt and somewhat remodeled after the war, and not only did the exterior and inner spaces of this opera house evoke in me a mood very close to the one I experienced on Chausseestrasse, in that grand apartment turned workers' flat, but as every important public building in every city is meant to do, it too represented workaday experiences raised to an abstract architectural level.

I knew a few things about this city, but of course no more than one might learn by casually perusing a guidebook: because of my interest in the theater, I knew, for example, something about the history of the opera house, the circumstances in which it was built and then several times rebuilt, I knew that Prince Frederick — Frederick the Great for the historically minded — eagerly sought out the company of his favorite court architect, Knobelsdorf, and while still a young prince presented him with plans to reconstruct the future state capital; when he ascended the throne after the death of his father, Frederick William, often remembered as the Soldier King, nothing could prevent him from embarking on an ambitious building project, which was preceded by the inevitable demolitions and destructions, so in flagrant violation of existing laws, the modest town houses along the Unter den Linden, all different in height and width and architecturally undistinguished — built during the reign of his dour and passionately hated father — were simply erased from the face of the earth to make room for sumptuous, uniform five-story dwellings styled after Venetian palazzi, whose façades nevertheless seemed to look at their surroundings with cold aversion; in the end, all this factual information served no purpose except to enable me, with increasing freedom and abandon, to make connections between things that Melchior found nearly impossible to follow.

I knew that of the public edifices planned for the Unter den Linden and meant to represent the court, the opera house was the first to go up; like all the buildings designed by Knobelsdorf, who followed Palladio's and Scamozzi's principles of architectural forms, it had to be an imposing, well-proportioned structure in the classical style, behind whose simple exterior of geometrical lines and symmetrical proportions every whim and fancy of both builder and patron could explode in the exuberant, lush rococo of the interior, running wild in the white, gold, and purple of its asymmetrical adornments; the site chosen for the theater was a vast open tract, cleared of all former buildings, between the city walls and the old moat (which is now a small winding street still called Festungsgraben).

It was as if someone had accidentally opened an old, dull-gray, squarish, military foot locker, only to find inside it an exquisite music box standing on a jasper base, decorated with sparkling precious stones and dancing figurines, and playing charming little melodies.

The soft, thick, deep-red carpeting on the white floor of Melchior's apartment, the white-lacquered furniture, the heavy folds of the floor-length silk drapes with their gold lilac design, the white wallpaper on the smooth walls, the baroque mirrors, the graceful candelabra, the antique-yellow glow of the tiny flames trembling with each gust of draft, sending up spiraling strips of thin smoke — to me, all this represented the same dazzling strangeness between exterior and interior; in that box of an apartment, originally built for maids and workmen, tucked away on the top floor of a crumbling, turn-of-the-century apartment house that still bore the pockmarks of shelling and the untreated machine-gun wounds of the last war, I felt the presence of that same earnest, constrained aloofness, that same aristocratic aversion to what is external, what is real in the here and now, which I sensed in the historically significant shrine to music and song, the repository of the city's cultural past.

For some reason the builders had been in a hurry, wanting to break away from the hated past as rapidly as possible, so it took barely two years to complete the theater, so extraordinary for its day, used not only for operas but also for social gatherings and festivities, for which reason Knobelsdorf put kitchens, storerooms, servants' quarters, and washrooms on the ground floor, where the lobby and box office are today, and above them three large halls, one behind the other, so that with the help of the available technical equipment, with levers and traps, the three theater spaces of auditorium, stage, and backstage could be turned into one vast hall — no wonder the contemporary world was in awe! and even after repeated renovations and remodeling, this three-way division was preserved to this day.

And so, when I interrupted Melchior's coolly delivered confession about being a man of lies, careful not to offend him, I tried to share some of these observations with him, telling him I found nothing false in the way he had furnished his apartment but, on the contrary, saw in it a unique fusion of bourgeois practicality, proletarian contentment with bare necessities, and aristocratic aloofness, in which all the signs and elements of the past were present, albeit shifted from their original places, a peculiar, warped system of animate and inanimate traces of the past and present mingling with one another that could be found all over the city; he listened, looking at me askance, and though I felt I was straying into an area where he couldn't and wouldn't even want to follow me, I went on, pointing out that to me the overall effect of the apartment was neither intimate nor attractive but very truthful and, above all, very German, and without knowing how things were on the other side, I'd be willing to guess that all this was uniquely local in character, and therefore it wasn't so much my brain as my nose and eyes that objected to his reflections on his own people and to his statements, which, to me, smacked of self-hatred.

It was enough, I said, to take a good look at the refurbished opera house, where the latest reconstruction made the gods and little angels disappear, knocked out the walls between boxes, and, by considerably reducing the use of gold and ornamentation, seemed to sterilize the past of the theater's interior, leaving only stylistic reminders, rococo emblems along the front of the balconies and up in the cupola, the idea being to cool the sensual, overwrought exuberance of the former decor and bring it in line with the studied simplicity of the theater's exterior, architecturally a sound idea, preserving the past even while destroying it, preserving, more specifically, its grim and ugly orderliness, thus matching perfectly the prevailing atmosphere today, in which the aim was to satisfy only the most basic needs of the people; anyway, I said, there seemed to be a constant threat of secret contagion, because everything here stank of some powerful disinfectant.

It was this wariness about the past, these stylistic twists of simultaneously preserving and obliterating it, that I also noticed in people's homes: in this sense I didn't think Melchior could completely isolate himself from anything, but in fact was repeating, involuntarily imitating, what others were doing: dragging his ancestors' bourgeois furniture into a proletarian flat — and doing so to flaunt his eccentricity — was not very different from how that proletarian family lived in the Chausseestrasse apartment, designed originally for ostentatious haut-bourgeois life.

He didn't quite understand what I was getting at, and as we sat facing each other in the candlelight, I could see on his face how he was struggling, quietly, to overcome the hurt he felt.

If I was so well versed in the history of German architecture, he said, not to mention the soul of the German people, then I must also know what Voltaire jotted down in his diary after meeting Frederick the Great.

Just what he'd thought: I didn't know.

Still sitting, he leaned forward a little and, with the tenderness of confident superiority, placed his hand on my knee, and while he talked he kept looking into my eyes, taking pleasure in mocking both me and himself, smiling a small, supercilious smile.

Five feet two inches tall, Melchior said, in playful imitation of a schoolmaster, the king had a well-proportioned but by no means perfect build, and because of his self-consciously rigid posture he looked a bit awkward, but his face was pleasant and spiritual, polite and friendly, and his voice was attractive even when he swore, which he did as frequently as a common coachman; he wore his nice light-brown hair in a pigtail, and always combed it himself — he could do it rather well — but when powdering his face he sat before the mirror never in his nightcap, gown, and slippers but in a filthy old silk dressing gown — in general he eschewed conventional attire, for years he traipsed around in the unadorned uniform of his infantry regiment, was never seen wearing shoes, only boots, and didn't like to put his hat under his arm as was then the custom; despite his undeniable charm, there was something unnatural in the details of his physical appearance and his behavior; for example, he spoke French better than he did German, and was willing to converse in his native tongue only with those whom he knew spoke no French, because he considered his own language barbaric.

While he was talking, Melchior grasped my knees, leaned all the way forward in his armchair, and when he finished he planted conciliatory kisses on my cheeks, by way of having arrived at another station of his instructions; I remained unmoved, for now it was my turn to be distrustful and offended, and it was a little annoying but also amusing to realize that no argument or theory, however daring and powerful, could knock him out of the saddle of his obsessions.

I became increasingly convinced that if I hoped to get anywhere with him I should not fight him with arguments and theories but surround him with the simpler language of the senses, but just what pathetic result I was after, and how clumsily, wrongly, and foolishly I went about achieving it, I shall relate at a later point; he kept nodding, his forehead almost touching mine, but wouldn't take his eyes off me for a moment.

Well, he said, well, well, he repeated, as if finding the subject disagreeable, poor old Fredericus, he too must have had good reason to cling to his opinions, to speak of barbarism, to knock down what his father had built, and he must have had good reason also to affect that awkward posture, and incidentally, was I familiar with the story of Lieutenant Katte?

I said I wasn't.

In that case, hoping to advance my knowledge in Germanology, he would tell me.

Sometimes I had the impression we were conducting a kind of experiment on each other, without knowing exactly what its purpose was.

Our armchairs faced each other; he leaned back comfortably and, as on other occasions, put his feet on my lap, and while he was talking I'd knead and massage his feet, which gave our physical contact an unnecessary rationality, a pleasant monotony; he turned away for a second, the wineglass caught his eye, he took a sip, and suddenly there was a change in him — the expression with which he looked back at me was serious and pensive — but this had to do not with me but with that elaborate story which he was probably reviewing in his mind, quickly pulling it together before actually recounting it.

The strange prince is eighteen years old at this time, Melchior began, he will be twenty-eight when ascending the throne and embarking on his grandiose building project, but now, after an especially exhausting quarrel with his father, he simply disappears from the palace.

They keep looking and looking for him but can't find him anywhere; when bits of some servants' confessions are pieced together, a picture emerges: the prince must have escaped, and his escape had something to do with a certain Hans Hermann von Katte, a friend of his and a lieutenant in the Royal Guards.

At the head of his entourage, the king himself sets out in pursuit of the fugitive prince — and I should try to imagine what the poor queen must have gone through while waiting for their return.

The entourage returns on the morning of August 27 from Küstrin, but no one is willing or able to provide information regarding the prince's whereabouts; by late afternoon the king himself is back.

Beset by worries and the most terrible premonitions, the queen hurries to meet him, and as they are quickening their steps, almost running toward each other, just as their eyes meet, the king, livid with rage, exclaims: Your son is dead!

Worn out by the long wait but still hopeful, the queen is struck by these words as if by lightning, and she begins to scream, her words barely coherent: How? why? how is this possible? could Your Majesty be your own son's killer?

But the king does not even stop with the queen, who seems to have turned into a pillar of salt, and simply tosses off his reply that this wretched fugitive was no son of his but a common military deserter who deserves to die, and trembling with rage he demands to see the prince's box of private letters.

Wasting no time trying to unlock it, with two blows of his fist the king smashes the box open, grabs the papers inside, and rushes off with them.

In the palace everyone is cowering, fleeing the king's wrath; the queen hurries over to her children's chambers, but presently the king turns up there, pushes aside the children, who are about to kiss his hand, and practically tramples them with his boots as he runs toward Princess Friederike, who is standing a little way off.

Without so much as a word, he strikes her face with his fist three times and with such force that she immediately collapses, and if not for Fräulein Sonnefeld's presence of mind and remarkable agility in catching the fainting body, she would have cracked her skull on the edge of a large wardrobe.

But the king's fury knows no bounds; he wants to trample on the prostrate body of the princess and is prevented only by the screaming queen and the children, who fling themselves on the inert body, shielding it with their own bodies, absorbing the stomps and kicks of the king's boots and the terrible blows of his cane.

In her memoirs, Princess Friederike writes that their desperate situation at that moment was indescribable: the king's swollen face — he was given to apoplectic fits anyway — turned blue and purple, he was nearly choking on his own anger, the look in his eyes was that of a cornered, crazed beast, his mouth frothing with gobs of spit spurting from his throat, while the queen kept flailing her arms helplessly, like a huge bird, emitting the most painful screams, and the younger children, racked by sobs, lay next to her and clung imploringly to the king's legs, even the youngest, who at the time was no more than three years old, and the two ladies-in-waiting, Frau von Kamecke and Fräulein Sonnefeld, just stood there stock-still, not daring to move or utter a sound, and she, Friederike, whose only offense was that she loved the prince with all her heart — and bore testimony to this love in the letters which had now been found — was the most wretched of them all, her face bathed in cold sweat; even when she came to, her body was flushed and shaking uncontrollably.

For the king not only assaulted her brutally but heaped his most abominable threats on her, blaming her for the disintegration of the royal house, for being the one whose deceitful, conniving, and amoral machinations had thrust the family into the abyss of misfortune and misery, she would pay for it with her head, with her head, he yelled, and he included the queen in his threats, and since in his fury he forgot he'd already declared the prince dead, breathing into her face with the most bloodcurdling and blasphemous cries of vengeance, he swore he'd have his son executed, he'd die on the block, the king huffed, on the block.

It seemed that nothing could check his colossal, vindictive wrath, but then a small, fretful voice announced that Lieutenant Katte had been apprehended.

This had a somewhat sobering effect on the king, or more precisely, those around him watched him turn away from them, realizing that he did so only because mere mention of that name fanned the flames of his vengeance even more violently, and now the wild beast that had wreaked havoc only in his cage was loose; soon he would have enough proof, he said caustically to the queen, for the hangman to prepare for his job, and with that he rushed from the children's chambers.

But he couldn't yet pounce on his new prey, because in his cabinet room the lords von Grumkow and Mylius, waiting for him, were ordered in a choked, breathless voice, in a hideous whisper, to conduct Katte's interrogation; his confession, he decreed, whatever its content, was to be used to initiate proceedings against his son; he briefly summed up the facts of the case and announced that the prince was not only a traitor, an accursed criminal, and an oath-breaking deserter but a hideous worm, a monster, a freak of nature, undeserving of any kind of mercy.

That is when Lieutenant Katte was led in, a slender, twenty-six-year-old youth with large eyes and a handsome face that was now, of course, deathly pale, who immediately fell on his knees before the king; the king just as quickly seized him and violently tore the cross of the Knights of St. John from his neck and then proceeded to kick him and beat him with his stick until he was out of breath and the youth's body lay inert at his feet.

As the permanent Grand Master of the Knights of St. John, the Prussian king had the right to tear away the Knights' cross from the neck of a man such as Lieutenant Katte.

But to continue: with a pail of water and somewhat less violent slaps than the king's, Lieutenant Katte was revived enough to confess, and the interrogation was begun.

Katte answered all the questions put to him so honestly, displayed such moral courage and utter devotion to his ruler, that his conduct evoked the admiration not only of his interrogators but of the king himself.

He confessed knowing about the prince's plan to escape, and because he loved the prince with all his heart and soul, he had been fully prepared to break his oath of loyalty to the king and follow his friend, but he had no knowledge as to which court the prince had intended to escape, and also, did not believe that either the queen or Princess Friederike was privy to the escape plan, since he and the prince had kept it completely secret.

After his interrogation he was stripped of his uniform and given only a cloth apron, and, like that, almost naked, was made to march across town to the central guardhouse, where a court-martial was to sentence him, but its regular members were loath to take a stand in such a delicate matter and drew lots to pick the twelve officers who would have to carry out the unpleasant task.

