There is no such man and never will be, but at least she knows where to put this shitty little F sharp.
And not even these people can take this away from her anymore.
In the meantime she’s making ungodly noises with her helpless limbs on the superannuated concert piano.
What makes you think that such a pampered pretty boy would give you yours, of all men, such a Lothario. Don’t hold your breath, the young gentleman looks only for his own pleasure in you.
Why must we women be such dumb whores.
Why should I get him a blanket. Why should I steal a nice warm blanket from Mrs. Szemző’s closet for him.
Let these pretty boys look to the Almighty of their decrepit old mothers, why don’t they go lick and suck Him.
Oh, my good Lord, I shouldn’t be thinking of Him like this.
I’ll slap your mouth, little girl.
Only don’t turn around; and while he prayed like this, which made him shudder, he began to run. But on the bridge there was no place to run to and running made his injured shin throb terribly.
The moment he stopped to chase away the dog panting at his ankle, to beat him away cruelly, mercilessly, however he could, no stray dog like that should follow him, and to do this he had to turn around, he felt the dog’s feet on his shoulders and a warm wet tongue on his face.
From then on Kristóf wore on his face the stamp, as it were, of the dog’s wide, warm tongue. Although not everyone could see that he constantly rebelled against his own goodness with all his might and wanted to hear nothing about any kind of mercy or compassion.
He staggered, yelled, and shoved the dog off.
In an instant disgust and nausea covered his entire body with spots and pimples, and he swallowed helplessly.
Enchanting, you’ve done it magnificently, my dear Gyöngyvér. Sie haben es geschafft, geschafft. I worry only about your impatience and hysterics. But this, das hätte ich nicht geglaubt, nicht gedacht. Don’t become overconfident.
And then I fuck it all up again by thinking all these lousy, obscene things about this gorgeous and darling man.
Who doesn’t shit on her.
You’ve done it wonderfully, but let’s look at it a bit closer. Did it happen by chance.
Nobody is going to tell me what to do. Why shouldn’t I be overconfident.
First, I’ll give you a few F sharps, listen, Gyöngyvér, but I want the same thing in the right tempo and with the text.
Áperté, we’ll see whether you really found it this time.
Shit on you, Médike.
I think you can do it without all that nodding. Don’t keep nodding so much with the text, just sing, sing, damn it.
Don’t open your mouth so wide. Gaping like that won’t help you one bit.
Stimme, how many times do I have to tell you, Stimme.
I don’t want to see you making grimaces.
Let’s take it again from the top.
I really couldn’t care less what you’re saying, I shit on all of you.
I shit on the listless cocks of all those jokers.
I want to hear your voice, my dear, not see your mimicry. Your little-girlish hatefulness doesn’t interest me at all. You can’t conjure voice out of mimicry, and hysterics can’t help you.
Please don’t open your mouth so wide, it’s ugly and unnecessary.
At the memory of this note, Gyöngyvér Mózes pricked up her ears, raised her head, wiped her tears, and listened into the mute night.
Was she hearing the noise of the elevator rising in the glass tube of the stairwell, which echoed the slightest little noise. She heard thuds, the pounding of running feet, booted and coming closer, shouts and then rattling, as when a window is smashed with a rifle butt.
She looked around for a hiding place.
That night of the second day of Christmas when a group of Arrow Cross thugs broke into this building and rousted everybody just as they found them out to the snow-covered street, Mrs. Szemző and her two sons had been long gone from their apartment. Alajos Madzar had placed very few objects in any given space, and with Mrs. Szemző he had a very easy time when it came to minimizing the need for objects. He put very simple, etched-glass-covered sconces with matte chromium-plated armatures on the rustically splattered walls. And in that space Gyöngyvér Mózes heard many notes she could not possibly have heard.
Perhaps her heart pounded so loudly in fear.
Somebody was shouting in the stairwell, imploring others that if they knew any kind of god, if you have any soul in you, you would not do this.
Do this, it echoed.
At least have mercy on my elderly mother.
My elderly mother, derly mother, mother, other, it echoed.
Then everything fell silent in the stairwell.
If it had been Mrs. Szemző coming up in the elevator, Gyöngyvér would have left the piano and quickly returned via the bathroom to the maid’s room, which Madzar had turned into an office for Mrs. Szemző’s assistant.
It would not have been the first time for her.
No, they would have no mercy.
And it was as if she heard a single piercing scream, then again a rattling and a crash. In her many sublet situations, she had learned how to listen to and hear things above a general noise, sneak and scurry through hallways and corridors, take furtive bites out of other people’s food, use strangers’ belongings silently and unnoticed. Towels, the landlady’s cotton, a few tea leaves, soup powder, break off a piece of bread, slip a couple of cigarettes out of a pack, take a swig out of the milk bottle. Leave no traces.
Had she known she was listening to the past, she would have turned to stone.
Not to make the floor creak.
But it was not Mrs. Szemző now, and Gyöngyvér did not move from the piano stool.
Mrs. Szemző said, Gyöngyvér, listen to me, you should probably sing Monteverdi, the sweet, seductive, and terrible Gorgone, for example, yes, and she asked if Gyöngyvér knew that role.
How in the name of cunt could she know everything. Why was Mrs. Szemző asking her such dumb things.
Sure, Irmuska believes they were playing Monteverdi for me in the chicken coop, right.
Madzar had carefully worked out who was to go where in the psychoanalytic clinic because Mrs. Szemző’s patients should theoretically not ever meet even in this unpleasantly echoing but otherwise most attractive stairwell. At least that was the demand, which Madzar kept well in mind: that patients should not encounter each other. But the pounding increased as they approached from floor to floor, step by step, with their rifle butts knocking on the apartments’ thick oak doors.
If you listen for the inner world of your voice, Gyöngyvér, you will turn to stone, that’s how strong the primal force is in it, and the horror. Your voice cannot be loved, Gyöngyvér, don’t ever expect that, but you will be idolized, your voice is einmalig, I can tell you that much, einmalig.
Don’t mind me saying this to you, you must make use of your terrible thirst for revenge rather than being ashamed of it, don’t be afraid, if things turn out well you’ll be paid a bundle for your vengefulness.
It’s best for me, Mrs. Szemző explained to the architect at the time, if my patients remain ignorant of one another.
There are nights, however, when the walls of Budapest apartments reradiate the sounds they once absorbed.
The architect questioned the woman in detail, tried to follow her. Based on what he had heard, he figured out where her patients could wait for a few moments to avoid unexpected confusion.