In the depth of her soul, she would have liked to have a daughter-in-law, even one like Gyöngyvér. But not one with such an empty head. Yet even resisting the idea filled her with a certain pleasure.
A kind of physical sensation, as if experiencing her son’s secret joy, or at least understanding it.
See how cleverly she covers her ugly forehead with that pretty little round hat.
Gyöngyvér’s forehead was indeed not attractive. Convex and decently proportioned, but her hair grew in close at the edges, and there wasn’t anything she could do about that; it was not the kind of forehead that could carry off bangs. Of course Lady Erna did not fail to notice that once or twice Gyöngyvér had had her hair styled with bangs cut square above the eyes. Her thick dark hair lent her appearance a kind of wildness, and, probably because she couldn’t abide this, she resorted to removing superfluous hair with the aid of resin wax; but the tiny bloody craters caused by the violence had barely healed when fresh bristles would crop out in their place.
Dark shadow on her forehead.
She longed for tenderness, sensitivity, and refinement; she simpered and grew touchy, and what the little goose could not obtain except perhaps accidentally she was trying to get to with outward show. Of course her pug nose told the world what a low mark the little waif earned in intelligence. And that filled Lady Erna with contentment, if for no other reason than that her persistent physical attraction to the young woman sometimes so confused her that she behaved more brusquely, meanly, or maliciously than she could afford even by her own standards.
All of this, however, had a less common, more delicate aspect, a more intimate map. She was still a little girl when she discovered this map; it was already drawn up.
The buggy was taking her somewhere from the house in Jászhanta, perhaps to the train station, when they turned onto a long plum-tree-lined allée. The trees had been planted when the handsome manor house was built at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Since then they had grown enormous, some had lost branches, so there were gaps in their rich foliage, and she could see clear summer sky through parts of the towering crowns.
She put her gloved hand on Gyöngyvér’s gloved hand for a long moment, lightly. But as soon as they made contact, the light touch gained weight, as if the other hand had been waiting for hers. She felt as if they might lock.
Gyöngyvér, my little girl, she wanted to say. If she’d said it out loud, and the very thought of it made her choke, not only would it sound false, but it could be misunderstood in any number of ways, and then she would only act out a newer, more absurd scene from one of the usual dramas. But that was what she was thinking at that moment. Her awareness was permeated with a sense of her absent daughter, along with the guilt she felt about her. She had been a big girl when they carried her off; she was in her first year at the university when they took away my little girl, though she still wore her hair in thick braids. For two weeks they left no stone unturned trying to get her back from the Gestapo on Melinda Road. Maybe not every stone. The daughter’s appearance now clung to Gyöngyvér’s mature exterior, because the daughter had never become a woman.
She never experienced the things this silly woman enjoys so freely with Lady Erna’s son. Perhaps it’s for the best.
Still, she could not forgive herself, or anyone else.
Most of all she could not forgive the dying man. She had been his daughter in every sense of the word, yet he failed to save her.
Whatever flowed from body to body through their gloved hands could not necessarily be identified as maternal love. If only one could shut off the disrupted current so easily, she thought suddenly. Still, there was something maternal here; after all, this woman belonged to her son, and she, being his mother, had to feel something of what her son found attractive in her. Or rather, it did not resemble the sensation she had not felt for quite some time at the sight of men.
In time, her desires somewhat shifted in proportion. She would dishonor the memory of her little girl if she called this strange woman her child.
Perhaps what she had to forego had already been marked on that map which, as a little girl, she’d seen in the sky framed by the treetops.
Still, even now, and forever, she must be restrained, self-possessed; no use asking why she couldn’t lose her mind, spin out of control just one more time.
Lady Erna’s other hand, perturbed by this welter of emotions, stirred a little, of course, and her small lips edged with wrinkles trembled. Helplessly and hungrily, seeking and avoiding the other’s gaze, they looked at each other while the car sped along the boulevard with the noise of rain lashing at the windows.
I don’t know what this afternoon will bring, she said, keeping her voice low if only because of the cabbie, as she grasped the young woman’s gloved hand. The cabbie, with his unusual face yet goodly mien, whom she could not place, was obviously observing them. I don’t really know how, she continued, her voice trailing off awkwardly, but I must come up with something. And in her effort not to alarm Gyöngyvér with a sudden gush of emotion, and not to lay herself open either, she sighed and, with her upper lip retracted like an animal snarling in pain or joy, burst out laughing.
Sigh and laughter followed each other.
You may not believe it, Gyöngyvér, but I’ve no mourning clothes.
And when she said this, she felt strong enough to break the flow between the two of them. As if asking for indulgence, signaling that the other person should not give the fleeting moment too much weight.
There is one big role left she would not mind playing.
Some other time.
She must now continue in a reasonable tone.
I must get downtown to the shops, if only for a short time. I’d be grateful if you’d come along, Gyöngyvér. I’ve got shoes, I’ve got handbags and coats, actually I’ve got everything, but black stockings, for example, I don’t have at all. Actually black is not my color. Well, I’m lying. If the moths haven’t eaten them, I must still have a black velvet cocktail dress and a black taffeta suit. But those aren’t exactly right for now, they won’t do at all. You can appreciate that in the circumstances I can’t deal with things like this by myself.
But I would trust your judgment entirely.
Gyöngyvér was not quick to answer, she remained silent, or she did not grasp the meaning of the unfolding scene; but she did not alter her pained smile. After so much mute and treacherous humiliation, this unexpected trust was like an even more treacherous attack; it paralyzed her. It deeply shocked her that a person could speak like this about her own husband’s impending death, so openly, so shamelessly and brutally. She could not consciously gauge all the places Lady Erna knew and had been to, how many things she had had her hands in; even what she experienced unconsciously of Lady Erna’s deeds and existence was too much for her — the familiar strong attraction and familiar proximity, which she could not avoid. Besides, she had a problem concentrating on more than one thing at a time.