Count Dönhof and Count Linger were of the opinion that a more lenient sentence was in order, but the others, appreciating the utmost gravity of the offense, recommended that both Colonel Fritz — the king had forbidden them to refer to the heir apparent by any other name— and Lieutenant Katte be put to death.

When the death sentence was read to him, Katte calmly declared his readiness to submit to Providence and to the will of his king, because he had committed no wrong, and if he had to die, it must be for a noble if to him unknown cause.

A certain Major Schenk was ordered to return the prisoner to the citadel at Küstrin, where the heir apparent was also being held.

They arrived at nine o'clock in the morning, and Katte spent the rest of the day in the company of a priest, talking to him about his life of debauchery, for which he now confessed the greatest remorse; he spent the whole night in fervent prayer.

In the meantime, the execution platform was erected in the citadel's square, to be level with the prince's cell; on the king's direct order the cell window was enlarged, cut all the way to the floor, and the new opening, through which one could actually step out onto the platform, was, for the time being, draped with a black cloth.

The noisy construction took place in the presence of the prince, with nine masons and seventeen carpenters working under several overseers, so the prince quite naturally believed they were making preparations for his execution.

At six minutes before seven o'clock in the morning, the commander of the fort, Captain Löpel, entered the prince's cell, informed him that it was the king's wish that he watch Katte's beheading, and, having brought with him a brown suit, asked the prince to disrobe and put it on.

When he finished changing, the black cloth covering the opened wall was removed, and the prince could see the newly and very professionally built scaffold.

Three long minutes went by, and then his friend, wearing an identical brown suit, was led forth, while at the same time the prince was asked to step up to the opening in the wall.

The strikingly identical suits made such a shocking impression on the prince — in no small measure because he knew it had to have been his father's idea — that he was ready to cast himself into the courtyard gaping below, but they pulled him back and held him by the arm; later, nothing would induce him to part with this suit, and for three years he wore it day and night until it was in tatters.

When they pulled him back, he began to weep and wail, imploring those around him to delay the execution, for pity's sake; if his life was to be spared, he must write to the king at once; he pleaded and protested, he was ready to renounce everything, the crown, his own life, if that would save Katte's, they must allow him to send his plea to the king.

Ignoring his sobs and screams, they proceeded to read out the sentence.

After the last word had been spoken, Katte, who was also being held by his arm behind his back, stepped closer to the prince, and that's how they looked at each other for a silent moment.

Merciful God, the prince shouted, how great a misery you have given me! my sweet, my dearest, my only friend, I am the cause of your death, I, who would so wish to take your place now.

They both had to be held firmly, as Katte, calling him my dear prince, said in a feeble voice that if he had a thousand lives he would sacrifice them all for him, but now he had to depart this vale of tears, and with that he knelt in front of the guillotine.

He was allowed to have his own servants accompany him on his last journey, and now one of them offered to put a blindfold on him, but he very gently pushed away the trembling hand holding the kerchief and, lifting his eyes heavenward, said. Into Thy hands I commend my spirit.

The two headsmen placed the condemned man's neck under the blade, the two servants stepped back, and in that instant the prince fainted and sank into the arms of his attendants.

They laid him on his bed, but not until midday did he regain consciousness.

At the king's instruction, Katte's mutilated body had to stay on the block, in the prince's sight, until late in the evening.

When he came to and looked out from his bed, the prince saw the stump of the neck sticking out from the naked torso and the bloody head in the basket.

His body was racked with fever, and he began to wail so piteously, making sounds so piercing, that for a moment the sentries on the ramparts looked at each other in alarm, then he lost consciousness again.

Lieutenant Katte's body was placed in a casket that evening and buried in the fortress wall.

Crouching near the wall of his cell, the prince cried for two weeks, now and then accepting a little water but refusing to take food, and even after his tears dried, he remained silent for months, and when he spoke again, he said no, he wouldn't take off the brown suit, and when the brown suit turned to shreds on him, the pain crawled under his skin.

In my anger I must have dozed off by the time they finished talking on the telephone, because it was the motionless silence in the room that woke me.

I imagine that after he hung up he stayed in his chair for a while, ruminating; I could hear only his silence, the segment of lingering silence in which he sorted out and stored away what had been said and heard, and for this reason it seemed that what I was hearing was not the silence of his presence but his absence.

And after my startled awakening I must have sunk back even deeper into that state of slumbering that hovers on the border of sleep and wakefulness, because the next thing I knew Melchior was pressing himself against the wall and squeezing me out a little as he climbed under the covers.

Trying to settle in, he squirmed and wriggled some more, very slowly and considerately so as not to wake me, but I didn't feel like giving up my place or making the closeness inviting, and I let him have only as much space as he could squeeze out for himself, I didn't open my eyes, I pretended to be fast asleep.

For a while he lay motionless, pressed to the wall, with my drawn-up knees against his belly; I could have relaxed a little, making believe I moved in my sleep, but because I was awake I continued all the harder to fake being asleep.

I could let him have a little room, he said out loud, exposing my pretense and letting me know he knew I was awake.

I was trying to loosen up, not to be so obvious about my shamming.

Sticking one of his arms under my neck and hugging my back with the other, he wanted to pull me to himself, but my drawn-up knees made that impossible, giving him neither the intimacy he was looking for nor enough space to rest comfortably.

For a while he seemed to be reconciled to his discomfort, to the impossible position of his body, and stopped squirming; resting his forehead on my shoulder, he began to breathe with a quiet, even puffing and wheezing, as if trying to breathe himself to sleep, then suddenly he let out a growl and pulled his arm from under my neck; Just you wait, he said, I'll show you, and with that he yanked the blanket off both of us, pushed himself away from the wall, and slipped off the couch.

He was getting undressed, I heard the swish of his shirt, the pants being unzipped, how he quickly threw all his clothes on the floor, then he leaned over me, fumbling around my waist and unbuttoning my pants, grabbing them at my ankles to pull them off while I made no move on my own, my body simply yielding to his forceful movements; he peeled the socks from my feet, reached under my behind, and raising it a little pulled off my underpants.

To get to my shirt he had to crawl back, creep back on his knees on the inside of the couch next to the wall, and since the point of the game was for me to pretend to be asleep, he now had more room to maneuver, because when he yanked off my pants he also straightened out my legs and now they had to stay that way — moving, like pulling up my knees again, would have been breaking the rules of the game.

He had to pull out my hand, which I'd stuck under the pillow, straighten and lift my arms, and pull out the shirt from under my back and shoulders, and he had to fight my body weight with every move; he was panting, grunting, and moaning, also part of the game, though I really had let myself become such a dead weight that his job couldn't have been easy.

And while he planted himself firmly on the soft sagging couch and, with his knees spread wide apart, leaned over me, I was assailed by the raw smell of his body: clothes hold in body scents and isolate them from the outside world, but when they are removed, the subdued exhalation of the body, like a swollen river from behind a dam, surges forward in wild and abundant streams.

He pitched the shirt he'd just pulled off me somewhere, and then, with a sigh, sank down next to me; my arms were still raised over my head, my out-turned wrist was touching the wall, in this way giving him a little room on the pillow as well, and he pulled up the blanket caught between our legs and spread it neatly over my back, then tucked it behind his own; from the window left open in the living room we felt waves of a cool breeze, and emitting sounds of pleasure, he used the blanket to wrap us tight into the heat of our own bodies and then, slipping one arm under my neck again and hugging my back with the other, he lowered his head onto the pillow, next to my face.

I didn't open my eyes; there was one more prolonged moment, full of expectations, before body would touch body; lying parallel and turned to one another, each waited for the other to give up his moral principles as they are expressed in decisions and intentions, because it wasn't my clothes he had peeled me out of but rather my hurtfulness, my pride, and my anger, my resolve that if I couldn't stay with him I'd want to be all by myself; and even though in this game of undressing it was my passivity that had enabled us to come together again, pretending that my limbs were lifeless betrayed a lack of conviction, a reluctance to give up my advantageous position or give in to his closeness, his smell, and his warmth; and of course all this harked back to our morning conversation, which had been cut short when we grinned at each other our most obnoxious grin.

But his activities were no less ambiguous either, for the more determined and purposeful an activity, the more clearly it betrays its true intent: he was bowing to my will, not exactly apologizing but, swallowing his pride, trying to make amends, and for him, this act of getting intimate, this undressing ceremony, meant that his emotions, best conveyed to me through our bodies, made him perform the gestures of the most Christian humility, which was by no means an act of abasement, any more than the ritual of washing a person's feet is, and if after all I wasn't going to reciprocate the gentle aggressiveness of his humility, then he had no further move to offer, that was the limit beyond which there were only unyielding moral principles detached from the flesh.

And then I did move my raised arms, slipping one under his neck and wrapping the other around his back; at the same time he pried open my knees with his, slipped his thighs between mine, his head was on my shoulder, his groin over mine, and thus our two bodies, turned completely toward each other, met along the full surface of their skins.

And this meeting was so abundant in instincts, emotions, and intentions that the fractional moment in which skin touched skin, heat reached heat, and smell mingled with smell to make a closer fit physically impossible was like a deep, painful groan of happiness and good fortune, eliminating distance and division; that's how parallel lines must feel in infinity.

The harmony of the two bodies expressed in this single touch, bridging their differences and bending their moral reserve, was as powerful and wild as physical fulfillment, yet there was nothing false in this harmony, no illusion created that just by touching, our bodies could express feelings that rationality prevented us from making permanent; I might even say that our bodies coolly preserved their good sense, scheming and keeping each other in check, as if to say, I'll yield unreservedly to the madness of the moment but only if and when you do the same; but this physical plea for passion and reason, spontaneity and calculation, closeness and distance, took our bodies past the point where, clinging to desire and striving for the moment of gratification, they would seek a new and more complete harmony.

Our bodies' uncertainty became the only certainty, and that was good enough; desire-filled body watching the body's lack of desire; and the more satisfaction each body found in this watching, the more relaxed they both became, the more comfort they found in each other; I may have fallen asleep a few minutes after he did; just before falling off, I could hear the breeze ruffling the poplar's yellowing leaves, and his ever more regular, even breathing.

We slept in each other's arms, with his chest on mine, thighs pressed together, his head on my shoulder, his hair in my mouth, our legs entwined under the blanket; we had to be this close not only because the couch was very narrow but also because the hard horsehair mattress slanted down on the side and we had to hold on to each other even in our sleep so as not to fall off.

We were startled out of our sleep at the same time: like someone shrinking back just when he is about to sink into an even deeper sleep, his body shuddered along the length of mine, giving me a start, too; under the pressure of his head and shoulders, my own shoulder and arm had gone to sleep and were now aching; looking instinctively for a more comfortable position, which the body always does, I moved away from him.

Our bodies parted, at the same time feeling the peaceful closeness and harmony in which they had rested until now; they didn't separate completely, just far enough so that a bit of cooler air, part of the outside world, could penetrate the space between us, making us more aware of our bodies' heat.

I think we opened our eyes at exactly the same moment, and because his head slid off my arm and dropped to the pillow, we looked into each other's eyes from very close up.

Since our every little move and sensation remained identical, they became our own because we saw them reflected in each other; I caught the same look in his eyes — I might call it a neutral look — with which I felt I was looking at him.

We both had had an equally deep and short sleep, which blotted out time, so that our consciousness was somewhat puzzled as it was trying to return to where it had left off, the resulting look in the eyes being not necessarily a sign of muddleheadedness, in fact possibly of very sharp, keen awareness; I imagine this is the way babies look at the world.

I could see in his eyes that this was just what he was seeing in mine; there was no trace of conscious thought for either of us, and the next moment we both broke into a smile, and this, too, was strikingly similar, one originating in the other; I smiled his smile and he mine, which in turn elicited a like response from both of us, turning bashfully away from this unexpected and unwilled intimacy, we bowed, more precisely, lowered our heads resting on the pillow, making forehead touch forehead.

I didn't close my eyes and don't think he did either, or if he did, he probably opened them again soon after.

The eyes, though retaining some of the neutrality of the first wakeful moment, became alert again, ready to return to former activities, and now shifted downward, into the darkness under the covers; the glance penetrated the feelings as it enjoyed the view of a wedge-shaped configuration, observing it from above.

Our two divergent bodies formed the sides of this wedge: two chests, one of which, his, was hairier; two bellies, appearing a little sunken in this position, one of them taut and flat, the other just slightly bulging; and down below, in the narrower part of the wedge, the nestlike softness of the testicles filled out the angle formed by the entwined legs, and the genitals, one, his, larger and longer, and the other, mine, rather comically limp in its shrunken state, were lying on each other as peacefully as did our intertwined arms above.

The geometric shape could not be perfect, though, if only because of our different builds, and I was also lying a little bit higher: our feelings, too, were similar rather than identical: he was more comfortable, I think, his lower body weighing hard on my thigh, and unless I wanted to paint too idyllic a picture — and why would I? — I'd have to confess that my thigh could hardly wait to be rid of the weight, but in spite of this minor discomfort, we lay there in almost perfectly identical positions; and as we did, aware of and watching this symmetry, the two genitals that had been resting on each other, as if coaxed by our eyes and the geometrical arrangement of our bodies, began to rise, ever so gradually, smoothly; swelling, filling up, lengthening and thickening, their heads crossed, collided, mutually impeded, and then bumped past each other, gaining the feeling of mutual momentum needed for a solitary erection.

The symmetry and simultaneity became clear, unequivocal, and at the same time comical, because what we saw was real, though it also allowed us a glimpse into the workings of our senses, into the almost impassive mechanism of our instincts: forehead bumped into forehead because we turned away so quickly and simultaneously, as if suddenly discovered or exposed by someone, and then we burst out laughing — again at the same time.

Judging by the sound of it, it wasn't just a plain laugh but a guffaw.

An eruption of joy and coarseness, a burst of joy over the coarseness that a stiff penis, by its very nature, provides in any and all situations, the joy of "See, I'm a man," the joy of a living organism expanding, the ancient joy of belonging to the community of males, the joy of life's continuity; and it was also laughing at the coarse mechanism of exposed archaic instincts, which is called culture and which leads to doubling the enjoyment of raw instincts, because I feel what I feel in spite of the fact that I know what I feel — and thus I feel more than what I can possibly know.

With our guffaw we transformed into sounds the coarseness and violence inherent in joy, especially in shared joy, a form of communication which, transmuted by humor, promised a more powerful pleasure than the prospect of consummating the act — and one always grabs for the larger chunk of pleasure, or at least tries to, so I roughly pulled him to myself, and he just as roughly pushed me away; like two crazed animals, we began fighting on the couch.

