“And is that why you were against Peter marrying Judit Áldozó?”
“That wasn’t the only reason I couldn’t allow it, of course. Peter is bourgeois, a valuable member of the bourgeoisie … there are few like him left. He embodies a culture that is very important to me. He once told me, by way of a joke, that my role was to be the chief witness to his life. I answered, equally by way of a joke, but not altogether as jokingly as you might at first think, that I had to look after him out of sheer commercial interest, because he was my reader, and writers have to save their readers. Of course it was not the size of my readership I meant to preserve, but those few souls in whom my sense of responsibility to the world I know continues to exist … They are the people for whom I write … If I didn’t, there would be no sense in anything I wrote. Peter is one of the few. There are not many left, not here, not anywhere in the world … I am not interested in the rest. But that was not the real reason—or to put it more precisely, this wasn’t the reason, either. I was simply jealous because I loved him. I have never liked surrendering to my feelings … but this feeling, this friendship, was much more refined, much more complex than love. It is the most powerful of all human feelings … it is genuinely disinterested. It is unknown to women.”
“But why were you jealous of that particular woman?” I persevered. I was listening to everything he was saying but still felt he was not being straight with me, that he was avoiding the real issue.
“Because I don’t like sentimental heroes,” he eventually admitted, as if resigned to telling the truth. “More than anything else, I like to see everyone and everything in its proper place. But it wasn’t only the difference in class that concerned me. Women are quick to learn and can make up centuries of evolution in a few moments … I do not doubt that with Peter at her side this woman would have learned everything in a trice, and conducted herself as perfectly as you or I did at that grand house last night … Women generally are far superior in culture and manners to the men of their own class. Nevertheless, Peter would still have felt like a sentimental hero to himself, a hero who was a hero from the moment he rose to the moment he went to bed, because he was doing something the world did not approve of, embarking on a mission that is entirely human and perfectly acceptable to God and man, but one whose undertaking required him to be a hero, a sentimental hero. And that’s not all. There was the woman. This woman would never forgive Peter for being middle-class.”
“That I don’t believe,” I said, feeling stupid.
“I know different.” He frowned. “But none of this resolves your problem. What was decided at that point was the fate of a condition, a feeling. What was at stake for Peter in that feeling, what it meant in terms of passion and desire … I don’t know. But I felt the earthquake, witnessed it at its most dangerous moment. His entire being was shaken, his sense of belonging to a class, the foundations on which he had built his life and the way of life such foundations implied. One’s way of life is not a purely private matter. When such a man—one who preserves and articulates the entire meaning of his culture—when such a man collapses, it is not only he who is destroyed but a part of the world to which he belongs, a world that was worth living in … I took serious note of that woman. It wasn’t that she came from another class. It may be best for everyone, may be the most fortunate course of events, that children of different classes be swept together by the tides of some great passion … No, it was something in her character to which I couldn’t help responding, something I could not reconcile myself to and to which I could not abandon Peter. She had a certain ferocity of will, a kind of barbaric power … Did you not feel it?”
His sleepy, tired eyes flashed suddenly as he turned to me. He proceeded uncertainly, as if seeking the right words.
“There are people who are possessed of a fierce primeval power, who can suck from others, from their entire environment, whatever sustenance makes life possible—just as, for example, there are certain vines or lianas in the jungle that absorb the water, the salts, the nourishment required by the great trees on which they feed, even over a length of hundreds of yards. That’s just the way they are: it is their nature … You can argue with wrongdoers, you can pacify them, maybe even resolve some of the inner suffering that leads them to take revenge on other people, on life itself. These are the lucky ones … But there are other kinds, people like those vines, who are not at all ill-intentioned but simply squeeze the life out of their environment by enveloping it in an embrace so fierce and willful that it proves fatal in the end. It is a barbaric, elemental form of execution. It is rare to find it in men … more common in women. The power that emanates from them destroys anything that might be in their way, even strong characters like Peter. Did you not feel this when you were talking to her? It was like talking to a simoom or a tsunami.”
“I was simply talking to a woman,” I said, and sighed. “A very powerful woman.”
“Well, that is true. Women’s response to other women is quite different,” he readily admitted. “Personally, I respect their power and fear it. This should make it easier for you to respect Peter. Try to imagine the kind of tide he was swimming against in those years, what strength it required for him to tear himself from the invisible embrace of this dangerous power. Because that power wanted simply everything. It wasn’t a backstreet she was looking for, a two-bedroom apartment up an alley, a silver-fox wrap, a three-week vacation in secret with her lover … She would have wanted everything, because she was a real woman, not an imitation. Did you not feel this? …”
“Yes,” I said. “She would rather starve.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, and now it was he who was surprised.
“Starve,” I said. “That’s what she told me. It’s a stupid, wicked superstition. Where people set out to starve themselves, and keep fasting until they see they are going to get their way.”
