This was the reason I couldn't forget the moment when I felt someone looking at me; fear made the moment memorable.
But I'm not even sure just how it happened; it's surely one of the most mysterious and baffling sensations when someone is watching us or talking or just thinking about us and we turn, without anything consciously registering, toward the source of attention and only afterward realize why we looked in that direction — we felt it, we say, but can't say just what, as if our senses functioned more subtly and naturally than our minds or, to be more precise, as if our minds can work only with the materials and energies our senses provide and usually the processing is delayed, which makes for constant dissonance and uncertainty, and the question remains: What sort of force, energy, or material is able to span great distances and signal to our senses that that of others is present, what kinds of signals can we receive or broadcast without conscious intention? when all we seem to do is look at the other person, think about him, or make a casual comment very quietly, and suddenly the air is charged, loses its neutrality, and relays clear messages, whether friendly or hostile, and then the most complex form of communication follows; and I don't even think she wanted to attract my attention, which at that point would have been unthinkable for many reasons, so her glance was as unconscious as my turning toward her, two beings staring at each other unconsciously, baring themselves to each other eagerly, shamelessly; needless to say, we had to take care, our teachers were up on the stage, watching, and because of the special nature of the proceedings, they couldn't move either and couldn't yell at us as they usually did, so we were spared "Stop moving back there!" or "Keep still, snotnose, or I'll kick you out on your butt!" — warnings that now had to be communicated with looks only: a twitch of an eyebrow or an almost imperceptible nod warning that unruliness, conspicuous fidgeting, and audible giggles were duly noted and would not go unpunished, all of which made the silence heavier and more ominous than it would have been if they could freely shout at us; but she was one of those who lived inconspicuously among us, never calling attention to herself, much too timid and bashful to risk violating the rules, and it was inconceivable that she'd start flirting with me out of boredom just to amuse herself; I simply didn't know what to make of her look.
For this look, I realized later when I had time to reflect on it, called attention to itself precisely because it didn't seem the result of some childish whim, which became clear to me when, in response to my uncomprehending, questioning glance, her face did not dissolve into a defensive or apologetic smile but remained motionless, her gaze unwavering, with nothing awkwardly solemn about it either, simply serious, and I asked myself, Why is that dumb girl giving me the eye? and my own eyes must have asked the same question, as I thought of the silly line we used to blurt out in similarly ambiguous situations, as a form of defense against embarrassment—"Just keep lookin' if you so smart, come on closer 'n' smell my fart" — and she didn't respond to this either, didn't change, even though my grin must have indicated what I was thinking about, and I almost laughed out loud; in the end, I did notice a change, but in myself, because I couldn't turn away and in fact also became serious, as if, from the slippery slopes of my earlier fear and anxiety and of my lopsided grin, I now had to plunge into an infinitely soft body of gray water where nothing palpably familiar remained except this extraordinarily open gaze, seeking no effect, therefore most effective, meaning to achieve nothing, with no recognizable purpose or wish to communicate, using the eye simply and naturally for what it was meant for — to see, to look — reducing the organ to its basic biological function, a nearly uninvolved possessor of objects in its sight; and this was so unusual yet so similar to everything I had vainly longed for in my relation to Krisztián, because he always found ways to evade me, to stay aloof — oh, how familiar it all seemed — yet I had to be suspicious of her, because the open look of natural possession is separated by only a thin line from the other kind of look that appears when, concentrating on what is happening within us, we do not notice what our eyes are looking at and, the inner occurrence seeming more important, the lens itself cannot decide whether to focus on the inner or outer subject and the face we involuntarily present to the person we are observing becomes impassive and inert; but no, I could detect not a single trace of this self-absorbed blankness; her face remained discreetly closed and inaccessible, but the look in her eyes was like an animal's! no mistake, she was looking at me, nobody else, she saw me, her attention was directed at no one but me.
I saw her through heads and shoulders, standing in the first row, being one of the shortest pupils, while I, not much taller, was in the third row; the distance between us was considerable because boys and girls were separated in the gym, so not only did her gaze have to traverse the wide no-man's-land which, in compliance with school regulations, divided the sexes and where on other occasions the beribboned flag of our Young Pioneer troop was raised with solemn ceremony and the accompaniment of annoying loud drumrolls, but she also had to twist her head and look backward to see me, yet she seemed to be standing very close to me, right in front of me; I don't know how long it took for all my suspicions to dissipate, but after a while her closeness was almost palpable; she was practically inside me, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the wintry pallor of her brown skin, the almost sickly dark circles around her eyes where the veins were so prominent that the brown of her skin seemed to fade into blue; the tiny mouth under the pointed narrow nose, the impertinent little bulges of her upper lip, and her forehead that later was to have a special fascination for me; I grew to love its clear, even brown hue in summer, its delicate spots in winter, when the bone structure appeared in faint outline, softening the shadows in the delicate hollow of her temples and making her hair, pulled back with white clips, even darker, her wild, thick, strong hair, like her eyebrows, arching delicately but asymmetrically, almost comically, above her eyes; that's how she looked then, or rather, that's how I saw her, that's what I saw of her, that and her neck as it rose out of the open collar of her white blouse, the muscles hardening with almost boyish toughness as she turned around, keeping her head low; only later did I begin to notice her body; her eyes were what was important now, and perhaps their immediate setting — her face, but that, too, was soon lost, to be replaced by a warm, hazy sensation, not unlike fainting, a mere feeling, a state of being, a certainty that at this moment she and I were experiencing the same feeling, sharing an identical, most intense state of being which never became conscious and in which there were no thoughts, glances, or bodies but all these fading into blurred outlines and replaced by something that cannot be talked about.