He was deeply shocked at inadvertently seeing this shy upper-class boy in such a place, the boy he had taken under his wing from the moment he’d first seen him.
What sort of mess has he gotten himself into again, what a blockhead. Or maybe he’s really lost his marbles, and look, now he’s talking to himself again.
Could he have been so shy and peculiar back then, with madness already brewing in him. Suddenly he felt the urge to be rid of him, mad or not, he had to get this blockhead out of here. He had to prevent what was being prepared, or has always been in preparation, from becoming reality. To protect him from knowledge that has nothing to do with him and for which he is not cut out. He quickly realized that this idiot was experimenting with himself, and even if he dabbled with what was going on here, he’d still remain an outsider. The best thing would be to throw him into the Danube. Let him swim; he’d never be the real thing anyway.
Perhaps he thought of such a drastic solution so quickly because his discovery, instead of increasing, considerably decreased the value of his own life.
As if he were saying, no, it cannot be, Kristóf cannot be a faggot.
After all, he wouldn’t do it either if they hadn’t forced him to. Ultimately, the world functions normally, and this faggot life is only one of its aberrations, about which nobody should know anything except for the initiates. Shielding his cigarette with his palm, he took a long drag and then with the heel of his sandal ground the burning butt into the black dirt.
He didn’t want to give himself away ahead of time. Which is to say, he didn’t at all want to reveal himself to Kristóf.
Or only at the appropriate moment, when his action would bring him some profit. As if he had a ready-made plan for how to put the boy to work. The firm would be very grateful for it; what a great catch. They’d rub their hands together. This boy may be a baby in some ways, but he speaks several languages and there isn’t a book or encyclopedia he hasn’t read.
Of course, his current rivals hiding under the trees noticed the fall of the burning cigarette butt. Most of those who frequented this area knew one another by sight; fresh meat was very rare.
What’s the new consignment like, the new arrivals asked every night.
Even if they didn’t know one another, they still knew why the others did something and why they did it this way and not some other way. The abilities of the young man in the tight shorts were highly respected in other hunting grounds of the city: in People’s Park, the Népliget; in City Park, the Városliget; in the Little Flask, or Kiskulacs, Canteen; in the subway toilets, in all the steambaths, at the Old Parade Ground, Vérmező; or in the City Gate coffee bar, Városkapu Espresso. Whenever he appeared, they had reason to be anxious because with his devilish and merciless finesse he managed to knock out his rivals.
Now, with their cigarettes under the trees, they did not understand why Pisti wasn’t going after the boy.
Maybe he’d let one of them have this small-balled little angel.
He knew this was how his four rivals were interpreting his motionlessness, but it never occurred to him to step out of the shadow of the clubhouse.
Let them take him if they want to; let them deal with him.
He was waiting for Kristóf to make a move, any way he wanted to or with anyone, so he could follow him secretly. He wouldn’t let him get away. Not a cell in his body desired him anymore, even though during the last four years he’d thought of him frequently, and whenever he recalled his lips, his awkward nakedness, and his hard little ass, it was indeed a sweet feeling to rub himself to sleep against the background of these images. However, the object of the ritual and its real-life embodiment could no longer have anything to do with each other.
He turned icy cold toward him in the warm early summer night as he realized he had secretly loved him and still did. There was a possible life ahead of them that he would gladly spend with Kristóf.
He would make use of him.
He would wait until somebody else finished with him and only then would he talk to him.
When liberated and pursued by his own shame he would run home to his sweet little auntie.
It would be best to accost him on the empty bridge. He’d expose him, annihilate him. Even the tip of your black shoe shows jism, my sweet, that’s all he’d say. I just thought I’d call your attention to it, with your permission, of course. Because of the long wait and the anticipated excitement of betrayal, his beautiful naked thighs became covered with goose bumps. He had never hoped for so precious a prey at so late an hour. Glad of his discovery, he imagined himself rubbing his hands together in anticipation of huge profits. He wanted to take revenge on him immediately; and he had reasons.
He hated him from the depths of his soul exactly the way he hated himself, and that is why the other man’s vulnerability made him happy.
Now I’ve got you in my claws, you rotten little Jew.
In the meantime, Kristóf was unsuspectingly enjoying the deadly silence and wrestling with the different persons living within himself.
His other self living within him did not tell him to go down to the water, where on the grayly gleaming steps the rocking duckweed made bubbly sounds.
True, that self did not say not to go either.
It’s safer to jump from the bridge. Neither did his other self say he should hurl himself to the depths from the bridge, even though he picked a good spot on the bridge from which it would be most advantageous to jump. Without slamming into the pier while falling; that’s how he wanted to end it. The water would carry him away as it had carried away the dead and wounded shot into the river by Arrow Cross men.
Without a trace.
It may have been a third person thinking like this within him, this is no longer me, he thought, because this person had no empathy, even though at other times it mutely signaled what feelings it harbored for him in connection with anyone.
At any rate, for some time now he has suspected the presence of someone with some sort of design on him.
He did not look at his watch, even though he felt like leaving, not because he meant to keep things from happening tonight, or to keep the giant from luring him away, but because he felt that time was running short.
Quickly away from here and let him finally finish himself off.
He concluded at last that he did not need to wait any longer. In this other life of his, it was inadvisable to acknowledge the passage of time.
These nights could not end in glimmering semi-darkness because they had no dawns.
The Other Shore
Please, I don’t want you putting down roots, said Mária Szapáry quietly, and took the glass from Irma Arnót’s hand. Today it’s your turn to cut.
This made Elisa fall silent in the wheelchair, and Margit also understood Mária’s stern warning. She had to get ahold of herself. Wildly she began to look for her hairpins. First in the mass of her undone hair and then with her fingers searching blindly in the leather sofa’s folds and gaps. Now Izabella’s silk dress swished as she got up, almost as a response to Médi’s efforts, but before she left the room she tipped her head like a little girl, pretending to do it absentmindedly, and called back to them.
While I’m getting a washcloth, Médi will have time to apologize to Mária. Tout de suite, she said warningly, et pas d’histoires.