In reality there's no such thing as perfect symmetry or total sameness; a transitional balance between dissimilarities is the most we can hope for; although our scuffle wasn't at all serious, it did not turn into an embrace, for the same reason that he had pushed me away: up to that point, wishing to keep up the pretense of perfect symmetry, I had accepted the less comfortable position so he could rest comfortably in my arms, but that was like telling him he was the weaker one, which, in turn, was like telling him he wasn't as much of a man as he'd like me to believe, forgetting for the moment that letting him have the better position gave me much more pleasure; yet precisely because there is no perfect symmetry, only a striving for it, there can be no gesture without the need for another to complete it.

The fight turned into a real one; though we both tried to keep it playful, it became increasingly rough, and it boiled down to a question of who could push, shove, squeeze, or throw the other off the couch, gaining a decisive and incontestable victory. The blanket got caught between us and then must have slipped off; naked and sweaty, we kept pummeling each other as much as the cramped space would allow; laughing when we started, we slowly turned silent, only now and then emitting what we imagined to be battle cries, trying to threaten each other with the sound of certain victory at any moment; we tumbled over each other, biting and scratching, thrusting our legs against the wall, straining against slippery skin, against shoving and twisting hands; the couch creaked, the springs moaned and groaned, and in all probability he was as happy as I to see that in this struggle for victory all the real pain we had caused and all the hostility we had felt toward each other rose to the surface out of some hitherto unseen netherworld.

Our bodies, which only moments earlier had given such symmetrical and palpable proof of their desire for each other, now found — without our noticing the change or the moral dangers hidden in it — a different kind of occupation, just as elementary and passionate, and this change completely transformed our feelings, turned them inside out, I might say: my muscles and bones, without the tenderness of desire, were now communicating with his muscles and bones in the language of violent emotions.

Until with a huge thud I wound up on the floor.

I tried to pull him down with me, but he punched me in the face, and then, pushing against my face, worked himself back up on the couch.

He was on his knees, grinning down at me; we were both panting, and then, since neither of us knew what to do with our respective victory or defeat, he suddenly flipped over and lay on his back, and I also lay on my back, on the soft carpet; in the sudden silence we kept breathing, waiting for the panting to subside.

As I lay there with my arms spread wide, and he lay up there also breathing hard, with his arms spread wide, he let his hand hang down, maybe inviting me to touch it; I didn't, I let it hang right in my face, that's what made it nice, the lack of touch, this little gap that could be closed at any time; it seemed to me I had seen the ceiling before, the way the late-afternoon light, broken into three separate strips by the arched doorway, was chasing the shadows cast by the swaying branches outside; I had seen this dead hand before, twisted on its wrist; incredibly, everything happening now seemed to have already happened to me here once before.

At the time I neither found nor looked for an explanation, though the image was not so far from my feelings that I couldn't have reached it, but sometimes the mind, keeper of all memories, does not provide the place of a stored item, only hints at it; for some reason the mind would not call the desired item by its name, and it's very considerate of the mind to be in no hurry to spoil an otherwise enjoyable situation by clearly identifying secret data relevant to it.

Perhaps if I had reached out and held his hand.

For twice in a row, as if compelled to free himself of some deathly anxiety, some choking, harrowing pain or insane joy, he let out a howl so powerful it made his whole body contract, as if all his strength were being forced into his chest and throat, he roared, he bellowed himself into the silence of the room, which hit me as unexpectedly as any blow or grace of fate would; long seconds must have passed while, unable to move or to help, I watched the agony of the large, prostrate male body: the truth is, I thought he was playing, still fooling around; his hand was still hanging down, his eyes were open, glazed over, staring into space, and his feet were flexed.

Now he rose slightly; his chest, filled with air, heaved and quivered, the heaving and quivering coursing through his whole body and then rippling back; I saw he wanted to scream a third time, perhaps hoping to expel what he'd failed to eject twice before, because if he couldn't, his heart would break.

Maybe the reason I couldn't move or help was that he looked beautiful.

And not only was he unable to scream the trapped air out, but all the oxygen seemed to have been used up by his lungs, now swollen to bursting, and no fresh air could enter them; to keep from choking, his body tried to straighten out, jump up, run off, or maybe just sit up, but without enough oxygen it had no strength, only reflex motions seemed to be at work, struggling with themselves, until the straining muscles finally squeezed out a sound, high-pitched but clearly coming from a great depth, a whimper, a broken, breathless whimper that grew longer and stronger as he managed to take in more air.

Shaking, looking ugly, racked by bursts of loud sobs, he wept in my arms.

We do well to praise the wise inventiveness of our mother tongue when it speaks of pain as something ripping open; language knows everything about us; yes, we do make caustic remarks, our hair does stand on end, and the heart does break; in these set phrases language condenses thousands of years of human experience, knows for us what we don't know or don't want to acknowledge; with my fingers, with my palm on his back, I did feel that something inside, in the hollows of his body, really had ripped open, as if the membrane of a mucous organ had been slashed through.

My fingers, my palm could see into the living darkness of his body.

Something ripped open with each new burst of his sobbing, and still there was more to be ripped open.

Years were ripping out from under the membrane of time.

In a half-sitting position he leaned toward me as, perched on the edge of the couch, I clumsily pulled him to me, and with his forehead on my shoulder, the hot waves of his sobs flowed down my chest, his nose was pressed to my collarbone, and his lips, wet with snot and saliva, were clinging to my skin, and of course I whispered all sorts of tender nonsense into his ear, trying to calm and console him, and then did just the opposite: sensing not only that my body could give no strength to his but that any show of so-called selfless love would only divert or stifle the pain that had to come out, I told him to cry, yes, he simply had to cry, and with my voice as well as with my enervated body I tried to help him cry.

How ridiculous all our intellectual babble had been.

For the first time I could feel what I already knew, that behind his cool sobriety he was clinging to me with all his might, in the brief pauses between sobs his lips were glued to my skin, his pain turning this contact into bites, though he meant them to be kisses, and for the first time I could feel that there was almost nothing I could give him; with this realization I was actually brushing his hands off me, which he felt was only natural but in turn made me want to try the impossible.

By the time he'd calmed down a little and the pauses of his childish sniveling had grown longer between the fits of sobbing, an aging little boy's face was sitting atop his mature man's body.

I laid him down, tucked him in, wiped off his smudged face, including the snot — this was a face of his I didn't want to see — sat at the edge of the couch, holding his hand, doing what the stronger one is supposed to do, and even enjoyed a little the illusion of being the stronger one, and when he calmed down completely, I picked our clothes off the floor and closed the window.

Like a very sick child who feels the caring presence of his mother, he dozed off and then fell into a deep sleep.

I sat in his chair, at his desk, where in the growing darkness my pen lay untouchable on top of my notes on a performance; I kept staring out the window; by the time he began to stir and opened his eyes, it was completely dark.

The tile stove in the meantime warmed up the room again; both of us were depressed, and quiet.

I didn't turn on the light; my hands found his head in the dark and I said we could go for a walk if he felt like it.

He said he didn't feel like it at all, and didn't know what it was that had happened earlier; what he'd really like to do was go to sleep for the night, but we could go for a walk.

This city in the middle of a well-kept park which is Europe — to continue and amend with my own impressions his fascinating line of thinking — struck me more as a unique memorial to irremediable destruction than a real, living city, as a frighteningly well-preserved ruin of romantic park architecture, because a truly living city is never the mere fossil of an unclarified past but a surging flow, continually abandoning the stony bed of tradition, solidifying and then flowing on, rolling over decades and centuries, from the past into the future, a continuum of hardened thrusts and ceaseless pulses unaware of its ultimate goal, yet it's this irrepressible, insatiable vitality, often wasteful and avaricious, destructive yet creative, that we call, approvingly or disapprovingly, the inner nature or spirituality of a city's existence; but this city, or at least the sector of it I had come to know, showed none of these alluring urban characteristics, neither preserved nor continued its past, at best patched it up, sterilized it out of necessity or, worse, obliterated it, ashamed; it had become a place to live in, a shelter, a night lodging, a vast bedroom, and consequently by eight in the evening was completely deserted, its windows darkened; from behind the drawn curtains only the bluish flickering of TV screens reached the street, the puny light of that small window through which its residents could glimpse another, more lively world across the Wall; as far as I could tell, people preferred programs coming from the other side, thus isolating themselves from the locale of their own existence much as Melchior did or tried to do, and for understandable reasons preferred to peek into that other, improbable and titillating world than take a look at themselves.

And if at such a late hour, or later, in the dead of night, we descended from our fifth-floor nest to the lifeless streets below, our echoing footsteps made us feel our loneliness, isolation, and infinite interdependence more acutely than we did in the apartment, where behind locked doors we could still pretend we lived in a real city and not on top of a heap of stones declared to be a war memorial.

Some more advanced mammals, like cats, foxes, dogs, wolves, and the like, use their urine and excrement to mark out territory they consider their own, which they then protect and rule as their homeland; other less developed and less aggressive animals like mice, moles, ants, rats, hard-shelled insects, and lizards prefer to move about on beaten tracks, in ruts and burrows: we were more like the latter group, compelled by the almost biological conditioning of our cultures, by our reverence for tradition, and by our upbringing, which could be labeled bourgeois; we flaunted our finicky tastes, our penchant for refinement, and, with a hesitant intellectual relish rooted in our affinity for fin-de-siècle decadence, chose only those routes that in this city could still be considered appropriate for a leisurely old-fashioned walk.

When one's freedom of movement is restricted, then in the very interest of maintaining the appearance of personal freedom one is compelled — in keeping with one's needs — to impose further restrictions on oneself within the larger restrictive limits.

In our evening or nighttime walks we made sure never to wander into the new residential areas, where we would have come face-to-face with the palpable form of the coercive principle that lacked all notion of human individuality and that considered people, quite pragmatically, beasts of burden and, mindful only of the bare necessities of rest, procreation, and child care, packed them into grim concrete boxes — No, not that way! we'd cry, and choose routes where one could still see, feel, smell something of the city's ravaged, continually deteriorating, patched-up, blackened, disintegrating individuality.

I might say that we took our walks through the stage set of individuality's Europe-size tragedy, though in the end we could choose only between the bleak and the bleaker — that was the extent of our freedom.

For instance, if we walked down Prenzlauer Allee, an empty streetcar would clatter past now and then, or we might see a Trabant chugging along, its two-stroke engine belching noxious little fumes — and of course Prenzlauer Allee was a tree-lined avenue, an allée in name only — after a good half-hour stroll we'd come to an empty lot as big as a city block, riddled with bomb craters and overgrown with weeds and shrubs, going around which we'd turn into Ostsee Strasse or, better yet, Pistorius Strasse farther up, and pass the old churchyard of the parish named after St. George, and after another twenty minutes through various winding side streets, we'd reach Weissensee, or White Lake.

This small lake in whose murky, polluted water sluggish swans with filthy feathers and attentive wild ducks swam after crumbs thrown by passersby, was surrounded by a cluster of trees, the remains of a formal garden of an elegant summer palace that used to stand there, replaced now by a nondescript beer hall.

That Sunday evening we took a shortcut through Kollowitz, formerly Weissenburger, Strasse, the street where, in my increasingly complicated tale, I had placed the residence of the young man who arrived in Berlin in the final decade of the last century and who, in my imagination, based on Melchior's stories, seemed to resemble me a little, and from Kollowitz Strasse we turned into Dimitroff Strasse.

Of course Melchior had no inkling that living alongside him I was leading a double life, indeed multiple lives; ostensibly, I also thought this route ideal for a peaceful stroll for the same reason he did, namely that after a mere ten minutes the broad curve of Dimitroff Strasse seemed to pull you into the winding little alleys among the trees of Friedrichschain, Friedrich Park, but for me this wasn't pleasant at all, because under the impenetrable evening shadows cast by the trees, lurid little scenes were unfolding in my imagination.

During those weeks, after morning rehearsals, I also spent more and more time traipsing around with Thea.

Being autumn, it got dark rather early; the long hours spent in the artificial light of the rehearsal hall, the twilight meanderings with Thea in the open spaces outside the city, the evenings and nights spent with Melchior — these tightly compartmentalized my days, so tightly that sometimes while touching Melchior I caught myself thinking of Thea, and it happened the other way around, too: I'd be sitting peacefully with Thea in the cool grass near a lake and suddenly would miss Melchior so much that his very absence would conjure him up in my mind's eye; leisurely, and unknown to each other, the two of them kept flowing into and out of each other, creating a strange and baffling chaos that my imagination found hard to keep in check, a strange world that imperceptibly isolated me from my past and from my future — but that at least was a welcome blessing.

And anyway, who is to tell what's strange? suppose that after a rehearsal someone, anyone, an actor or observer, finally leaves the theater at three o'clock in the afternoon and steps out into an ordinary, truly unremarkable, sunny or gloomy, windy or rainy street and stands among rationally constructed houses inhabited by real-life people, while on the sidewalk all kinds of other people, attractive or ugly, cheerful or dejected, old or young, well-dressed or dowdy, all propelled by the same drive as if constantly listening to the invisibly ticking time, hurry about their business, carrying shopping bags, briefcases, packages, run errands, walk in and out of buildings, drive their cars, park and get out of them, buy and sell, greet one another with feigned or genuine pleasure, and then part with loud words, angrily or indifferently or perhaps with a painful sigh; at the corner sausage stand they dip their hot wurst into mustard and bite into it so the juice squirts out, while aggressive sparrows and pigeons puffed up in agitation wait for the falling crumbs; streetcars packed with still more people, and trucks groaning under the weight of mysterious loads, clatter across the background of this picture which, as one comes out of the theater, seems frighteningly improbable, as if it weren't the spectacle of real life, because the movement, beauty, ugliness, happiness, and indifference seen here, on the street, are neither symbols nor condensations of real, complete attributes or states of being nourished by truly experienced feelings: even if it allows its participants the highest possible degree of awareness, a street scene is real precisely because it is unaware, cannot possibly be aware, of its own reality, and the pedestrian hurrying down the street — a professor of psychology, a muscle-bound laborer, a cruising hooker — is a little like the professional actor who naturally and most appropriately adjusts his expressions and movements to his surroundings, which means that on the one hand, assuming his streetwise persona, he neutralizes himself, blends in, observes very keenly and sensitively the subtlest moral rules of public behavior, and on the other hand, he takes into account the prevailing light conditions and air temperature, and, while preserving the rhythm of his own body and conforming to that of the general traffic, pays attention to time — his own, that is: only for a brief segment of time are his movements regulated by the street's shared circumstances and consensual principles, only for the fleeting moments it takes to pass through this common existence; here nothing is done or left undone with the whole course of life in mind, unlike on the stage, where, as the rules of tragedy or comedy demand, the smallest action must include the whole of life, birth, and death; and since in all probability time is also perspective, the person on the street has only a very narrow and very practical perspective on himself, which is why the real world seems so improbable to one who steps out on the street with his eyes still used to the greater, anyway more universal, perspectives of the stage.

