To be able to see them openly, without reserve; there should be nothing he didn’t know about them; how do they do it, that’s what he wanted to know; that’s what he caught himself wanting to know more than anything else.
Every single man got him excited.
I’m a lousy little liar, he thought, alarmed, always have been; in an undertone, he kept speaking and breathing on the windowpane, while what he really wanted was to go down, cross the boulevard, and talk to that woman. Perhaps what frightened him so much was the possibility that suddenly somebody, an unknown woman, simply with her sheer existence, might give him pleasure. For whom he felt nothing and whom he did not love; how could he without knowing her; yet he was in love with her. But how can one be in love in such circumstances. He wanted to possess her. Could that be the sum total of that much-admired thing called love. It’s not only me; everybody is selfish, mendacious, evil.
His aunt Nínó too, everyone, every woman is a traitor, they are born traitors.
But even with sentences like these, he could not find the right place for his own betrayal because the moment he’d said he did not want it, had had enough of death, he’d simply managed to evoke even more intensely everything it would be best to forget.
As if he were shouting at himself, asking why did you let Nínó leave with that other woman, that dumb slut, why didn’t you go with her yourself, but the question could mean only one thing: why is your life so miserable. His protest notwithstanding, death would reach out to him with the hand of his aunt. And there was no point in making excuses for himself, that Nínó couldn’t care less about the death of that old fascist either; all she cared about was the inheritance for her loathsome evil little son, nothing else.
It could not have been anything but an illusion or wishful thinking to imagine that there existed human relationships lasting more than a few seconds. They’re nothing but snorting pigs, all of them. And they dare call it love when they wallow in the slop, snorting their heads off, and that’s what they value above everything else.
I’m not going. I am not going anywhere. I am not.
He went on turning these words over in his mind a long time after the foyer door had slammed shut behind the two women and complete silence had finally descended on the apartment.
Ilona did not move, but her presence or absence made no difference. He looked through her as if she did not exist. In his eyes, Ilona was no different from anyone else, a born traitor. A born servant, a whoring female who could not take her own fate into her hands so she rented it out to others.
He pressed his forehead against the windowpane again. The reflected masses of the sky moved brightly across the dark sidewalk.
Nowhere, you understand, nowhere. For himself, he had to convince Nínó of his rectitude.
I’m not going.
Down on the street, the cab was still waiting for the women.
What could they be doing so long in the stairwell. As if they had forgotten why they were supposed to hurry. In the farthest room facing the street, reclining on the professor’s abandoned sofa, Ilona was weeping. Now she could mourn her shattered life. It felt good to hear her little moans.
Downstairs, in front of the apartment building, the two women were crossing the street in a hurry, leaning into the wind. That’s what he’d been waiting for. As far as the eye could see there was nobody around, the boulevard was empty; Oktogon Square remained deserted. Let them go. I’m not going anywhere. He bade them farewell with these irritated words, emptied of meaning, while it was clear to him that lying to himself was in vain. Going nowhere. As soon as they were out of sight, he’d take his coat and be gone. Nothing to wait for anymore. He’s finally free. He’d face any risk. Actually, it was hard for him to call the dying man an old fascist pig, but by using that appellation he had liberated himself. Broken with his family.
At last he could tell himself that he was breaking with his family, that was the word, break, with which he supported his rebellion or, rather, made himself realize there was no way back.
The younger woman literally leaned into the wind, walked sideways against it; the older one, as though enlisting her entire body in her defense, doubled over and scurried forward as if making an escape. They both wore hats, Gyöngyvér’s a firm tiny round box decorated with bits of lace, of the kind usually called a pillbox, Lady Erna’s soft and woolly, wide-brimmed and large.
The wind kept changing direction; now it rushed into the city from the north and swept across Andrássy Road, now it came bouncing in from the west off the hills of Buda and wreaking havoc on the boulevard. They had to hold down their hats with their gloved hands. Identically, they pressed their pocketbooks hard to their chests. With that same movement, Lady Erna also held together her short fur coat. Gyöngyvér’s broad, long coat, the color of faded violet, had a large decorative button right under the round collar, and if she hadn’t clutched the coat together over her breasts, the wind would have opened it, reached under it, and made it flutter in every direction. Although the two women’s bodies differed greatly in weight, firmness, dimension, and pliancy, looking at them from above, their gaits seemed very much alike.
They both wore high-heeled, narrow, long-tipped pumps; they appeared to be toddling. And with every gust of wind their nylon-stockinged legs faltered a bit.
Before they reached the curb, the cabbie thrust the rear door open from inside and quickly leaped out to help the older woman into his vehicle. This courtesy was surprising because in those days taxi drivers had long ceased to fulfill this basic business obligation. Younger ones probably didn’t even know such a thing was expected. They didn’t say hello or bother with a thank-you when accepting a tip, though they did not refrain from remarks if they found the tip too small. Lady Erna saw the man’s strong profile for only a moment, when he raised his head to see out from under his cap and rain sprayed his face. She thought she might have known him from somewhere; he was about her age.
The three people appeared to be participants in a ritual, performing a sacrificial dance around a large, dimly glimmering cultic insect.
They halted abruptly, colliding gently as they walked around each other, parted by leaning away from one another, paused, and then bent over as the wet wings of the insect closed behind them.
The small, dim thuds could barely be heard behind the closed windows on the third floor.
The moment they slid onto their seats, they filled the tobacco-smelling cab with the fragrance of their perfumes.
The cabbie was a man of the old school; though his face was abundantly supplied with bitter, vertical creases, his playful, watchful eyes evinced a humorous or ironic disposition. Such eyes inspire confidence. He had on a well-worn visored leather cap, which seconds before he had pulled down tightly over his forehead against the wind.
Private chauffeurs used to wear caps like this, a long time ago.
Still, Lady Erna could not shake the nagging thought that this man was a retired secret service officer. But then how, where would she know him from. There was something about people like him; one could tell right away they had been ÁVH men. As former monks and nuns gave themselves away by their sickly pale complexions and overly cautious way of walking. Everyone knew that the mustered-out ÁVH men stuck together and were only waiting to come back to power and take their revenge.