Of course it wasn't coarse sensuality or an inclination to mutually shared lewdness that I was lacking, and in any case, I don't really believe in a refinement that can forgo physicality and still remain healthy; but beyond the simpleminded fear every young man must feel before leading his bride to the altar, I was fearful and anxious for another reason: our relationship, at least outwardly, reminded me very much of the unbalanced and unresolvable tensions between my parents; in every sign of physical coarseness I detected Father's gestures, and in the longing for them I saw Mother's needs; if I hadn't possessed the gift of self-knowledge that enables us to carefully separate the overlapping planes of cause and effect, thereby discovering the endless circular stairways of our emotions which, dissatisfied with mere form and appearance, lead us downward and inward to ultimate understanding — without this gift, even our engagement would have become unbearable by the knowledge that my malady was hereditary, that fate condemned me to the humiliating absurdity of having to repeat my parents' lives and misdeeds, of being the same as they, and even of dragging an innocent outsider into this fatal sameness.
The Soft Light of the Sun
The snow was already melting, and though I was afraid of the dogs I decided to walk home from school through the woods.
One had to step carefully here; the trail, beaten into the heavy, clayey soil, wound steeply around the gnarled trunks and coiling roots of ancient mistletoe-laden oaks and plunged through the underbrush, clumps of wild roses, elder, and hawthorn that looked impenetrable even in their barrenness; melting snow had turned the thick layers of leaves sodden and I kept losing my footing on the slippery surface; seeking an outlet, tiny rivulets had cut grooves right through the middle of the trail, creating a regular brook that ran sparkling and gushing in its rusty yellow bed, swelling up where the trail took a sudden turn, then rushing on, engulfing stones and pebbles; imagining dense forests and wild mountain rapids all around, I leaped from one bank of my stream to the other, zigzagging back and forth, trusting my body to the slope's pull, sensing that the more daring my leaps were — the harder I landed and the longer I stayed in the air, finding the site of my next takeoff with a single glance — the more confident I became and the less likely I was to slip or fall; I was racing downhill, I was flying.
At the bottom of the forest the trail reached flat ground, coming to rest in a clearing with patches of snow, at the opposite end of which I saw someone standing in the bushes.
I could not turn back, couldn't escape, but simply had to slow down my breathing, make sure I didn't pant or wheeze, so he wouldn't think he was making me so excited.
He stepped out from behind the bushes and started toward me.
I wanted to appear cool and calm, as if not the least bothered by this accidental encounter, but my back had got uncomfortably wet from all that running, my ears were burning and must have looked ridiculously red in the cold; my legs suddenly felt awkwardly short and stiff, and it was as if I were seeing myself with his eyes.
The sky above us was clear, a great blue expanse, distant and blank.
Behind the woods, caught in the tangled treetops, the soft light of the sun broke through, but the air remained piercing cold; crows cawed, magpies chattered in the eerie silence, and one could feel that as soon as the sun set everything would be silent and stiff again.
We walked toward each other very slowly.
On his long dark-blue overcoat gold buttons gleamed, and he slung his soft leather briefcase casually over his shoulder, as always, lugging it on his back, which made him twist his long neck and bend over a little; still, his gait was as loose and graceful as if he were swaying to and fro in some oblivious softness; he thrust his head high, he was watching.
It took a very long time to cover the distance between us, because from the moment I had spotted him behind the bushes I had to sort out, and also alert, my most contradictory and secret feelings: "Krisztián!" I would have loved to cry out in my surprise, if only because in his name, which I hadn't the courage to utter even during the abruptly cutoff budding stage of our friendship and kept muttering it only to myself, I sensed the same discriminating elegance I did in his whole being; his name had the same irresistible attraction for me I knew I mustn't yield to in any shape or form; saying his name out loud would be like touching his naked body, which is why I avoided him, always waiting until he began walking home with others so I wouldn't walk with him or his way; even in school I was careful not to wind up next to him, lest I'd have to talk to him or, in a sudden commotion, brush against his body; at the same time I kept watching him, tailed him like a shadow, mimicked his gestures in front of the mirror, and it was painfully pleasurable to know that he was completely unaware of my spying on him, secretly imitating him, trying to evoke in myself those hidden qualities and characteristics that would make me resemble him; he couldn't know, or feel, that I was always with him and he with me; in reality, he didn't even bother to look at me, I was like a neutral, useless object to him, completely superfluous and devoid of interest.
Of course my sober self cautioned me not to acknowledge these passionate feelings; it was as if two separate beings coexisted in me, totally independent of each other: at times the joys and sufferings his mere existence caused me seemed like nothing but little games, not worth thinking about, because one of my two selves hated and detested him as much as my other self loved and respected him; since I was eager to avoid giving any visible sign of either love or hate, I was the one who acted as though he were but an object — divulging my love, much too desirous and passionate to let him in on it, would have rendered me totally defenseless, while my hatred drove me to humiliating fantasies that I was too scared to act on — and it was I, not he, who acted as though I was unapproachable, impervious even to his accidental glances.
When he was no more than an arm's length from me and we both stopped, he said, "There's something I'd like to ask of you," calling me by my name, his tone cool and matter-of-fact, "and I'd appreciate it greatly if you could do it for me."
I felt the blood rushing to my face.
Which he, too, would immediately notice.
The affable artlessness with which he uttered my name, though I knew he did it only for the sake of good form, had a devastating effect: now not only were my legs too short but I felt like one large head hovering somewhere close to the ground, an ill-proportioned repulsive insect; and in my embarrassment I blurted out something I shouldn't have: "Krisztián!" I said, pronouncing his name aloud, and because it sounded too tender, frightened almost, anyway humble and out of tune with his own resolve to wait for me and even approach me with a request, he raised his eyebrows as if he had heard wrong or couldn't believe what he had heard, and obligingly leaned closer: "What's that? Come again?" he said, and I, finding some unexpected pleasure in his embarrassment, made myself sound even softer, even more amiable; "Oh nothing, nothing," I said quietly, "I just said it, just said your name, anything wrong with that?"