Wearing her short red wraparound coat, the kind that used to be called a coolie jacket, Thea would quickly cross the street toward her car, and with the hand holding the keys she'd wave back invitingly and insistently: would I like to come along? a gesture implying a request for me to get in the car, and also a curt signal to the others that the two of us had things to do on our own, which is how she meant to help me part with the rest of them, though she must have known I was always ready to go with her.

Some days we'd take Frau Kühnert home to Steffelbauerstrasse, and other times we'd simply leave her in front of the theater.

When someone walks out the stage door of a theater, alone or with others, at three o'clock in the afternoon and suddenly finds himself in this dumb state of improbability and realizes, moreover, that it's still light outside, then he can do one of two things: he can walk right into this humdrum, unpromising, sad world that nevertheless has a more tangible perspective and more measurable time and, instead of pondering the relationship between reality and unreality — which is what he should do— quickly go get something to eat though he's not hungry, drink something though he's not thirsty, go shopping though he doesn't really need anything; in other words, by falling back on basic life functions and consumer needs he can artificially readjust to the reality of a world operating with small prospects, even smaller insights, and minuscule perspectives; or he can protect, defend, hold on to his dazed incomprehension in this so-called real world and try to escape from the cold, restrictive scenery of time — even if he has nowhere else to go.

I couldn't or maybe didn't want to understand that I was living in the reality of improbability, though the signs were there, right in front of my nose, in Thea's every gesture and also in mine, undefined but present in our daily experience, but I didn't dare call that experience reality.

I was a wholesome child of my age, contaminated by the dominant ideas of the era, who also waited, along with the others, for the opportunity to seize the true, genuine reality that contained everything personal and ephemeral but was itself impersonal and not ephemeral, a reality that various theories, newspaper articles, and public speeches kept referring to, which had to be seized, which we had to strive for, but about which I had a very guilty conscience, because no matter where I turned I found only my own reality; and since the ideal, supposedly perfect, and complete reality was nowhere to be found, I considered that my own, however crude or cruel or pleasurable but for me perfect and complete in every way, was not reality but the reality of improbability.

Interestingly, I felt and knew exactly what I was supposed to feel and know, yet was forever asking myself what reality was — if my improbable reality wasn't reality, then what was I in this whole false existence? — and although the still-sensible part of my mind kept asking questions, in the end I came to believe that my improbability was not reality, that I was some strange transition between the actual and the real, and the ideal reality was up there somewhere, out of reach, ruling my life against my will, ideal and tyrannical, which I could never be a part of and could not touch, for it did not represent me, it was so powerful and great I couldn't even be worthy of its name, being but an unreal worm; yes, that's what I would have thought of myself if I'd been capable of such extreme self-abasement; and since despite my protests I did think of myself in those terms (without realizing it), the ideological rape used by the era achieved its most profound goal with me: I voluntarily relinquished the right to be my own person.

Thea did not deal in ideas — or, more precisely, they were embedded in her instincts — and I don't believe she gave them any thought, which was exactly why she was so violently opposed to the kind of acting that relies on identifying with or trying to become the character to be portrayed; she wasn't willing to cheapen the improbable experiences of her own sensuous reality, everything that's alive and visceral in a human being — and that is also the matrix of all ideas — to a mere formula and fit it into the uncomfortable narrow bed of an aesthetically prepared, cleverly confining form that others have declared to be, or by some convention accepted as, reality, an approach that for her would have been shamelessly false and ludicrously untrue, and she never had to ask where she was, for she had to be present in her own gestures, an incomparably riskier task than making a sentence or piece of dialogue your own: unaffected by the scruples of the age and using herself as a free human being, she demonstrated what was common to us all, and she knew she didn't have, couldn't possibly have, a single tendency or trait, a single expression of her body or face, that we wouldn't all instantly recognize and share.

Whenever I spent the afternoon with her she managed with her gestures to lift me, almost to thrust me out of the rut of my self-deceiving ideas, and she did this not with a single gesture but with everything she instinctively chose from her inner freedom and allowed to materialize as gestures.

Ultimately, in many respects, Thea and I were quite a bit alike.

Unlike Frau Kühnert, or Melchior for that matter, who used their bodies, their very lives, to block the way leading to hidden and surprising depths, Thea and I felt that it was only down there at the roots clinging to the silt of the senses, at the origins, that we can obtain the life of our bodies.

I also felt that though I might be dull, clumsy, mean, ugly, cruel, fawning, given to intrigues, or anything that from an aesthetic, intellectual, or moral standpoint might be considered inferior, I could balance this aesthetic, intellectual, and moral inferiority, as well as my moral turpitude, with the firm belief that my instincts were infallible and incorruptible: I'd feel first and know second, for I wasn't a coward, unlike those who know first and only then allow themselves to feel, according to the prevailing norms, and therefore knew intuitively and incontrovertibly what was good or bad, allowed or forbidden, because for me the moral sense was not imposed by a knowledge independent of feelings; I fought as single-mindedly as she for the right of the senses, wanted to use her as a means as much as she wanted to use me, wanted also, defying all taboos of mundane conventions and moral standards, to explore the innermost currents of the relationship among the three of us, and, like her, refused to accept the hopelessness of our situation, because then I would have had to admit the error of my supposedly unerring senses, my moral failure.

Strange as it may seem, one would rather let one's head be chopped off than come out with the admission of such a failure.

She always had trouble with the ignition, cursed it, called her car a piece of shit, kept grumbling she'd have to grow old struggling with such shitty contraptions.

And it was also strange that I thought myself free when I was with Melchior, yet with him I was drowning in the story of my body.

From the clutter of the glove compartment or, not infrequently, from the crack between the seats, she would extract her awful glasses, with one earpiece missing, place them on her nose, and keep them there by throwing her head back a little, at the same time managing to get the car started, and from that moment on, her movements were defined for me by a rather endearing chaotic combination of eager dilettantism and flamboyant inattention: on the one hand, she'd pay no attention to what she was doing, let her mind wander and lose contact with the road and with whatever was happening under the hood and indicated on the dashboard; on the other hand, catching herself drifting off, which often got us into truly dangerous situations, like a frightened little girl she would try, of course too abruptly, to correct her movements, while her glasses, falling forward or slipping off, always hampered her in these corrective maneuvers.

Still, I felt quite safe next to her; if I saw, for instance, that she hadn't noticed an upcoming sharp curve or, ignoring the dividing line and heavy oncoming traffic, crossed into the other lane, all I had to do was remark quietly on how smooth or wet the road was, how straight or winding, and she'd make the necessary adjustment; an odd kind of security, I admit, but then I sought personal safety in realms far more profound than that of traffic conditions; in this situation, I first of all had to be ready to give up my life, to say, Well, what the hell, if I die, I die, and trust the comic aspect of her driving style, which clearly showed that she had too much faith in her life to be concerned with the petty demands of traffic, she was busy with other things, she couldn't die so silly and senseless a death: without mixing God or Providence in, she sought to demonstrate with her movements that no one ever died of carelessness, death was always something else, even if its direct cause appeared to be carelessness or inattention, no, this was so only in the newspapers, in reality no precaution or alertness can help us, no amount of attention will prevent our little accidents, we cut our finger, step on broken glass, on a shell, a nail, always by accident, but we do not die by accident; I completely agreed with this, as well as with her other conclusions about life, even if in doing so I held on to my seat more tightly — a visible display of being both able and unable to renounce life, which was funny enough to be enjoyable.

Bouncing and bumping on our seats, the car puffing and sputtering, we sped out of the city.

If on the eve of my final departure from Berlin I hadn't destroyed all the notes I took at rehearsals, I'd have a daily record of the changes I felt were taking place in Thea; toward the end she spoke less and less, grew more quiet and dignified, and we generally rode in the car without talking.

Destroying my notes, burning them in Melchior's white tile stove, had a great deal to do with Frau Kühnert: seeing that my relationship with Thea had become more intimate, she lit into me with the seething anger of barely concealed jealousy, but also with the slyly submissive honesty of one bowing before the inevitable, and let me know that what I took to be a singular exciting change in Thea was nothing of the sort, nothing worth mentioning, oh, how sick and tired she was of all this talk about change, luckily for me I hadn't noticed that I was only a tool in Thea's hand, something she needed in her work, she was using me, didn't I see, and when the time came she'd discard me, luckily, she repeated, because this way, at least I relieved her of some of her burdens, actually replaced her for a while, she had known Thea for twenty years, might say she'd been living with her for that long, and so could tell me precisely, with the accuracy of a train schedule, in fact, down to the day, hour, minute, what Thea would do next, and I should know, she said, that if she hadn't noticed how attached Thea had become to me, she wouldn't be so frank with me.

For first rehearsals she always shows up quietly, solemnly, unapproachably, Frau Kühnert went on, trying to charm me with her Theaological knowledge, leaning very close to me, speaking almost into my mouth; though she was never truly beautiful herself, I'd have to agree that she was always able to create indescribable beauty around her, out of nothing, if we want to be blunt about it; before the first rehearsal she'd do something with her hair, dye it, cut it, let it grow, and wouldn't talk about it to anyone, not even to her, spending every free moment with Arno, with whom she was in love again as she'd been in her youth, she'd rush home to him, go on hikes and excursions with him, which Arno, being a professional climber, could certainly do without; and she'd become a regular Hausfrau, making jam, cleaning and painting the apartment, sewing dresses, but by the end of the second week of rehearsals or the beginning of the third, she'd start with these impulsive getaways, just like now, with me, she'd wave her over and they'd ride someplace where she would get soused, behave like any man at his worst, pick fights, sing, belch, quarrel with waiters, fart, throw up all over the table, Frau Kühnert had seen it all, I couldn't tell her anything new, she'd had to pick her up and take her home from some of the most awful places imaginable, and then the next day either she'd send word she was deathly ill, not to expect her, she felt terrible about it, but the doctor said it might take months to recover, a nervous breakdown or an attack of ulcers, something very serious, no, she didn't want to talk about it, it was very personal, a feminine problem, probably a tumor in her uterus, she was bleeding buckets, and she had a kidney infection, her vocal cords were inflamed, or she'd drag herself to the theater, bearing up well, thank you, so well that in the middle of rehearsals she'd have a crying fit and offer to quit the role, and then of course they had to plead with her, tell her how indispensable she was, console and beg her, and she would let herself be persuaded but then sink into the darkest depression, and that was no longer a joke, she couldn't get up, couldn't get dressed, let her hair get all greasy and stringy; and whenever this happened, Frau Kühnert even had to cut her finger- and toenails for her, but through it all Thea felt terribly guilty about letting down her friends and colleagues, who were all so sweet and nice and talented, she ought to be grateful, she would say, to be working with a fine director like Langerhans, who could bring out the best in her, the very best.

She would become attentive, buying presents for everyone, there was nothing she wouldn't do for you, she would want to have a baby though she was getting bored to tears with Arno, who spent all his time puttering about in that dreary high-rise flat of theirs when he should have been up in his real world, on top of mountains; if she could only buy him a little house somewhere with a garden, she felt sorry for him all right, but even more sorry for herself for having to live out her life with someone so miserable; and she, Frau Kühnert went on, had to fight her every afternoon, almost coming to blows as she practically shoved her into her car to make her go home, and if she had an evening performance, not only would she not go home but she would roam the streets with someone until morning, or sleep with some stranger, fall in love, or want a divorce because she'd had enough; she'd keep babbling and showing off, trying to captivate everyone, male or female, it didn't matter, and she'd begin to hate those who wouldn't respond, because maybe they were also in the throes of getting into their roles, she'd make rehearsals difficult for them, threaten to denounce them, and then the others would start hating her, too, torment her and denounce her, because I shouldn't think for a moment that this regularly repeated process was only her specialty, they were all like that here, this was a madhouse; but now we were into the next phase — so, as I could see, there was no change here at all — when Thea had to retreat; with opening night fast approaching, she put herself on hold, because she realized she was all alone once again, no one would or could help her, or rather, she should use the raging emotions stirred up by real, living people only onstage and if she used them offstage she'd end up destroying herself; and she wasn't at all as intuitive and spontaneous as I might think, but managed her resources very carefully, calculating and using them with great economy, because in the final analysis she didn't care about anything except what happened onstage, how she'd bring things off there, so if I really insisted on seeing some changes in Thea, I should see only that each new role demanded a different way of arousing her crazed emotions, and an infinite number of ways were possible; she herself did not exist, no matter how hard I tried, I could never see her; now, for example, in her current role, what I saw was not her but the difference, that clear gap or whatever, that separated Thea from the cold calculating bitch onstage who, even while standing over the dead body of her father-in-law, wanted to remain queen, which a sane person would never do; what always made Thea different from her own self was that she kept looking for herself in roles that didn't really suit her; she herself was nothing but a giant absence, a blank, and if I really meant to be of any help, I must never forget that about her.

But since I did not want to be of any help, in anything — it must have been my attentiveness and exaggerated politeness, my obliging, nearly servile humility that gave Frau Kühnert the wrong idea — my behavior stemming from an acute interest, which I was flattered to see Thea showed similarly in me, and if there was anybody I wanted to help, it was Melchior, which is why I felt I was using Thea and not the other way around, Frau Kühnert did not succeed in disillusioning or offending me, because I was shrewdly and obsessively determined to reach the moment of my desired goal, taking into account that its circumstances might be shaped by the characters of the two women, and went about considering and anticipating these eventualities with the cool detachment of a professional criminal preparing for a really big job.

All the same, it took some time before I could predict on any given day whether we were going to give Frau Kühnert a lift or just leave her at the theater, since Thea never said a word about where we were going, as if she didn't know or knew so well she didn't have to say it, the important thing was to go away from here, be somewhere else, alone, or rather with me, which for her had become a peculiar form of solitude: if we were going to end up at the Müggelheim Ridge, near the Köpenick Castle, or in the nature preserve south of Grünau, or in Rahnsdorf, then we'd take Frau Kühnert along and drop her off at Steffelbauerstrasse, which was on the way — of course Thea may have chosen these destinations with Frau Kühnert in mind in the first place, as a polite gesture toward her friend — but when we headed west, toward Potsdam and the gently flowing Havel River, or east, toward Strausberg or Seefeld, then we simply forgot her at the stage door; Thea would only wave goodbye to her, sometimes not even that, which Frau Kühnert, wrapped in the indifference of her jealousy and deep hurt, pretended not to notice, just as Thea pretended that her little wave or lack of it was the most natural gesture in the world.

These acts of betrayal were not without consequences, but as far as I could see, they were consequences their friendship could easily withstand.

