A damaged system will, however, after perfidious silence avenge emotional excess with an acute shortness of breath. Not when first stimulated to excitement but a little later, when the heart muscles can no longer meet the demands of rising blood pressure, speeding pulse, and localized hyperemia. Pressure and asphyxiation are warning signals when the shoulders or lips or loins, engorging with blood, are no longer points of stimulation, but the entire body is — from the hair on the head to the tops of the toes, when the very flesh of the heart labors under the spell of stimulation.
It does not have the reserves to supply the system’s center and peripheries simultaneously.
But by then it’s too late.
Gyöngyvér, my little girl, said Lady Erna, her voice hoarse and reduced to a whisper by the sudden urge for self-preservation. She was loath to say aloud what she was about to say. It was exactly what she wanted to keep to herself. I don’t want to frighten you, but I haven’t been feeling well since early this morning, and I think I had better prepare you. If you see that I’m getting worse, my medicine is here, in my purse. If I become very weak or even faint, you should put it under my tongue.
Yes, I know the medicine, Gyöngyvér answered dryly, as if she too wanted to move past this, wanted to get it behind her.
Contrary to Lady Erna’s expectation, neither fear nor surprise showed on Gyöngyvér’s face. Indeed, her pretended empathy and genuine curiosity only grew.
With the excuse of having to look for her medicine, Lady Erna turned and shifted away on the seat with a small laugh. As if to apologize for clinging to her miserable life. Which is truly laughable. Common sense told her it would be more pleasant to slip into the hereafter in a state of unconsciousness than to continue wide awake, trembling for her wretched life. And if that was how it was going to be, and it could hardly be otherwise, why bring her back with the help of medication, why couldn’t she be content to simply faint away. No matter how hard she tried to find her instinct for self-preservation ridiculous, her fear of death won out. There was another creature within her, too terrified to be amused — in the hope of overcoming fear — at being terrified. Efforts to master her fear had never been successful, yet she never gave up. Exactly the opposite happened. Laughter did not help overcome the dread, and the elemental fear, much stronger than she, deeply humiliated her and repeatedly made a mockery of her faith in common sense.
Common sense failed to stop the symptoms; her hands shook visibly. The telltale spots caused by afflictions of the nervous system, going from flushed to pale, made their appearance, along with imperceptible dewdrops of fear gathering along the rim of her upper lip. And there was no good reason why she was unable to click open the latch of her handbag.
Even if I confide in this woman, I can’t expect anything from her but hypocrisy. In her restrained fury, she practically tore the gloves off her hands. She didn’t regret this. She had noticed earlier that at times Gyöngyvér’s eyes were glued to her. At least her hands had not yet lost their shapeliness. The young woman had something to envy. Leaning back from the edge of her consciousness, she somehow gathered that what she was doing now had nothing to do with her heart; false alarm, a lot of hysterics, no threat of another attack. But her inner tensions, with their various origins and vectors, were raging so furiously that she genuinely feared being unable to control herself.
Then it must be death I am so afraid of, after all. No matter how I’ve tried to deceive myself, telling myself that he’s been dead to me for so long that no matter what happens the actual death won’t be a shock.
She finally managed to undo the clasp with her trembling fingers. She glanced up to assess their progress. She did not want to be shocked. She saw they were still far from their destination. God, help me have him sign it. We’re only on the ramp to the Margit Bridge. She did not understand herself. Why is her body producing such absurd hysteria in front of this young woman, and also because of her. What need does she have of anyone’s empathy, why make a stranger feel sorry for her. She couldn’t say.
And she couldn’t even thrust her hand haphazardly into the bag the way she wanted to; first she had to take out the copies of the sale contract.
I’ve been having such a migraine since early this morning, said Gyöngyvér dolefully, I’m nauseated, my head is about to explode.
The handbag was the kind in which one could never find anything. Just let your head explode, my dear, there’s nothing in it anyway, said Lady Erna to herself; she was furious that instead of empathizing, the young woman was looking for pity. What a stupid hen you are. What a primitive soul. A decorated pouch of a handbag on a strong metal frame. Just recently very fashionable, and particularly to her liking because it reminded her of the sporranlike pouches her mother carried to soirées and balls. And now the two of them in the taxi were holding two all but identical handbags on their laps. This also annoyed her.
Lady Erna’s purse was made of soft, dark gray calfskin, just like her shoes; Gyöngyvér’s was so-called Negro brown, a fashionable hue that also matched her shoes, but it was made of imitation leather. Which, at the time, was considered more chic than real leather. This insignificant little difference made Lady Erna feel the light-years of distance that separated them. The rage for successful imitations had shattered her image of the world. She could not conceive of owning a purse or anything else made of artificial material. The whole world, as it was, must now be considered one big forgery. Still, one should spare no effort to curb the display of falsehoods, or at least one should hide one’s own.
For heaven’s sake, how would you know about this miserable medicine, she asked irritably when she found it at last and lifted out the antique silver etui. What problems can your heart have.
You are young, strong.
Silent for a moment, the young woman pressed her hands to her temples, squeezed and kneaded them, moaned and whimpered.
Nobody can get trinitroglycerin except people with serious heart problems, though as a medication it’s not dangerous.
Lady Erna’s hand in the meantime also found her handkerchief of snow-white, lightly starched lawn. The absentminded movement with which she put it to use was among the imperceptible supreme achievements of her upbringing. Looking deep into Gyöngyvér’s eyes — and it was these apparently incidental gestures that Gyöngyvér absorbed and internalized most eagerly — she dabbed and blotted up the pearls of perspiration under her nose without either the immaculate kerchief or her fingers touching her lips. The lipstick was not smeared and the movement was not in the least conspicuous. This was the trick of the proper use of a handkerchief. The gesture must be rapid and restrained but not fussy.
In her other hand, she was still holding the little silver box.
Explosive, I know, believe me, nitroglycerine. Gyöngyvér’s words tumbled out. By the way, I have what they call an athletic heart, really, it’s like steel. She felt she was making no headway with her headache. But I did have an old lady colleague with very serious heart problems. I liked her a lot and helped her often, believe me. I lived at her place for months, and while she was telling this story she blushed and her face showed signs that it might be painful for her to remember this friend.