“Did she say that?” he pondered. “There is such a custom in the east of the country. It is a form of will transference.” He gave a sudden, nervous, ill-tempered laugh. “So there you are. Judit Áldozó is the most dangerous exponent of it. Because there are women you can take out to supper in the most glittering restaurants, where they can eat crab and drink Champagne, and they present no danger. Then there are others who would rather fast … they are the dangerous ones. I am still worried that you might, needlessly, have set her off. She had begun to tire … It was a long time since I last saw her, years ago, but then I felt that your lives, your stars, were shifting, that there was a certain indifference, a kind of sponginess … Because life is not all inundations and barbaric powers … There’s more. There is a law of helplessness too. You should honor that law.”
“I am in no position to honor anything,” I said, “because this is not the way I want to live. I don’t understand Judit Áldozó, I don’t have her measure. I can’t tell what she once meant to my husband or what she means to him now; I don’t know what danger she presents … I don’t believe there are passions whose embers continue burning in one’s soul the whole of one’s life, all smoke and the odd flicker of flame, like an underground fire down a mine … They may exist here and there, but I believe life can put such fires out. Don’t you agree? …”
“Yes, of course,” he replied, rather too readily, and gazed at his cigarette.
“I see you don’t believe it,” I continued. “Well, I might be wrong. Maybe certain passions are stronger than life or meaning or time. Everything gets burned, everything is consumed in fire … Maybe … In that case, let them really burn. No more lapping flames but a proper inferno. I don’t want to build a home at the foot of a volcano. I want peace, and calm. That’s why I’m not sorry this has happened. The way things are, my whole life is an unbearable failure. I have powers of my own; I can wait and exercise my will as well as Judit Áldozó, even if I have to starve myself to no purpose, for no one; even if I carry on eating my supper of cold chicken with mayonnaise … I want an end to this unspoken rivalry, this ridicul
ous duel. You have been a second in the contest; that’s why I am talking to you. Do you think Peter still has feelings for this woman?”
“I do,” was his unvarnished reply.
“In that case he has no real feeling for me,” I said, loudly but calmly. “Then let him do something about it; let him marry her or not marry her, let them ruin each other’s lives or let them prosper, but let him find his own peace. I don’t want to live like this. I swore to this woman that I would not tell Peter, and I will keep my promise. But I won’t be upset if you, on a suitable occasion, in the not-too-distant future—say, in the next few days—should tactfully, or not so tactfully, discuss this with him. Would you do that?”
“If that’s what you want,” he agreed, without much enthusiasm.
“I very much want it,” I said, and stood up, pulling on my gloves. “I see you would like to know what will become of me,” I continued. “I will tell you. I will abide by whatever decisions are taken. I don’t like dumb shows that go on for decades; I don’t like confrontations with unseen opponents hovering in a state of pale, bloodless tension. If there must be a scene, let there be a good loud scene, complete with blows and corpses, with applause and whistling. I want to know who I am supposed to be, what my role is in this drama and what I am worth. If my role is to fail, I will leave the stage. Let things be as they must be. I will take no further interest in Peter’s life nor in Judit Áldozó’s.”
“That is not true,” he calmly replied.
“It is true,” I said. “It will be true because I will it. If he can’t make up his own mind after twelve years, then it’s up to me to make it up for him. If he can’t work out who is his real wife, I’ll decide.”
“And who will that be?” he flashed back at me, all ears now, almost cheerful, as he had not been in the course of the entire conversation. It was as if he had just heard a surprising, especially amusing declaration. “Who is that real wife to be?”
“I have already told you,” I answered, a little confused. “Why are you smiling like that, as if you didn’t believe me? … My mother-in-law once told me that there is always a real wife somewhere. That could be Judit Áldozó, or it could be someone else. Well, he can’t find her, so I will.”
“I see,” he said. He gazed at the carpet, clearly not wanting to argue.
He escorted me to the door without saying anything. He kissed my hand, still with that strange smile on his face. He gravely opened the door for me and made a low bow.
But we should pay and go now; they really are wanting to close. Miss, I had two teas and a pistachio ice. No, darling, you are my guest. No protests, please. And don’t feel sorry for me, either. It’s the end of the month, but this little treat will not ruin me. I lead a carefree, independent life; my alimony always arrives precisely on the first, and it is considerably more than I need. See, it’s not such a bad life.
Ah, but you’re thinking, it lacks a certain meaning? … That’s not true, either. Life is very full. Just as I was on my way here to meet you I was walking down a street and it suddenly started to snow. It was pure delight. The first snow … I couldn’t give myself over to sheer enjoyment before. I was constantly attending to one man and had no time for the rest of the world. I lost the man and gained a world. Do you think that’s a poor exchange? … I don’t know. You might be right.
I don’t have much else to tell you. You know the rest. I have divorced my husband and live alone. He lived alone for a while too; then he married Judit Áldozó. But that’s another story.
None of it happened as quickly as I imagined it might at Lázár’s apartment. I carried on living with my husband for two more years after that. It seems everything in life runs according to some invisible minute hand: one can’t “decide” anything a moment sooner than one is meant to, only once all other matters and the situation itself make the decision for you … To do it any other way is foolish, an act of aggression, practically immoral. Life decides, suddenly, wonderfully … and, once it does, everything seems simple and natural.