Basically, I had no reason to doubt anything Frau Kühnert told me about Thea; after all, she had known her longer, more intimately, and from a different perspective, but she didn't necessarily know her better, because she knew her only as well as one woman might know another; the hidden little currents and secrets, the subtle signals of her gestures, words, and body which Thea sent out meant exclusively for men, Frau Kühnert could see only as an outside observer, while I, an initiate, instrument, or victim, could experience them on my skin, in my body; anyway, our perspectives on Thea were entirely different, and besides, I knew Frau Kühnert well enough to find my way around the labyrinth of her intentions, to understand the method and meaning of her exaggerations.

I had to conclude, for instance, that when it came to years she invariably resorted to overstatement; just as the age difference between Thea and Melchior wasn't twenty years, neither was it true that she had known Thea for so long — it was only ten years, yet these little lies and exaggerations aside, I had no reason to doubt her credibility, and my feelings told me that, for her, brazen lies and exaggerations no less than scrupulous honesty were all part of the same elaborate and formidable — in its passion rather moving — emotional strategy.

Her superstitious insistence on the magic number wasn't necessarily the result of cunning female rivalry: the reason she said twenty years instead of ten was not to put her friend in her place or at least in the right age bracket — it's true she was a few years younger than Thea but far less remarkable in every way — and was the same reason she was so frighteningly candid with me, shamelessly betraying their friendship by calling attention to Thea's age and revealing the agonies and craziness that went with her profession as an actress: Frau Kühnert was alluding to biological, aesthetic, and ethical realities she hoped would keep me away from Thea.

And I couldn't help noticing that these realities, even if I hadn't attributed much importance to them, did succeed in dampening my interest, thrusting me back from the role of emotionally involved participant to the castrated one of observer; Frau Kühnert stepped between us at a crucial moment, when our mutual attractions were about to converge, and, with her jealousy poured into a seemingly innocuous monologue, ventured into enemy territory, which according to the rules regulating the war of love between men and women she had no business entering.

But with great skill and nearly mythic calm Thea managed to drive back these unwarranted incursions.

No strategic move or subtle emotional maneuver by Frau Kühnert went unnoticed by Thea, who was always on guard, like on that windy late October afternoon when Frau Kühnert got hold of me in one of the narrow passageways connecting the dressing rooms, to pant and whisper at me the emotionally enthralling and professionally quite well-done grand monologue about the process of creating a role and maintaining a distance between actor and character, and when Thea emerged from her dressing room, it took only one look at her friend's flushed face for her to know what had been going on and what had to be done about it: putting her quick wits and absolute power over her friend to immediate good use, she grabbed my hand, turned on Frau Kühnert with the words You've been yakking to him long enough, and — brushing her face against Frau Kühnert's, which may or may not have been a peck of a farewell kiss, and if it wasn't, well, it was only because she had no time — she was off, had to run, with me of course, she got me out of a very tight spot by literally pushing me out the door, which was both an act of revenge and a deliberate humiliation from the standpoint of Frau Kühnert, who with the kiss she did and did not receive was left in a state of outraged shock and utter physical helplessness, as though she'd just been stabbed through the heart; I could almost see blood spurting from her chest.

Thea was carried across the street by the momentum of her resolve, but as soon as we were in the car I could see that the little scene had upset her and put her in a bad mood.

She said nothing until sometime after we got out again — I don't remember which way we left the city because, as I did with Melchior when he was driving, I relied completely on her knowledge of places, and in this way every feature of her face, every move she made, became part of the unfamiliar landscape I was always delighted to rediscover; first we sped down an almost empty highway, then unexpectedly she turned off onto a dirt road, where the area's unusual flatness under the sky's silent dome was relieved only by the soft outlines of occasional woods, razor-sharp outlines of lakes, canals, or other bodies of water, and the dirt road we were driving on seemed to be leading straight to the center of the earth's flat dish; the car rattled and jerked and began to cough as it tried to make it up a very gentle rise; not wanting to push her luck, Thea let the motor die and engaged the handbrake.

Once we were out of the city, it didn't really matter where we ended up.

It was one of those deceptive inclines that will have you believe, with their long, gradual rise, that they won't take much to climb, yet by the time you get to the top you're out of breath; from the dirt road a narrow wellbeaten trail led to the top, then although it disappeared near the flat crest, it seemed to continue somewhere up in the sky, appearing to the eyes like a gentle invitation the feet could not resist; sinking her hands comfortably into her coat pockets, Thea proceeded slowly up the hill, lost in thought, while I looked down, wondering who trod here before us and packed the dirt so hard, and also trying to figure out how such trails are formed.

I seemed to be stuck with having to ponder the useless questions of how one ensnares the world in the net of one's secret desires and how one becomes captive in the net cast by others.

The westering sun appeared for brief moments behind enormous, swirling, spiraling, dark-gray clouds, through the opening between which the sky's dome shone through in yellows, blues, and reds; a strong wind was blowing, but since it had nothing to cling to on this flat terrain except us, the whole landscape appeared to be silent.

Only now and then could the sound of birds be heard; long, blurry shadows and deeply burning cold lights streaked by.

In the mistless air, the distant horizon with its gentle curves and dips appeared to the eye sharp and close up, and our bodies sensed the air's chill in a similar way; it wasn't an unpleasant cold, because it nicely encircled each limb, gave strength and vigor to our movements.

It's in the northern regions that one experiences this, where the clear transparent cold has a way of isolating the body's warmth, which can then transmit its inner energies, endow one's acts with firmness and simplicity.

She stopped for a moment, I followed a few paces behind; being closer to her in the infinite distances of this vast open space would have seemed out of place; she didn't wait for me to catch up, only turned around to make sure I was still there before walking on, and then she said, You must never be angry at her, Sieglinde is a very decent girl, and she is always right, always, in everything.

When we reached the top of the leisurely sweeping rise, beauty stretched its new face before us with such serene majesty that words would only have marred it.

From here the trail descended more precipitously to the softly undulating land directly below, beneath a sheer drop, as if pulled down by its own immense weight, where deep in its lap it harbored a shimmering little pond, while farther on, bright strips of farmland and dark-crested woods stretched to the horizon, the intimate grandeur of their smooth lines made even lovelier by the orbs of a few solitary bushes.

For a while we stood on this seemingly lofty though rather low hilltop, admiring nature's spectacle from that well-known pose of casual strollers who usually report, in emotion-filled voices, with phrases like No, it was so beautiful, so infinitely beautiful, I thought I could never tear myself away, I had to stay to the end of my days! which, whether we like it or not, is also an admission, full of nostalgic pain, that much as we may like such a spectacle of nature, we don't know what to do with it, can't identify with it, we'd love to but can't, it's too vast, too distant, we ourselves are too alien in it, maybe too alive, and maybe in death we'll be able to move away and look for a different vantage point, perhaps the ultimate one, though we really ought to stay here because, with or without us, this is nature's ultimate landscape; then, after taking that steep trail down to the pond, to the more reassuring and more prosaic level, where the view was no longer so infinitely beautiful and inhuman, Thea stopped and turned to face me.

Sometimes I could scratch her eyes out, she said in a very calm, deep, earnest voice.

As if with her voice she were continuing the tranquillity of the wind, the clouds, and the undulating lines of the land; the sound of her voice was also twisting and winding, though in the opposite direction, back to the very near present.

But if she wasn't there for me, she said, I might have done myself in long ago.

And now, lurking in her voice, there was a nostalgia tinted with some self-pity, for which the beautiful setting had to be responsible, for it filled us both with a kind of anguished yearning, and she had to break with that, too, for she didn't really feel sorry for herself, she always did what she wanted, what her life as an actress demanded, and whatever self-pity she did feel could be neither expressed nor shared; amused by her own insurmountable curiosity, she broke into a sarcastic smile and came out with the question, after all: What sort of gossip was Frau Kühnert spreading about her this time?

I was taken aback by the smile, her pettiness was out of place in this sublime setting even if she knew it, and I didn't feel like answering her, for to betray Frau Kühnert just then would have run counter to my plans; Nothing special, I said, and, opting for the safety of a general observation, added, Though I've never met anyone who's had a chance to observe, in such a primal form, how a role takes shape within an actor.

Her response to my evasion was a wry smile; Within any actor or within me, she asked.

An actor, yes, any actor, I said.

No, there was nothing primal in what she did, she said reflectively, but I had the feeling she was wondering about my refusal to give her a straight answer; True, she went on, she was unschooled and uncouth, but also intelligent enough to know a lot about a lot of things; and then her face reverted to her sarcastic smile.

Did Sieglinde tell me, by any chance, she asked, that she sometimes let herself go completely and was capable of doing the most dreadful things? she could have, of course, they were so close she knew all about her gutter behavior.

I looked at her quizzically, but she only nodded, perhaps wanted to go no further; she put her hand lightly on my arm.

There were only two people in her life, she said, everything else was just one big stupidity, no matter what she did, she'd always go back to them, and they would never let her go.

I know, I said.

We looked at each other for a long time, a little as we had looked at the landscape before, because I did know what she'd meant and she could be sure I knew; this was the moment when she neutralized not only Frau Kühnert's emotion-driven maneuvering but also my machinations, the emotional dishonesty with which I tried to further Melchior's interests.

Two human beings were standing in a landscape breathing with a life infinitely greater than theirs, and they understood each other, not with their minds or emotions, for in this understanding the central function was assigned to that naturally accepted given to which we hadn't paid much attention before, neither intellectually nor emotionally, namely, that she was a woman and I was a man.

The moment exceeded our abilities and intentions, alluded to our natural differences and the one and only possibility of reconciling them, and thus, overriding all our efforts to remain composed, terribly embarrassed us both.

She didn't let the embarrassment deepen but quickly removed her hand from my arm, gave her shoulder a funny little shrug — at once a coy gesture of surrender and withdrawal — turned, and, now completely in a different time dimension than the city we'd left behind, but also turning away from the landscape, she continued walking along the trail toward the distant woods.

Table d'Hôte

Despite my valiant protest, my fiery and effervescent senses are at the mercy of raw forces we usually refer to as base or dark and, if I'm permitted a rather common term, downright obscene, and even in more refined terms they are no less than filthy, evil, deserving of the greatest contempt and harshest punishment; let's hasten to add that all this is not without justification, for everything I'll be compelled to talk about now is indeed related to the unclean end products of bodily functions as well as to the relief and gratification accompanying them; but no less justified is the question: do or do not these raw forces live inside us as do our discriminating moral sensibilities, whose inevitable task it is to fight them? but whether I consider the impure a part of me or alien to me, whether I accept the challenge and take up arms against it or with a weary shrug submit to it, it does exist — whatever I do, I cannot but continually feel its undeniable power, like some pornography of divine origin; if I manage to keep it at bay when awake, then it assails me, treacherously, in my dreams, flaunting its infinite power over my body and soul, there is no escaping it, and to try is to fail, as I learned on the night of my arrival in Heiligendamm, and let that be a lesson! no matter how much I was trying to be rid of my many worries that night — my foolish reflections on my artistic work, the dark yet exciting memories of my parents and my childhood, the arduous and unsettling journey, the equally unsettling though tender and touching farewell to Helene — no matter how much I tried to escape into a long, deep, restful, purifying sleep, it startled me again, although this time rather gently, not treating me as cruelly as at other times when it would appear, let's say, in the image of a naked man offering me his erect phallus, but announcing itself in a most innocent dream image, its appearance no more than a gentle reminder of my helplessness.

Loud, strange footsteps were reverberating in a familiar, wet street; the night, mysterious and flecked with the glimmer of gas lamps, enveloped me as smoothly, softly yet firmly, as only a loving woman's embrace or a dream can, and so I sank with it, hardly against my will, surrendering completely to the beauty of the darkness accentuated by the golden halos around the lamps; and since this nocturnal street scene was not far from turning into a person, yes, from becoming Helene herself, although nothing indicated directly that the scene was her embodiment, still, quite freely, without fear or reticence, my senses and emotions blended into and spread throughout this scene as if it were Helene, as though I were belatedly bestowing on her the very feelings which while awake — overwhelmed by the force of circumstances — even at the wildest moments of our ecstasy I was compelled to withhold from her and of course from myself as well.

It was as though the greatest good, the highest, most complete and splendid good was about to overpower me, and I had to hand over everything I had; indeed, it had already taken everything from me, devoured me, I was it and it was me, yet still it had more to give and so did I, much more skill; it was on the way to this good that my strong footsteps were resounding, this was the street of the good, the night, dark, and lights of the good, and I felt that the more I gave the more I had left to give; and it was all very good, even if my footsteps seemed to echo back to me from a cold, hollow space.

But from here I could see it, for the nature of the good now made itself visible; and I simply slipped out, emerged from the bothersome noise of my footsteps, to reach it; now I could feel that there was something better than the good, and whatever was waiting for me could only be better, for if I could walk right through all this good so easily and freely, then redemption, for which I had yearned so while lying at the bottom of my suffering, and that unpleasant clatter of footsteps had to do with suffering, could now come to pass without special fuss or ceremony.

And the love, oh, the love granted me now was great indeed; to love the cobblestones of the street as the cambered light highlighted and absorbed each and every one of them, to love the raindrops ready to fall from the branches, to love those sinister footfalls, too, and the gas jets dancing over the water collected at the bottom of the glass globes, to love the darkness for allowing me to see the light, and the cat that scurried by like an unexpected shadow, to love the soft tracks its paws left behind in the night, to love the glistening surface of the slender, finely wrought lampposts and the sound of that rusty creak the ear could hardly register in this loving daze.

And the eyes searched in vain.

For it was like a bubble, could burst any moment.

The creaking sound grew stronger, and leaving the clatter of my feet behind me on the stones, I was headed toward it; a metal door would make such a rusty sound when creaking in the wind, but there was no wind! I was hoping this would be the last clatter, after which nothing more could disturb the thick silence of the dark, but I was still walking and each step produced a new sound.

And then I saw myself approaching.

How could I spare the darkness from these noises?

There I was, standing behind the steel door blown open by the wind, standing in the stench and following intently the sound of those footsteps.

The wind slammed the door shut with a harsh grating sound, hiding me behind it, but the next instant it flew wide-open and I once more saw myself waiting there.

But where was I, anyway?

The place was not unfamiliar even if I could not locate myself in it exactly, which is why the question: Where? persisted; the possibility of being at once here and there made me so anxious I wanted to cry out, and would have, too, had I not been wary of disturbing the darkness with a loud cry, for I was still walking on the street of the good, and knew I was, I wouldn't let anyone deceive me! yet this street led me straight to that door, the bare trees and the wet lampposts were standing there like road markers, I couldn't change course now, I had to reach the steel door that evoked too much shame, desire, fear, curiosity, and humiliation for it to be unfamiliar; its secrets I would have liked to hide even from myself, yet there I was, in the same old spot, waiting for myself in the heavy stench of tar and urine, and I must have stood there for quite a while, because the foul smell had penetrated not only my clothes — whatever happened to my hat? — but my skin as well, it was emanating from me, even from my hair, so there was no point in slipping away, there was a finality about my being there; I had arrived.

