This made them be quiet for a good while.
Kristóf had a chance to be annoyed once again by the woman’s latest lecture.
Yet their silence affected both of them as if it were a delicate pact regarding their future. Kristóf could not tell what was inherently uneven in this silence. He was, instead, stuck on one word: trampled. The woman had trampled him, had trod heavily on him and then withdrawn. She simply withdrew. This hurt him, but he did not think it was unfair.
They were idling in the middle of the road again, for who knows how long. As if quietly signaling that they had to wait to make their turn in the night at last.
But Klára didn’t notice that nothing was or would be in her way to keep her from turning.
Kristóf was hesitantly motioning what to do, gesturing for her to turn.
And if they had reached the point where they could freely laugh at themselves and each other, there was no reason not to go on to Stefánia Boulevard so Kristóf could show her the other house with the big garden behind the pointed iron fence where his paternal grandparents had raised him. Their easy laughter grew irresponsible, which, more clearly expressed, meant they were hopelessly in love with someone. No matter how they tried to fight it. Protecting their independence from each other. Kristóf is in love with the giant and he cannot refuse to admit this. His mode of admitting it is not yet fully transparent, though it is slowly acquiring shape. And Klára states up front that she will keep Simon because she wants to, gives no explanation for this and won’t do so later. And yet they are progressing further and further into a metaphysical thicket. Where neither of them is on familiar ground because they must deal not with objects but with the essence and emblems of unknown feelings, historical rhymes, genetic assonances, and even more unfamiliar parallels and congruities. Although the building must look different because new tenants ransacked and divided it, sold off the iron fence as scrap metal, cut down the centuries-old trees to build temporary huts, pens, and lean-tos, the two of them did not get that far on Stefánia Boulevard on this stormy night.
Kristóf continued to tell his stories, to explain things, but with waning self-confidence, hinting that it might be best to say nothing of certain matters. He displayed awkwardness with all his talk; with his pig-headed persistence he showed, perhaps to the woman, perhaps to himself, his infantile clinging to various locales. Now he saw how empty they all were. The houses, the streets, the squares. And how futile his attempt to surround the woman with all those words. She avoided him, this woman kept going on her own much more objective way.
Perhaps she wasn’t in the least bit interested in so much abstraction, or he failed to present his story interestingly enough, which deeply shamed him.
As if he had failed to carry out an obligatory service.
This other story of his had little to do with history or with his own life story.
Or with words.
They did not look at each other, barely seeing more than a dark silhouette to their left or right, with the light of streetlamps flashing and fading above the car. Neither of them looked at their watches, were no longer concerned that they might be late or should be going somewhere; their commitments had faded away. Klára continued to handle the young man’s declarations with a certain innate caution. Or remained cautious because of his rebellious tendencies. She considered his vague urban-sociological theory as intellectual decoration, theatrical scenery with which Kristóf rushed to isolate both loud catastrophe and quiet tragedy. If only to spare her. This flattered her; she was moved by his courtesy but not appeased. She and Simon had banished from their life every form of courteous or ceremonious behavior, though she systematically continued to point out to Simon what rule of accepted behavior they happened to be breaking at any given moment. But now her former life seemed to be returning through the back door, a life more in accordance with her upbringing, based on the careful exchange of courtesies and the tactful transposition of brutality into something with acceptable tones. Simon had learned a lot about this, theoretically, in a course on behavioral history at the Moscow School of International Relations, but he acquired it negatively from Klára Vay. He learned from her firm denunciations how he should have behaved in given situations, what he should have done or should do. Klára Vay was not a very sensitive person and therefore minced no words; she could not afford to be sentimental. She had only contempt for everything that was weak, timid, or indirect; she struggled with her own intellect as well, she had to be clear-sighted at all times. Eventually she would begin her university studies and she was ready to do anything for that. She had had no formal education of any kind, though she had read a great deal; she was determined to fight her way through the history of thought, alone. She knew she was throwing her weight around and wouldn’t get far with her suggestion for systematization, but she had to keep on course and she could hardly expect more than that. She now and again tested her conceptual capacity and arrogantly disregarded her fiascos. Nothing interested her but finding a direct, practical, and easily understandable explanation, a formula that accepted catastrophe and, at least for a time, resisted erosion and tragedy.
And this formula, in all its elements, had to be beyond the personal.
Nobody could foresee a change in circumstances.
To find a place for herself, a form for her rebellion. So she would not remain in eternal illegality. Not to be vulnerable. She should not be allowed to sink. She would choose betrayal, destruction, and even more total devastation, whoredom, anything but the resigned muteness in which they had been living as the living dead.
The devil take the hindmost.
And no matter how serious her struggle proved to be, no matter how obsessed she had become with it and how calculating, she found it amusing that this young man from across the boulevard busied himself, so doggedly and enthusiastically, with her person — to which she herself, in her own well-considered interest, paid only moderate attention. He was following her, observing her, becoming her dog. She liked his crew cut, his humility, his gentleness, which at the same time she was ready to belittle or ridicule, his strong forehead; she liked looking at his boyishly soft lips, as though mapping out his dormant lovemaking capabilities and pleasure-producing physical attributes. She sensed correctly that the young man had no definable intentions or at least no conventional ones; he set no preconditions.
Anyway, attractive and beautiful people tend to consider loyal courting and admiration their due.
This admiration was hers; she deserved devotion and humility.
Although it struck her as strange that the young man’s courting lacked manly self-adoration and that he was not hesitant in his humility.
And she was looking for a partner in her rebellion whom she could initiate, narcotize, and dazzle, whom she could shape to her liking with her fingers, like putty, someone who would serve her and no one else.
Perhaps she was looking for a male being who, curiously, was not selfish, who was disciplined even when unbridled, who unlike other men was not too headstrong. So she could exclude Simon to some extent. She wanted independence; she had gone too far with Simon in their mutual dependence. To shake the young man out of his silent adulation — aside from everything else she had always longed for his lips — to make him stop talking and start doing something.
Yet she had given him no signs in this direction.
She deserved this much compensation: to get her hands on such an innocent, handsome boy, nice and slow. Thanks to her traditional upbringing and irregular behavior, she had missed out on the admiration and devotion that should have been hers. She regretted, painfully and urgently, not having had someone to reject. And precisely because she loves Simon, she isn’t going to pass up this opportunity. She loves no one else and she never will.