After visiting Lázár I went home and said nothing about Judit Áldozó to my husband. By that time, poor man, he knew everything. It was only the most important fact he was missing. And I couldn’t tell him, because I didn’t know it myself then, and would not know it for some time afterwards … Only Lázár knew—yes, then, as I was saying good-bye, when he suddenly went strangely silent. It must have been what he was thinking of. But he said nothing himself, because the most important things are not the kind of things you can say to anyone. People have to learn it for themselves.
The most important thing? … Look, I don’t want to upset you. You are a little in love with that Swedish teacher, aren’t you? … Am I right? … Fine, I am not asking for confessions. But allow me to keep silent too. I wouldn’t want to ruin that lovely, sweeping emotion. I wouldn’t want to hurt you in any way.
I don’t know when my husband actually spoke with Lázár, the next day or weeks later, nor do I know what was said. But everything worked out the way Lázár said it would. My husband knew everything: he knew I had found the lilac ribbon, and that I knew who wore the locket. He knew I had spoken with Judit Áldozó, who did in fact resign from my mother-in-law’s service at the beginning of the next month. She disappeared for two years. My husband hired private detectives to find her, but grew tired of it and fell ill. He called the detectives off. Do you know what my husband did in the two years of her disappearance?
He waited.
I had no idea it was possible to wait like that. It was as if he had been sentenced to forced labor and set to breaking stones in a quarry. He broke the stones with such strength, with such discipline, with so much devotion, in such despair … By that time not even I could help him, and if I had to tell the truth while lying on my deathbed, I would have to confess that I didn’t actually want to help him. My own heart was full of bitterness and despair then. I watched his terrible spiritual exertion for two years. This smiling, wordless, courteous, ever paler, ever more silent argument with somebody or something … You watch how some people rush for the morning mail: it’s as if they were a kind of drug addict. They put a hand into the mailbox, feel there is nothing there, and you see their hand emerge, hovering, empty … You watch someone’s head jerk to attention as the telephone rings. You see his shoulder tense when he hears the doorbell. His eyes flick hither and thither in the restaurant and the theater foyer, always searching, searching every corner of the universe. We spent two years like this. But there was no trace of Judit Áldozó. Later we discovered she had traveled abroad and worked as a maid in an English doctor’s house in London. Hungarian servants were in demand in England then.
Her family heard nothing from her, nor did my mother-in-law. I visited my mother-in-law pretty regularly in those two years. I spent whole afternoons there. Her health was deteriorating, poor thing: she had suffered a thrombosis and had to lie immobile for months on end. I used to sit at her bedside. I grew very fond of her. We sat, we read, we knitted and made conversation. It was almost as though we were weaving a tapestry, the way medieval women did while their husbands were away in the war. I knew that my husband’s part in the battle was likely to be dangerous. He could be killed any moment. My mother-in-law knew it too. But neither of us could help him now. That was his problem now … he was alone, his life in considerable danger, and he himself could do nothing but wait.
The two of us, my mother-in-law and I, walked about on tiptoe in the meantime; we lived and wove our tapestry around him. We were like nurses. We talked about other things, sometimes cheerfully, as if nothing had happened. It might have been a peculiar form of tact or just intense embarrassment, but eventually it got so that my mother-in-law never spoke about what had happened. That noon, when she sat down opposite us in the maid’s room and wept, we formed an unspoken pact to help each other, as far as possible, promising we would not talk unnecessarily or despairingly about the situation. If we talked about my husband, it was as of a charming, ami
able invalid who happened to be in a condition that concerned us but not in immediate danger of his life … Yes, as of someone who could still go on a long time … Our role was simply to adjust the pillow under his head, to open the odd jar of preserves, or to amuse him by chatting about events in the world at large. And indeed, throughout these two years, my husband and I led a calm and orderly life at home, without very much socializing. My husband had already begun to dismantle everything that might tie us to society and the world outside. Over two years he slowly, with the greatest tact and refinement, made his exit, walking away from his own life, but in such a manner as not to offend anyone. Little by little our acquaintances were cut off and we remained alone. Actually it wasn’t as bad as you might think. We spent five days out of the seven at home. We listened to music or read. Lázár never visited us again. He too went abroad, and lived in Rome for several months.
So that’s how we lived. All three of us were waiting for something: my mother-in-law for death, my husband for Judit Áldozó, and I for the moment that either death or the return of Judit Áldozó, or some other unforeseen, unavoidable event, should make it clear what I should do with my life and where I belonged … You were asking why I did not leave my husband. How could I live with someone who is waiting for someone else, who springs to attention each time the door opens, who has grown pale, is avoiding people, cuts himself off from the world, is sick unto death with some disease of the emotions, who is eaten away with simply waiting? Well, it wasn’t easy, not at all. It is not the most pleasant of situations. But I was his wife and couldn’t leave him, because he was in trouble and in danger. I was his wife and had made a sacred vow to remain with him and suffer with him, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, as long as he wanted me, as long as he had need of me. Well, he needed me now. He would have wasted away if left alone those two years. We carried on, waiting for some earthly or heavenly sign. We were waiting for Judit Áldozó.