And then somebody, the one ruling over my dream — for in spite of everything I knew this was a dream, no need to get excited, I could wake any minute, though someone in control of the dream wouldn't let me— only I could not remember who this person might be, although his voice sounded familiar as he whispered that he was waiting behind the door, and no matter that I still felt the calm bestowed on me by my contact with the good, there was nothing to be done, nothing, because all that, he whispered right into my ear now, had been only to entice me: the dark was waiting for me.

Nothing to be done.

So I kept walking, not surprised at my trembling; I was afraid, but it seemed there was no degree of fear or anxiety I could not make myself adjust to; I protested, of course, tried to protect myself, but it was as if that certain force were compelling my body, now writhing in protest, to admit and accept all the secret desires it had tried to conceal, to acknowledge the terrible burdens it had to carry all these years, and this struggle made the way long, and my footsteps grew fainter; though the clatter was still there I no longer felt the ground securely under me, and like an epileptic falling into a fit I lost control over my limbs and felt gurgling saliva gushing from my open mouth; I kicked and thrashed and panted, but nothing changed; the grim little structure with its opening and closing, creaking and squeaking black mouth was waiting for me; with clearly human sounds it creaked and groaned and panted in the middle of a clump of bare bushes.

It just sat there, squat and motionless, etching sharply its ornamental entablature into the night sky, while I wouldn't even dare cry out; I kept walking.

No wonder, then, that the next morning I was quite exhausted, worn to a frazzle, as they say, as if I hadn't slept all night, though I must have slept very deeply to feel so dazed; still, in my frustration, I would have liked to go back into the dream, bccause maybe it was precisely there and then that what should have happened did happen, but my room in the meantime became much too bright, its features too sharp, as if outside, behind the drawn curtains, snow had fallen; it felt cool, almost cold; occasionally I heard soft footsteps in the hallways, and from the breakfast room downstairs came the even clatter and clang of dishes, snatches of conversation; a door creaked, then the same door that had wakened me during the night slammed again, there was the brief laughter of a woman; all these friendly, soothing sounds reached me softly, from a distance, but I didn't feel like getting out of bed, for all those pleasant morning sounds, familiar to me from childhood, bade me resume a life whose apparent ease and leisure was now not at all to my liking; no, I shouldn't have come here, after all, I said to myself, irritated, and turning over to the other side and closing my eyes, I tried to sink back into the warmth and the dark the dream had offered; but back where?

Snatches of the dream were still hovering about, it didn't seem too hard to return to it, and the man, too, was still standing there in front of the pissoir's gleaming, tarred wall, still in the pose of handing me a rose, which I didn't want to take from him because the grin on his puffy white face was so repulsive, and interestingly the rose looked blue, purplish blue, a firm, fleshy bud about to burst open; and now it was offering itself to me most insistently, as if morning had not yet come, as if I were still there, lingering with it in the night.

And then, in the open door between the bedroom and the sitting room, I saw standing before me a young valet with flaming red hair, standing there quietly, steadily, attentively, his friendly brown eyes following every little movement of my awakening, as though he'd been there forever and even had a good idea of what my dream had been about, although it was probably his soundless footsteps or his mere presence that had startled me out of my slumber just now; he was a strapping young lad, his healthy robust build more like a porter's or a coachman's, his thighs and shoulders about to burst the seams of his trousers and green frock coat, a quiet unobtrusive presence that reminded me of my own duties, as if he had clambered out of my dream or from a place even deeper within me, and also made me think of our servant back home and, once again, of the memory-filled night I had just gone through; I sensed the same stolid calm and rough-hewn dignity emanating from his body that I used to feel in Hilde's presence, so while feasting my eyes on the boy's freckled face and also suppressing a powerful yawn, I grumpily repeated the sentence, by now completely superfluous: No, I should never have come here; but if not here, where? I wondered, and this hulking body pressed into the wrong clothes seemed so comical, as did his flat nose, his freckles, his childishly open curious eyes, and the solemn air with which he stood there waiting for my order, and my own grumpiness, now that I was fully awake, also seemed so inappropriate and foolish that I burst out laughing.

"Will you be getting up now, Herr Thoenissen?" the valet asked dryly, as if he hadn't heard my laughter, which might have been rather over-familiar.

"Yes, I think so. Anyway, I should."

"Will you have tea or coffee?"

"Perhaps tea."

"Shall I fill the washbowl now or after the tea?"

"Do you think one should wash every morning?"

He was silent for a moment, his expression unchanged, but he did seem to understand something.

"And will you be taking your breakfast downstairs or shall I bring it up?"

"No, no, I'll go downstairs, of course. But isn't it rather chilly here?"

"I'll see to the fire right away, Herr Thoenissen."

"Yes, and how about giving me a shave?"

"Of course, Herr Thoenissen."

He disappeared for a few minutes, an opportunity I should have used to get out of bed and relieve myself — I suspect he took his time to give me a chance to do just that, for among themselves men are considerate that way, I wouldn't call it politeness but, rather, a brotherly appreciation of the embarrassing fact that in the morning an overfull bladder often causes an erection, and to jump out of bed in such a state would mean presenting whoever was there with the sight of a deceptive function of biological processes; we'd have to let him in on something whose true nature we ourselves don't fully understand and for that reason deem rather shameful — in any case, I delayed getting up and when he wheeled in a cart and quickly closed the door behind him I was still lying in bed or, rather, having tucked the pillow behind my back, was half sitting, making myself very comfortable, as if I knew that by getting up I would interrupt, or send in a different direction, an event which promised to be perfect in itself and at the moment was far more important to me than easing some physical discomfort; the pressure in the bladder cannot artificially be relieved, but the erection will subside if we divert our attention from it, and with it the last trace of the dream's sensuous excitement will perhaps also fade.

These were some of the things I was thinking about while he quietly busied himself around me, rolling the serving cart up to my bed, treading softly on the carpet, and making certain the dishes on the glass-topped cart did not rattle; I felt I was watching a feline, a silent predator, disguised as a valet; the event of the moment, which held me in its grip and which I found pleasing, was the series of his movements and gestures refined to the point of imperceptibility: without dripping a single drop on the gleaming damask napkin, he poured out the steaming tea and asked if I took it with milk — I don't know, should I? I said, but the deliberate audacity of my reply did not bother him; he acknowledged it and at the same time intimated that he was in no position to answer this question, the decision rested entirely with me, but whatever I decided would certainly meet with his approval, the manner of which would be neither submissive nor indifferent but would reveal, in a purely neutral form, the embarrassing perfection of readiness to meet any wish and at the same time take into account my possible eccentricities, which he might find hard to follow; with stubby fingers he folded back the napkin covering a basket of crisp rolls, and after handing me the teacup and the sugar bowl with its silver tongs, he was gone — I don't know how he did it, I didn't even hear his retreating footsteps, he simply left, sensing I had no further need of him.

Though at the moment there was no one I needed more.

When after the first sip of the hot tea I looked over the rim of my cup, he was back, carrying firewood in a big wicker basket, and he knelt down in front of the white tile stove, positioning himself so as not to turn his back to me completely, I could see him in profile while he cleaned out the stove and started the fire; with one half of his body he remained at my disposal, ready to let me be if I wished or to respond to my slightest indication of need.

The rolls were warm and fragrant, drops of water glistened on the little balls of yellow butter resting in a bed of fresh strawberry leaves; when I gave the cart a slight nudge with my elbow I saw the raspberry jam dotted with tiny seeds quiver in its dish.

If my childhood had not been burdened with so many dark unpleasant memories, if the image of my mother, even as a memory, had not been so coldly distant, I might have thought that what was beckoning to me from this little scene was a long-lost feeling of security, might have said then that in those wholesome rolls, steaming tea, fresh yellow butter, quivering jam, I sensed a peaceful order of things that assures us that once we awaken from our dreams, however frightful, our world — at whose center we ourselves sit, in the bed warmed with our own bodies — not only will be there, spinning securely according to its own immutable laws, but will struggle mightily to satisfy our needs and desires, will heat our room with the trees of the forest, with no cause for alarm, fear, or anxiety; but the truth is that even as a child I had sensed the brittleness, falsehood, and illusory nature of this order; and later, my passionate search had led me to people who were not only ready to expose it but whose declared purpose was to end it, end all deceptions and bring about genuine well-being and security, even at the price of blowing up this shaky corrupt order and incurring a heavy loss of life, so that afterward, on the ruins of the old, they could build a new world fashioned in their own image; I might say, then, that while my eyes, tongue, and ears savored the pleasures of the morning's unchanged old-fashioned order, my mind's eye viewed its own joys, reminiscent of its childhood, from the greatest possible distance, and as it did, I suddenly grew old.

How far this white bedroom lit by bright sunshine seemed from the rooms of bygone years, the dim rooms of my youth where I spent my time in secret company with Claus Diestenweg, hatching plots to bring down the hated old order and build a new one; and how very close it seemed, I thought, to the rooms of my childhood which never really existed in this pristine form.

A fleeting change of mood is all it takes, and we feel, to quote the poet, that time is out of joint.

It was almost as if the man now lying in bed, slightly disillusioned and still perturbed by dreams yet casually sipping tea, had to cope not with three successive stages of a single life but with the lives of three different individuals.

A puff of smoke blew out of the stove, then the fire flared up, painting the valet's face red and continuing to blaze, it seemed, in his hair.

The smoke made him squint; he wiped his tearing eyes and for a moment stared into the clearing, now smokeless fire.

"What's your name?" I asked him quietly, still from my bed.

"Hans," he answered, and as if momentarily forgetting his dutiful attitude, he did not bother to turn toward me.

"And your family name?"

I was glad to have a valet here with me, yet at the same time, having just slipped back from my earlier life, I was ashamed at being glad.

"It's Baader, sir," he said, his voice back to the earlier, proper tone, and there seemed to be no connection at all between the two voices.

"And how old are you?"

"Eighteen, sir."

"Then I will ask you, Hans, to congratulate me; as of this morning, I am thirty years old."

He stood up at once.

He broke into a grin; his beautiful almond-shaped eyes disappeared in the soft cushions of his eyelids and cheeks still like a child's; above formidable teeth his gums flashed pink, almost like raw flesh, which in redheads are always in attractive harmony with their complexion and hair color; sweetly, almost as it I were his contemporary standing next to him, a chum he was about to jab playfully in the chest, he swung out his arm toward me, but the gesture was so blatant and therefore so inappropriate that he became embarrassed, blushed, his whole face turning flaming red, and he could not speak.

"Yes, today is my birthday."

"If we had known, Herr Thoenissen, we would have observed it properly; still, allow me to congratulate you!" he said, smiling, although the smile was no longer meant for me but for himself, pleased that he had managed so cleverly to extricate himself from a delicate situation.

And then there was silence again.

And when in this helpless silence I thanked him, something happened between us which I had anticipated, waited for, tried to help along, for naturally, my thanks alluded not to his congratulations, which I had more or less forced out of him and which in themselves were rather ludicrous, but to him, him for being so perfect and for moving me deeply with his perfection.

He stood there silently for a moment, as I lay motionless in my bed, he bowed his head, humbled and helpless, and I kept looking at him.

And when, moments later, he asked if he could now bring the water, I motioned him to go: this was the boundary beyond which lay the forbidden realm that I shouldn't have wanted us to enter; at the same time, something also came to an end between us, because the intimacy forced out of the moment was now exposed, and sharing anything between us was out of the question, I remained master and he servant who had to fend for himself, be clever in dealing with me, most probably as disgusted as he may have been moved, understanding our inequality enough so as to spoil any pure game of intimacy between us; it was an experiment, then, to want to touch something that had nothing to do with our assigned roles, and I had nothing to lose, since with my advantage it remained my experiment and, I had to admit, for me it was humiliatingly one-sided; yet I couldn't resist the experiment's temptation, because I enjoyed my advantage, enjoyed his defenselessness and enjoyed that he had to endure it precisely because he was a servant, what's more, could even enjoy my own humiliation given his; so our little story continued on its own accord, almost completely independent of me; it couldn't be stopped.

Standing astride my spread-out thighs, he wet my face with a porous sponge that still smelled faintly of the sea; with a slow, circular motion of two fingers he applied the shaving cream and with the soft shaving brush whipped it into a thick lather over my stubble; of course our bodies were very close; with his free hand he had to hold or support my head and put his palm on my temple or forehead now and again; I had to guess his wishes from his movements, follow them, help them along; his knee would occasionally touch mine, but he had to focus all his attention on my face, while I kept an eye on his every move; he held his breath a little and so did I, both of us trying not to breathe into each other's face, a mutual restraint that only intensified the scene unfolding between us, which was about to reach its climax when, having done with the preparations, he pulled the bone-handled razor from its case, ran the blade a few times over the strop, stepped between my legs this time, placed his index finger on my temples, pulling the skin nice and tight, ready for the blade, and then, for one moment, looked into my eyes.

With a single decisive stroke he drew the razor down the left side of my face, I could hear the fine crackle of my whiskers as they parted from the skin, chuckling inwardly at my own nervousness, because no matter how readily we may present our face to the razor and try to be very relaxed about it, fear for life makes the facial muscles tense and knotted, so we want to see that the razor hasn't gotten stuck somewhere and then slipped and cut the skin, our eyes almost pop from their sockets with curiosity, and at the same time we must continue to exude trust, since otherwise we might hinder the work and thus increase the danger, ourselves becoming the cause of a little accident as unpleasant for us as for the man with the razor, because if the skin is injured, suddenly raw hatred spills out from under the disguise of the intimate physical proximity and mutual attentiveness; he'd hate us for our annoyingly unpredictable skin, which makes a mockery of his skill and experience by having whiskers in swirling clumps, or simply hiding little lumps, not to mention peak-headed pimples, that get in the way of the razor; and we'd hate him for his clumsiness and, most of all, for having put ourselves thoughtlessly into his hands; and the mutual hatred only increases when, looking in the mirror and seeing blood trickling down, we both have to pretend it's nothing, and he begins to whistle in embarrassment and with a wild gesture wrapped in the guise of helpful routine picks up the styptic pencil and, causing more, stinging pain, even takes revenge on us; but so far nothing untoward happened; from the way he smeared the lather on his stretched-out finger and from there flung it into a little bowl, I could tell he was experienced; he turned my head and after stepping even closer, so that my nose almost brushed against his shirtfront, starched to an armorlike stiffness, and I could feel his slightly bent knee very close to my groin, he just as decisively shaved the right side of my face; but despite the barber's skill and experience, his almost surgeonlike precision, the skin remains tense and taut, we feel it quivering on our face, and the most sensitive areas are yet to come, the complex chin region, the neck, the throat, to say nothing of the fact that while he is jumping about brandishing the razor, the thought does occur to us: What if he should accidentally cut off our nose or ear, such horrors have been known to happen! but looking at him like this, from below, with upturned eyes, for all the attractive charm of his youth and strength I found his face somehow much too soft, and this exaggerated softness could be seen only from this angle; on his skin, under which you could sense a layer of white fat, the reddish fuzz had hardly begun to sprout; he'll never have to shave, I noted with satisfaction, he'll remain hairless like a eunuch, which you could also see in his large nostrils and capriciously curving mouth — he was biting his lower lip as he delicately worked away on my chin — in a few years' time he'll probably grow a second chin, I thought, his big frame will run to fat, he'll pant and wheeze under the burden of his huge mass, and as my throat anticipated the ticklishly sensuous pleasure of the razor's touch, when he'd stretch the skin away from my Adam's apple and run the blade, smoothly and dangerously, over it, I lifted my hand so he couldn't see, and waiting until he got there, not before, and even then making it appear as though I did it from fear, without moving a muscle in the rest of my body, I placed my hand on his firm thigh.

