And she hated Margit Huber for this.
These people allow themselves to do even this.
Sometimes, while talking to herself, she addressed Margit Huber’s smile as if it were not a single characteristic of a single person but the cause of her having to wage war simultaneously against the collective experience of several persons.
If something slipped out all right, if she succeeded with one of her phrases and Margit Huber praised her, beaming, yes, that’s it, Gyöngyvér, that’s how you should do it, this is what we’ve been waiting for, then of course she instantly felt her heart beat faster and she adored her teacher.
She was grateful to her for her earlier wickedness.
Médike was redeemed and Gyöngyvér adored her.
She wanted to get rid of this painful, newly acquired habit of hers, the relentless full-mouthed smiling when speaking or singing. The moment she eked out a good result from her many fiascos, she wanted to thrust Médike from her and quickly forget everything she had learned from her. What has this Médike accomplished in life with all her great knowledge, nothing. If she’d been able to make something of herself, she wouldn’t be teaching Gyöngyvér for fifty-seven forints an hour, she’d be singing. Others shouldn’t see who it was who had taught her to make her voice glow like that. This is a shameful betrayal. And though it would be painful to betray Médike immediately because, despite all her hatred, Gyöngyvér actually thought she loved her, I love her, the temptation for a quick all-out betrayal was greater.
And from whom can a natural talent really learn anything; from nobody.
She couldn’t have real pangs of conscience about the betrayal.
In Médike, she discovered a teacher’s unconditional humility toward her profession and her pupil. She’s a dumb slut. Which in Gyöngyvér’s language meant that in the soul of this elusive and merciless female was a spot where she’d left herself exposed. This entire teaching strategy was an impersonal passion that she too had experienced with the children in the kindergarten and throughout her whole singing history, and no less profoundly. She knew perfectly well that without children she too was vulnerable. Her own body gave her the insight into the other person’s passion for teaching; and she saw how vulnerable it had made her too.
If it was possible, she wanted to exploit her even more.
She can’t do without her.
The sheer thought that she would wring the last drop of knowledge from the old hag filled her with gratitude; she’d wring every bit of knowledge out of her. Then she’d toss her aside like a dirty dishrag.
Passions cannot be tamed without a cool smile; she must make every sacrifice for this knowledge. The woman must be squeezed like a lemon. So that Gyöngyvér could acquire a little protection, this little common secret of theirs, a bit of this cunning little advantage.
Even then, she won’t have as many fine expensive things as these people do who are always inheriting things from other people or family members.
It was as if she were learning not to sing but to smile superciliously and cheerfully in a hostilely indifferent universe.
Why should I be the one who never inherits anything from anybody. Well, I shall take things for myself, I’ll rob them and I’ll smash everything.
But out loud she couldn’t even say how grateful she would be to Médike; she could say nothing out loud. Because there was no sentiment in the world that this old bitch didn’t reject. And let Gyöngyvér drown in her own sentimentality.
Let’s not become personal, Gyöngyvér, please. We’re busy with something else now. We do not put our personal feelings on display, we look upon them as the object of our labors.
When will you be able to pay the overdue tuition, if I may ask.
And Gyöngyvér should be drowning in her love and gratitude, since she was not allowed to be free of these feelings. Just once, though, she’d like to tell the merciless bitch that she feels her gratitude in her loins. It hurts my stomach, in my cunt I feel my gratitude, you old idiot, you hag, in my twat, you understand.
How would this Médike know how one should sing onstage if she has never actually taken a cunt into her mouth.
Let me teach you, then, you old bitch.
Cunt.
Say after me.
Sopranos, of course, can throw hysterical fits for you, making their fine town houses resonate.
Oh, she understood the old bitch, she did indeed, very well.
As a contralto, Gyöngyvér, one should know one’s place in the hierarchy of the art of singing.
If only the old idiot would make an exception with someone, with me, for example, with me. She should make me her general heir. Anyway, she hasn’t got anyone. Mrs. Szemző doesn’t either; these women have no one and still I won’t be inheriting anything from them. Why doesn’t Médike understand her: that she loves her so much for her knowledge; that she wants her.
In my pain and embarrassment I’ll say to you out loud, I want you.
Why doesn’t she love me, what would it take for her to make an exception just once; after all, her drawers are full of jewelry and her apartment’s got nothing but expensive paintings and carpets; what more does she want, why isn’t she more tender with me.
She would like to be a male dog; then Médike would let her climb on top of her.
She couldn’t have many students who respect her this much.
At most, she could call her Médike, and the wicked witch couldn’t object to that. Those pampered ladies, those posh women friends of hers, they called her Médike.
Well, I’ll give you plenty of Médike, to have your fill.
Out of pride, Médike had to pretend not to have grasped how much Gyöngyvér adored and disdained her whenever she called her Médike.
I’d kill myself if I had huge, wrinkled, freckled breasts like hers. Médike was one mean-spirited bitch and because of her Gyöngyvér had to suffer so much. I shouldn’t have breasts larger than a boy’s. She had paid a lot to be able to suffer from Médike, true, but she also hadn’t learned so much from anyone as she had from this dear woman. A slut of a Swabian woman like this could be so damn stingy and with her an hour was only fifty minutes. And even after the lesson one couldn’t chat with her for free, oh no. For five minutes of yakking she charged a whole hour, and on top of that she pretended not to understand your indignation.
Gyöngyvér would have liked to sink a good long knife into her for such pettiness.
Or, good Lord, to fall on the harridan with her bare hands.
Good Lord, imagine that once upon a time a man must have loved this ugly woman.
And properly strangle her.
When she could no longer listen to her remarks, neutralized by her smile, that this was not to be sung like that, nor that like this.
In full voice, Gyöngyvér, not loud.
Watch the descent.
As if you were squeezing it.
It was intolerable that everything was supposed to be done differently from the way she was doing it or hearing it. That her feelings should be discounted. And if she had a shot of something to help her get through an hour’s worth of anxiety, even smile back at her teacher and feel just a little better about things, Médike had the nerve to tell her she could smell it on her breath.
If you’ve had a drink, Gyöngyvér, don’t come to the lesson. Please, do not let this turn into an inveteracy.
Inveteracy. That’s the sort of thing she says. Neither her colleague at the kindergarten nor Ilona Bondor knows this word.
She chewed some coffee beans after her drink, that’s how she tricked Médike.
It can’t be that in one person everything works the wrong way.
At least a good cognac before the lesson, she should have at least that. All right, maybe two.
How could she remember so many things at once. The old crone bleats so much because she wants me to take more lessons. The old hag could fill all her waking hours with lessons. How could a person satisfy so many demands. You don’t have to tell me. Yet she couldn’t even find an extra free hour for you to make up a missed lesson.