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.