The smooth muscles under my hand were hard, incredibly powerful, my palm was at a loss on them, seemed weak and insignificant, as if I were touching him in vain, for not only did this reveal nothing of his inner nature, it didn't even let me touch the surface, as if this surface, which of course I could feel, were only a cover on the real surface, a protective armor hard to the point of insensibility; this is what I could have thought if I had thought of anything, for it was clear that just as I could not register any reaction in his eyes and mouth or other features of his face bending over me, now I could not do so in his flesh either, no embarrassment, no consent, no rejection; his skin, face, and muscles remained as neutral as all his movements had been; I was the one who wanted to make this cruel neutrality my own, I reacted to him, not he to me; he didn't feel me, seemed not to understand me or, more precisely, didn't think there was anything to feel or understand.

It always seems pointless to make sweeping statements, but still, I have to say that never in my life, not before or after this incident, have I made a more senseless gesture.

By making it, though, I felt I had reached the peak or the bottom of my strange inclinations.

I couldn't just pull back my hand, anyway the gesture couldn't be undone; at the same time I felt nothing, even though I left my hand there; still working on my neck, he was untouched, as if my move had been only a figment of my imagination, which of course couldn't possibly reach him.

I wouldn't have minded if he had slit my throat at that moment.

If with a barely audible crack the razor had cut through the delicate cartilage.

And I couldn't close my eyes, waiting still for a telltale sign.

To shake into the bowl the lather accumulated on his finger he had to turn aside, which was the only reason he moved his thigh away from my hand.

The orphaned hand, a strange stump still part of my body, was empty, left hanging in the air.

He dipped the sponge in the water and, supporting my head with his arm, washed off my face.

In the meantime I could finally close my eyes.

"This is a cursed place, sir!" I heard him say in my darkness.

By the time I opened my eyes he was again leaning aside to throw the sponge back into the bowl, and there was no telltale sign.

"Some eau de cologne?" he asked, without turning around.

His perfect poise, seeming neither offended nor reproachful, cheered me, for it was as though together we had relegated my failed overture to the world's great junk heap of futile experiments.

"Yes, why not."

At the same time it also occurred to me that his strange statement may have been a secret allusion to those frightful nocturnal noises, the cries and shrieks that woke me from my first sound sleep, with which, for all I knew, he may have had something to do.

In which case my gesture was not an insult and may not have been completely in vain.

Holding the back of my head with one hand, pressing his little finger to my neck and sinking the others into my hair, he used his other hand to splash alcohol on my face.

He fanned my face with a cloth to make the alcohol evaporate more quickly — at such moments we always feel especially refreshed — and for the first time in a long while we looked into each other's eyes.

He must have known something, the place may have been cursed, but the little event I had managed so successfully to force out of ourselves now made the place of my memories cozy and intimate, suggesting I wasn't mistaken, after all — his glance remained dispassionate — yes, I'd be just fine here, the fire crackled away cheerfully in the stove, and I could hardly wait for him to gather his things and leave; as if driven by a slight fever, I was ready to pounce on my black briefcase, snap open its lock, spread my papers over the clear desk, and get to work, even if my bitter experiences warned against haste; things are never so simple as our desires would like them to be; one must delay things, one should skim the foam of tension from the bubbling brew of sensations, let it thicken and mellow, for the moment is never ripe when it appears to be! so when at last he closed the door behind him, I first stepped up to the window, then drew aside the white curtains, and the splendid sight indeed cooled me off.

I had a whole hour to myself before the little bell would sound, calling the guests to our commensal breakfast.

The autumn sky was bright, the slender red pines now stood motionless in the park, the night winds having died down completely, and although I could not see the sea from here, or the promenade along the shore, or the bathhouse, or the wide road leading to the station, or the seawall, marshland, and woods behind, yet I knew they were there, within reach, everything that could be important and painful was there.

I saw a few fallen leaves on the decorative tiles of the terrace.

Yes, everything was here, and therefore I could afford not to be here but in my imagined story.

To forget everything.

But wasn't this feeling of lightness nourished by the hope — so lovely because unrealizable — with which I was deceiving myself that, having finally broken free of my future bride, now this young obliging servant was near me and I could summon him any time I wanted to? but then wouldn't I again be caught between two human beings?

Where, then, was my yearned-for solitude?

The thought unpleasantly linking the two of them in my mind was a pain at the pit of my stomach.

Why were they here, crowding me even in my solitude?

My mood did not darken, though; on the contrary, I was like someone who suddenly glances at his own body with a stranger's eyes and finds its proportions pleasing, not that he doesn't see its flaws and imperfections, and realizes, finally understands, that a living form is always delineated by the relationships among details which are shaped by unalterable processes; the imperfect has its own laws, which is what is perfect in it; functioning itself is perfect, existence is perfect, the unique and unalterable order of disproportions is perfect — why was this made clear to me only now, on my thirtieth birthday, I wondered, why at this mysterious turning point in my life? after all, ever since I could remember, ever since I had become aware that one's body has a life of its own, I had suffered from a sense of always being cast between two things, two phenomena, two people, as though between two crushing millstones! this was part of my earliest memories! for example, when, divided yet unshared, my body was between those of my mother and father on our long late-afternoon walks on the waterfront promenade, my parents may have been full of mutual hostility and murderous rage toward each other — because their bodies were irreconcilable — yet I not only felt identified but wanted to identify with both of them; I neither could divide myself between them nor had any intention of doing so, even if they had wanted to tear me apart; and indeed, I may have been torn apart, for my features, build, and character were undecided between them; I took after both, and after others as well, many others; only for the sake of simplifying things do we speak of a dual division, a dual likeness, for in reality I also resembled my dead forebears, who lived on in my features and gestures; but now it made me quite happy that these two people, my bride and this valet, strangers to each other, wound up so disturbingly close in my thoughts, for how could I possibly decide, know for sure, or have a say about what I was permitted or not permitted to do if I knew nothing about the origin of anything? how could I share what was unsharable in me? everything is permitted, I decided: yes, I'd be the most obstinate anarchist, and not only because fortuitous events in my youth had led me into the company of anarchists (and those years couldn't simply be dismissed, nor the fact that it wasn't high-minded goals and intellectual aspirations that made me join them), but also because I have always been an anarchist of the body, believing that there is no God besides the body, and that only a completed physical act can redeem my body, when I can feel the infinite abundance of my possibilities.

And you know what you can do with your morality.

For me, the valet's temperate thighs, and seeing the tarred wall of the pissoir while dreaming of my fiancée's loins, were no frivolous adventures.

Later, when I walked into the dining room and my eyes were hit by a sudden burst of morning sunshine, flashing and sparkling on the myriad surfaces of glass, mirrors, silverware, and china, not to mention people's eyes, I felt in my limbs this fresh morning brightness, a cozy well-being, the superiority of rebelliousness, and was glad I could immediately share it, look into those eyes with it, and glad that the sea was there, outside the window, still dark and rough from last night's storm, still foamy but gradually subsiding.

And if anything interested me, it was the filthy immorality of this rotten God.

And now I was glad that I had to observe some of those detestable rules of civilized conduct, which I looked down on with the awareness of my superiority, in the knowledge that I was once again in possession of my body.

I found it an infinitely beautiful piece of pious hypocrisy that I, who only two days earlier had made love to my fiancée on the floor of my apartment and a short while ago had felt up the thigh of a valet, was now standing between the open wings of the dining-room door and, blinded a little by the dazzling light, with impunity smiled my most polite smile while listening to the hotelier, a portly, jovial, bald little man, none other than the son of the onetime owner, yes, that's who it was — when we were both children, he would often knock down the sand castles young Count Stollberg and I had built on the beach, and not only that but, being a few years older than we, had also beaten us mercilessly for daring to protest — this same man, in a loud and solemn yet congenially paternal voice, was now introducing me to the other guests, and I kept bowing in every direction, making sure everyone partook of my glance, just as they kept nodding, making certain their glances were polite enough and did not betray curiosity.

At luncheon and supper everyone could choose from the abundant selection of food and sit at one long table to emphasize the more informal, familial character of these meals, as opposed to dinner, which was served more ceremoniously at five in the afternoon and at which we dined in small groups at separate tables; now there was no need to wait until everyone arrived; with the help of waiters posted around the table, guests could start eating as soon as they sat down, and in this regard nothing had changed in twenty years — I wouldn't have been surprised to find Mother at my table, or Privy Councillor Peter van Frick, or my father and Fräulein Wohlgast — the very same elegant silver flatware made the same clanging sound on the pale-blue, garland-patterned plates, although they must have gone through several sets since then; the heavy silver serving dishes were arranged with the same casual artistry, offering their varied courses in the form of a quaint relief map dedicated to good taste and designed to titillate the palate: firm heads of light-green artichokes dipped in tangy marinade, lobsters red and steaming in their shells, translucent pink salmon, rows and rows of sliced glazed ham and delicately braised veal, caviar-filled eggs, crispy endives, golden strips of smoked eel on dewy lettuce, various pâtés shaped in cones and balls — game terrine with truffles, fish mousse, pâté de foie gras — slender pickled gherkins, slabs of yellow Dutch cheese, bluefish in aspic, tart, sweet, and pungent sauces and creams in cups and dainty pitchers; mounds of fragrant warm toast, fresh fruit in multitiered crystal shells, crayfish of various kinds and sizes, quails baked crispy red, tiny sausages still sizzling in a pan, nut-filled quince jellies (of which I could never have enough as a child), and of course there were the warm fragrances filling the room, the evanescent whiffs of perfumes, colognes, pomades, and powders released with every gesture, and the harmonious music of crackling, swishing, jangling, splashing, and clinking rising above and submerged in the waxing and waning din of chatter, laughter, sighs, giggles, and whispers; had one decided to stand aside for a moment to find a secure spot in this well-ordered confusion, one would feel as though one were about to cast oneself into a turbulent icy river: gaze already cloudlessly vacant, obliging smile already on his lips, occasionally freezing into an unpleasant grin, and in his muscles the stirrings of pompous self-awareness, necessary if one is to abandon cozy solitude and make contact with others in a safely inconsequential maneuver, because one knows that here anything might happen, even though the public setting precludes the possibility of anything meaningful; nowhere do we feel the pleasant and unpleasant theatricality of our existence, the reality of peaks and valleys in our falseness and in the noble obligation of lying, as we do in company, when everyone is as politely vague as we are elusive, the strain of simultaneous attack and retreat making them vague and unreachable, and this, in turn, makes us feel drained, tired, and superfluous when on our own, and at the same time gratefully light-headed, too, for at the secret bidding of our desires things happen which in reality do not.

And as faultless as our entrance may seem, it's always accompanied by something unpleasant which at such moments looms as an insurmountable obstacle or an acute embarrassment: sometimes the form and surface of our body, because no matter how carefully we draped it in the folds of our clothing, when terrified at being unable to find the place we had hoped to find in the gathering, we suddenly begin to feel awkward and ugly, our limbs too short or too long, perhaps because we want to be light, graceful, and attractive, really perfect; and then it may seem not the body but our ill-chosen, old-fashioned, or perhaps too fashionable suit that's embarrassing, a collar tight to the point of choking, a garish cravat, a sleeve too small at the shoulders, the seat of our pants stuck in the crack of our buttocks, not to mention the inner sensations that come on so strongly at just such moments: fine perspiration on the forehead, above the lips, on the back and in the armpits, or a parched throat, moist palms, a stomach that begins to rumble, rebelling against the contrived little social games, and bowels which seem always to choose these occasions to release malodorous winds caused by nervous digestion; and of course there is always somebody in such company whose mere presence is irritating, and we are ready to dispense with every reasonable consideration to give vent to antagonistic or perhaps amorous but in any case raw emotions, which must be restrained, of course, just as the sound of those foul winds from our lower body must be held in, because that is what the game is all about: to conceal everything that might be real, while making everything appear as convincingly and charmingly real as possible.

Perhaps it's a boon in such situations that one has no time to dwell on their unpleasantness and must let the fixed smile immediately give way to polite words.

It's as if a large pear had been shoved up our rectum and with the help of clever sphincters we must keep it in balance, neither sucking it in nor expelling it, which I must confess is how I feel in company, as I'm sure many other people do, as though we sense each other's presence in our constricted rumps — an unseemly matter, however shameless we may be.

As the waiter (wearing the same kind of green tailcoat as the valet) led me to my place, I was shocked, nearly rooted to the floor, to see at the table the two ladies who had been on the train with me.

But there was no time to deal with this, because as I took my place between my two immediate table companions, who were already conversing, I also had to glance at the others, which meant that even before the meal began, and because it was communal, I had to offer my face and eyes for their close inspection, which is always a very critical moment.

The man on my right was striking, with almost completely gray-white hair, sleek youthful skin, luxuriant bushy black brows, a thick mustache, a full mouth, and darkly flashing eyes framed in an aggressive smile, and he immediately captivated me: I wished I'd sat across from him instead of next to him; in a slightly strange accent, he asked me if I had arrived yesterday during that awful storm; at first I thought he spoke in a dialect I was unfamiliar with, but as he went on — telling me that after three days of the furious storm everybody complained of sleeplessness, naturally enough, because a storm, especially near water (in the mountains it is quite different, he knew from experience), plays havoc with one's nervous system, causing irritability and flaring tempers — I slowly realized he wasn't speaking in his native language, since he had a problem matching the tenses of the verbs in various parts of his sentences.

