For some reason, this too he found irresistibly funny.
There I was with this total stranger in the middle of an early summer night, his sentences bubbling out cheerfully and I not believing a single word. And not because he was lying; he wasn’t. What was unbelievable was how convincing I found his whole being; yet I had to refuse him, and I would too.
As it turned out on that early summer night, I simply could not believe that this might possibly be my life, or that such a strange being as this boy could be part of either of my lives or share any part with me in any way, or that I could fit him into one of my lives just as he was, along with his entire life and his grandmother, without upsetting my other life. But neither could I imagine, nor was it morally acceptable, that I’d abandon this man just like that, when he’d shown such enormous confidence in me. Frankly, a man of this sort was all in all too much for me. Even if I decided to take him home to my room on the boulevard, how could I navigate him past Balter without being seen.
Balter would come out with his dislocated hip, open the gate, moaning aloud, checking out both of us; a single glance would be enough for him to assess the situation and seal my fate. My upbringing gave no instruction as to what one was supposed to do in a situation like that, but I did have instructions that the best thing to do with unusual situations was to avoid them. Hearing about his grandmother sent me reeling to the edge of madness, if only because of my own grandmother. I shuddered at the thought of two people meeting in a summer night who had never had and never would have anyone in this world except their grandmothers, and that this was far from a coincidence.
This thought hurt, and it also filled me with painful hope, but the hurt was stronger.
Standing before me was an entire man with his irresistible warmth, unfathomable indifference, intrusive odor, living grandmother, obviously unwashed hair, and everything else that was his, presenting me with his unbelievable exhortation that I should go with him because with him I could do everything I had ever done with girls, and I did not understand, it made no sense.
Perhaps all these things together in a single human being was what was too much for me.
I wanted to say something to him, something encouraging that would also help me extricate myself from the situation, but I couldn’t think of anything. According to social conventions, I needed to respond, so as to remain the master of my predicament. I felt my entire upbringing had been nothing but a framework that, although it specified the character of verbal responses to various events, hadn’t given specific instructions as to their true and genuine content. My grandmother was whispering to me even now, as she had until the last minute of her life, passing on to me and doing for me everything she could, though her words had made no sense when she uttered them. Not the least sense in the world. Neither her son nor her daughter took her seriously, though the pattern and structure of what she had to say enthralled me and never left me.
So I set off again on the creaky promenade; I had no idea what to do with such a strange human life as this boy’s.
For lack of direction I headed toward the Árpád Bridge, as if one could begin again at the beginning. Which the boy of course interpreted according to the rules of the secret language.
If you haven’t got a place, he said flatly, as he came along, keeping up with me like a sweet child, we can go to the water tower. Really. I know a nice little spot there.
He wanted to take my hand.
Whenever he has no other place to go to, because nobody has a rotten pad to himself, he holes up there with anyone until dawn.
Much as I wanted to, I didn’t give him my hand. He responded to this by putting his arms around my waist and coiling around me, holding back my hurrying steps a bit, steps that turned out to be very long, so we’d be like lovers strolling on clouds, so he could kiss me.
I felt an instant disgust when he looked up at me, his lips open in a circle, like one film star staring at another. He not only did something but overdid it, as if he wanted to announce, loud and clear, that he was doing this or that and doing it according to this or that model. I didn’t let him lean his head on my shoulder and I brushed off his arms too. My own cruelty hurt me. I didn’t want to see his falsities. He wanted to withdraw some emotional capital from me until we reached the place where he hoped we could really run wild, but I kept walking steadily, I’d had enough of this playacting, and how would he guess that I wasn’t letting myself be led anywhere.
He has to be back by six in the morning, that’s when his leave is over.
But what kind of leave, I asked in an unreasonably irritated tone, for God’s sake, from what place are you on leave.
He was quiet for a moment, looked at me, seriously wondering what I hadn’t understood or to what I was objecting so strongly.
Well, this is where they dock, he answered eagerly, his head motioning to the very spot.
He serves in the river forces branch of the army, stationed in Mohács, he’s reenlisted. Once a week they come up with their ships, sometimes twice, but instead of tying up at the flotilla docks in Újpest they tie up at that something-or-other square.
In other words they dock at some square.
He can find it from anywhere, but damn it, he always forgets the name of the fucking square.
I didn’t have a place to take him to either, no matter how much I pitied him, and that’s the truth. I should have realized I had no place here, in the city of my birth.
I asked him if it was Bem Square.
No, but the fucking square was on the Pest side.
The irritating noises our steps were making were not only too loud but also senseless, completely senseless.
Maybe the Belgrád pier.
Not really, that’s where passenger boats dock, you know.
Then Dimitrov Square, I replied, irritated, maybe Vigadó Square.
I hated the black sand under my dirtied-up shoes and all the drivel we were hurling at each other.
He has this thing with Dimitrov; it’s like doing a crossword puzzle. What pops into his mind every time he comes across the name is that the man was a Communist martyr. He grinned. Eight letters. He memorized it so he wouldn’t forget the name of the square, but then he forgets this fucking martyr. Every week he buys a copy of Füles, the crossword magazine.
Then his face became serious.
Do you do crossword puzzles, he asked.
I did not reply, but I felt insane willingness and devotion emanating from his body.
He was putting me through various tests, licking me all over with his words and gestures.
Actually he was behaving like a normal, lovable human being.
I was the one who wasn’t normal; never in my life had I solved a crossword puzzle; and he hadn’t yet realized that he would find nothing lovable about me.
He was easy, light, his words smooth and caressing; he altered his gestures and turned them all inside out yet remained helpless with me. I was rather intrigued as to why he’d put away his cock so quickly and what it must be like. Just as, in his eyes, I had won my exceptional position in the unfathomable hierarchy of the night with my cock. But it was senseless, completely senseless — the way I was making obnoxious sounds at the side of such a profoundly witless stranger. This depressing knowledge was stronger than my curiosity. I didn’t want to hear that our irritating jabber had anything in common. To my left I saw a path among the trees leading back to the thicket where I might find the giant with his mustached assistant. I can’t imagine what I wanted from the giant; he too probably had a disgusting life.