"It's all the more pleasant to see the morning sun again in all its splendor! isn't it glorious?" chimed in the man on my left, loudly, his mouth full, waving before my face a bite-size prawn on the tip of his fork, and he went on to explain that I shouldn't misunderstand him, he had nothing against the hotel's cuisine, it was splendid, glorious! but his taste ran to simpler fare, no sauces and spices for him! and if I wanted to taste something truly glorious, I should follow his example, the seafood here was fresh, crisp, tasty, and as you bite down it's glorious! you can feel the sea on your tongue.

Although he muttered "splendid, glorious," several more times later on, too, he seemed to be talking not so much to me as to the food he put in his mouth, because no matter how quickly and eagerly he made his food disappear, however pleasurably he crunched and chewed and ground and masticated the tasty morsels, it seemed it wasn't enough merely to satisfy his taste buds and he had to resort to voluble commentary to feel the certainty of total eating pleasure; around his plate lay little mounds of skin, bones, shells, and gristle, and later I saw that in spite of the waiters' efforts, carried out with a bemused, nearly devotional zeal, the greatest possible disorder surrounded his place setting, because he was always spilling, splashing, knocking over, or dripping something; his abrupt movements made his napkin slide off his lap, sometimes he had to retrieve it from under the table, there were crumbs everywhere, not just on the tablecloth but on his black and no doubt dyed goatee, on the wide lapels of his morning coat, on his less than spotless necktie; but all this did not seem to bother him at all, for only some minor accidents, say a piece of meat sliding out from under his knife, elicited apologetic gestures, and through it all he kept on chattering, with great gusto letting his sentences blend into his chewing and chomping, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed, while his face remained strangely motionless, unsmiling and tense, his wrinkled skin sallow and unhealthy-looking, his alarmed, deep-set eyes darting nervously in their shadowy sockets.

There must have been twenty guests sitting at the long table; only one setting, right across from me, remained untouched.

The younger of the two ladies was eating with her gloves on, which of course one couldn't help noticing, and as I looked at those unnaturally tight white gloves, I felt faint with the same weakness I'd felt the day before when, in our compartment on the train, she had so mercilessly revealed to me the secret of her hands.

I took my time unfolding my napkin — I knew I wasn't going to eat much at this meal — and sensed the furtive glances at my face, eyes, suit, and necktie.

I turned to the gray-haired gentleman on my right, who, incidentally, couldn't have been much older than I; he had broad shoulders, a thick neck, and a compact body; he wore a loose-fitting tan suit that went very well with his swarthy complexion, a somewhat lighter vest, and a lightly striped shirt, the sort of ensemble that was just becoming fashionable for daytime wear; in response to his earlier comment, I told him that I, too, had experienced some of the storm-related stress he spoke of, because, oddly enough, I was awakened by someone's shouts or screams, though it was conceivable, I continued with a candor surprising even for myself— most likely attributable to his confidence-inspiring looks — that no one was actually screaming and the sound was part of my unpleasant dream; in any case, I joined the ranks of those who complained of sleeplessness, although the first night at a new place, as we all knew, was never a reliable measure of one's true state; but by then he wasn't looking at me, seemed not to be hearing me anymore, a studied inattention in which there was something unpleasantly professorial, reminiscent of people who dole out their gestures, comments, and even silences with an air of all-knowing superiority and infallibility, thereby requiring us to be ingratiating, open, and sincere, using our own weakness to bolster their fragile egos; in the meantime, the man on my left was holding forth with what seemed like great expertise on methods of smoking and curing ham, a topic to which I had nothing to contribute, but so as not to appear indifferent, and to please him a little, I asked for a helping of prawns.

The older of the two ladies — whom I'd recognized on the train only after several hours of being together, when she fell asleep with her mouth open and her head kept drooping sideways — was not eating at all but watching her daughter do so, sipping her hot chocolate for the sake of appearances, I suppose, so she wouldn't seem completely idle.

And then I also started on my food.

"We can count on you, can we not, Councillor, to accompany us as soon as possible after breakfast?"

The old lady's voice was deep, husky, masculine, matching her large, bony frame, which made her dainty, lace-trimmed dress look rather like a stage costume.

"I confess I am getting impatient."

The two women sat inseparably close, closer perhaps than one might have deemed proper, and I had the impression it was the mother who needed this physical closeness, just as on the train when she almost fell on her daughter's shoulder though their bodies never actually touched.

And I recalled the contempt and considerable disgust with which the daughter had watched her sleeping and fitfully snoring mother.

Or could her contempt have been directed at me?

"By all means, madam, that's exactly what I've had in mind," replied the prematurely gray gentleman on my right, "of course, as soon as possible, though I must say that in the given situation anything is possible."

And again I had the feeling that the daughter was actually watching me, performing for me, avoiding my glance, of course, as I was avoiding hers.

"And may I be so bold as to inquire if you still remember the dream which you considered so unpleasant?" asked the gray-haired gentleman in his sleepy voice, turning to me suddenly.

"Indeed I do."

"And may I ask you to tell it to me?"

"My dream?"

"Yes, your dream."

For a moment we were both quiet, just looking at each other.

"I'm a sort of dream collector, you see, with a butterfly net, running after other people's dreams," he said, flashing his attractive teeth in a broad smile that was withdrawn the very next instant, as though his sullen black eyes had penetrated inside me and found something deeply suspicious; there was a glint of discovery in the dark of those eyes.

"But you mustn't think for a moment, Councillor, that I am rushing you!" said the old lady now, whereupon he turned to her as abruptly as he had to me a moment earlier — he seemed to enjoy making these sudden, unpredictable moves.

"It's also possible, of course," he said in the same sleepy, absentminded tone, "that the crisis was brought on only by the stormy weather, and just as the elements have subsided, the distraught organism will also come to rest, and do not consider this merely as vain reassurance, my lady, for there is good reason to hope that that is just what will happen."

I was only picking at my food, I didn't want to overburden my already constipated bowels.

I had missed my morning ritual, which I forgo only in extreme circumstances, and now it was for the third time; first there was my fiancée's unexpected visit, then the journey, and that morning the pleasant appearance of the valet, so for three days I had had no normal bowel movement.

"Well, how is it?" the man on my left asked.

"Oh, really splendid!"

And I couldn't tell which one of my two needs was more important, literary activity or the common daily evacuation, but with the passing years, I had to realize that in me the most abstract intellectual and the coarsest physical needs were so hopelessly intermingled that I could satisfy one only by satisfying the other.

Giving me his undivided attention now, the black-goateed gentleman watched me chew and swallow my food, opening his mouth and pursing his lips, a little as mothers do, moving their own lips to help their little tots gum their food, and then he looked around triumphantly as if to say that, as we can see, he was again right about something.

Usually, after getting out of bed in the morning, still unwashed and unshaven and with only a robe on, I head straight for my desk; if memory serves, I acquired this habit back in my parents' house after my father's terrible deed and even more dreadful suicide, when hours had to pass before I could start the day, since, without being aware of it, for years afterward I lived in the torpor of his story: I often found myself on the banks of an immense, majestic river, and if I didn't want to be swept away in the powerful current I had to grasp at brittle, dried-out branches of willows on the shore and pull myself from the silt, and as I did, I saw the gray, gurgling current twist and cradle and rush away with uprooted trees and dead bodies.

Sitting at my desk, staring out my window at the rooftops across the way and sipping my chamomile tea, I'd pull over a sheet of paper absently and jot down a sentence or two, casually, without much thought.

Hilde and I no longer had any secrets from each other; there were only the two of us left in the house; we rarely went out; the neglected summer garden was growing wild around us; sometimes we fell asleep in each other's arms, but without this closeness causing any sexual excitement; she was in her fortieth year then, I was nineteen; I knew that my father had violated the innocence of her warmly yielding body and then for years afterward used her, like an object, for his pleasure; and she knew she was holding in her arms the grown son of that beloved man who a few months earlier had raped, mutilated, and killed her niece, a rare beauty, a delicate girl-child whom she had brought into the house to help with the domestic chores.

Stories, curious little tales composed with no lofty intention, emerged from the sentences, while I waited for the slowly cooling bittersweet tea to loosen my bowels, sentences with which I could make myself forget the night that had just passed.

It happened that on one such morning I successfully relieved myself, thanks to Hilde's tea, but since the act always took a long time — I had to be careful not to squeeze it out too quickly or with too much strain, because that would leave a lot of it inside, and the powerful excremental smell stuck to my silk robe and my skin — I emerged from the toilet trailing the odorous cloud of my little daily victory, and then I saw Hilde standing before me, disheveled, uncombed, the blouse ripped from her chest, her eyes crazed, her lips literally bitten through; she hurled herself on me, gathered me close into her arms, sank her teeth into my neck, and then let out a howl the likes of which I had never heard coming from a human being; it came from deep inside her, with a force to split my ears, and she kept up the howling into my body until her own large frame buckled and she collapsed, dragging me with her to the stone floor.

The young lady stopped chewing, her gloved hands lowered the utensils to her plate.

She eyed the goateed man with the same mixture of contempt and disgust with which she had watched her mother on the train when the old lady slumped over and fell to snoring, but now I couldn't help noticing that this look of contempt and disgust had a certain flirtatious element, seeming a challenge rather than a snub, and when I glanced curiously at my neighbor I noticed that his mouth had stopped moving, too, and only his pointed beard was still quivering slightly with the effort to control himself, for the haughtiness of the young woman's gaze was forcing his own deep-set eyes to calm down, stop darting; they were not only most deeply engrossed in each other but also playing a game.

At the same time, the dignified old lady leaned toward me and apologized for having been forced to talk to the councillor about so weighty a matter, a wholly inappropriate topic at the breakfast table, she realized, and if she still preferred not to go into detail — the others at the table knew well, unfortunately, what she was referring to — it was only out of consideration for me, I must believe her, she did not want to disturb my surely cheerful mood with her troubles, she wanted to spare me! her words to the councillor were meant only as a reminder, she hoped that I would understand.

It was as if she and her fussing had stolen from me those few moments during which I had to assure her that I did understand fully and then had to thank her, producing one of my most obliging smiles, after which I found it hard to look back at the two, who in the meantime of course had gone on playing with each other — even more openly, I could just feel it, since they no longer had to worry about my inquisitive glance; I could see from the corner of my eye, even while listening politely to the mother, that her daughter had resumed chewing, having mesmerized the aging, vain man with the flirtatious disgust radiating from her rosy cheeks, but now she chewed with an amazing display of mimicry, copying his movements, chewing wildly, eagerly, imitating his insatiable appetite, making her chin quiver as if it were a beard, and this was only the beginning of their game, because the man, as if he'd just discovered how beautiful her face was, had no intention of being offended, the eagerness of his chewing simply shifting into his eyes, producing the leer of a shameless lecher, offering gratification — his deep-set, slightly squinting eyes seemed perfectly suited for this purpose — which, in turn, appeared to have a hypnotic effect on the girl; with their jaws locked for a moment, they looked at each other over the devastated table, and then the man started chewing again, carefully, demurely, almost girlishly, inviting her to chew along with him for a few ravenous beats; unbelievable as it may sound, they kept chewing and swallowing together, although there was nothing more in their mouths to chew or swallow.

But I had to stop watching them, because other startling events began to take place in the dining room, one after another at a frantic pace: in the glass-paneled door appeared a young man whose clothes alone were enough to raise eyebrows, and I had just raised my teacup to my lips when the councillor, on my right, still affecting a sleepy calm, made such a sudden, uncontrolled move with his elbow that I almost spilled my tea on the elderly lady, who was leaning forward to tell me something.

The young man flipped off his soft light-colored hat and handed it to a waiter standing nearby; a golden crown of hair, a mass of long blond curls, nearly exploded from under the hat; instead of a jacket, the young man wore a bulky white sweater and a matching scarf wrapped around his neck a few times and slung over his shoulder — clearly not a sign of good upbringing — he must have just returned from a brisk morning walk; his face reddened by the wind; he was cheerful, somewhat impudent, judging not just from his attire but from his whole attitude, his springy walk and open smile; while the councillor and I excused ourselves for the near-mishap, the young man hastened to his chair, nodding in all directions — he appeared to be on friendly terms with everyone — smiled, giggled, unwrapped his funny scarf and put it on the back of the chair, and the elderly lady across the table, who first became aware of the young man's presence by noticing the amazement on my face, now beamed at his lanky figure and seized his wrist with her ring-studded hand.

"Oh, ce cher Gyllenborg," she exclaimed, "quelle immense joie de vous voir aujourd'hui!"

He drew the ring-studded hand to him and kissed it gently, the gesture being at once less and more than gallant.

By then a waiter behind us whispered something into the councillor's ear, and at the same time the hotelkeeper appeared in the doorway, looking shocked, and then with a dumb expression in our direction seemed to be looking for our reaction to something that was about to happen.

Before taking his seat, the young man hastened to the delicately slender older lady enthroned at the head of the table. She leaned back in pleasurable anticipation of a kiss and offered up her clear brow framed by an elaborate silver-gray pompadour.

"Avez-vous bien dormi, Maman?" we heard him say.

At this point the councillor rose, kicking the chair out from under him with such force that it would have fallen over had a waiter not caught it, and dispensing with all etiquette, he dashed out of the dining room.

His squat figure had almost vanished in the dimness of the lounge beyond the glass door when he evidently changed his mind, turned, for a moment he and the hotelier stared at each other, and then the councillor rushed back and whispered something into the elderly lady's ear, who was none other — at last I can reveal it — than the Countess Stollberg, the mother of my childhood playmate and also the mother of the gloved young lady.

I had known this all along; I could have revealed my identity on the train but chose not to, because then inevitably my father's name would have come up, and in view of what had happened to him, I would have found it impossible to talk about him.

There was no one in the room now who did not sense that he was witnessing not just an unusual but a very grave event.

Suddenly there was silence.

The young man was still standing next to his mother's chair.

The two women rose slowly, and then all three of them hurriedly left the room.

The rest of us remained in the silence; no one wanted to stir; some clinking was the only sound to be heard.

And then in a voice touched with emotion, the hotelier announced that Count Stollberg was dead.

I stared at the prawns on my plate; perhaps everyone was staring at his plate; the young man stopped in front of his untouched place setting and picked up his scarf from the chair — I could see all this without taking my eyes off my plate.

"Bien! Je ne prendrai pas de petit déjeuner aujourd'hui," he said softly, and then added, somewhat inappropriately: "Que diriez-vous d'un cigare?"

I looked up at him, astonished, because I wasn't sure he was talking to me.

But he smiled at me and I stood up.