The old boy didn’t like it when other people started dipping into his manuscripts.
“I don’t like it,” he said, “when other people start dipping into my manuscripts.”
“Why?” the old boy’s mother asked. “Are they secret?”
“Well as a matter of fact …” the old boy scratched his head.
“I can see you are busy again with your private affairs,” his mother declared.
“Yes,” the old boy conceded.
“Did they reject your novel?” his mother enquired, no doubt more out of stringency than malice.
“I haven’t even written it yet,” the old boy muttered.
“But I see here that you wrote a novel and they rejected it!”
“That was another novel. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in an armchair?” the old boy ventured.
“And what’s this?” The old boy’s mother picked up from the edge of the grey file the likewise grey (albeit a darker grey) lump of stone that served as a paperweight, so to speak.
“It’s a lump of stone,” said the old boy.
“Even I can see that; I’m not senile yet, thank God. But what do you need it for?”
“I don’t exactly need it, if it comes to that,” the old boy muttered.
“Well then, what’s it for?”
“I don’t know,” said the old boy, “It just is.”
The old boy’s mother was seated in the armchair situated to the north of the tile stove, behind the 1st-class special ply contraption of 1st-class sawn hardwood (child’s mini-table) (which in regard to its actual function was more a kind of tiny smoker’s table):
“There are some things,” she said, “I could never understand with you.”
“Would you like a coffee?” the old boy ventured.
“Yes, I would. For instance,” his mother swept a glance around the room, from the bookcase-filing-cabinet centaur (if such a catachresis may be entertained) standing in the southwest corner, which had been created from a bookcase assembled from the base of a former linen drawer, across to the (relatively) modern sofa occupying the northeast corner, “you are capable of giving up every demand you have just to avoid having to work.”
“But I do work,” the old boy remonstrated (though not with an entirely clear conscience) (since he should have sat down long ago to writing a book now his had become his occupation) (or rather, to be more precise, things had so transpired that that had become his occupation) (seeing as he had no other occupation).
“That’s not what I mean,” said his mother, “But why don’t you find yourself a proper job? You could still easily go on with the writing.”
“But I’m no good at anything; you forgot to get me trained in some well-paid profession.”
“You always were the comedian,” his mother said.
“There was a time when that’s what I lived off,” the old boy reminded her.
“Why don’t you still write comedy pieces now instead?” his mother asked
“Because I don’t want people to laugh. It makes me envious.”
“That rubber seal needs to be changed,” the old boy thought to himself as he was percolating the coffee.
“Aren’t you going to ask why I came?” his mother asked.
Indeed, the old boy’s mother was not in the habit of calling at his place; rather it was he who was in the habit of visiting her (more specifically, once a week, between seven o’clock and half past nine on Sunday evenings) (the weekly intervals being complemented by daily telephone conversations during which the old boy was able to keep abreast of his mother’s state of health as well as the) (important or not so important) (but in any case significant) (events which had happened to her) (as well as to her personal belongings or household objects) (which current events gained significance precisely because it was to her) (or her personal belongings or household objects) (such as water heater, wall hangings, kitchen tap, etc.) (that they happened).
“Well, anyway,” the old boy’s mother continued, “I finally got a serious response to my advertisement.”
The old boy’s mother had, in fact — as may be gathered from this announcement — placed an advertisement in the newspaper.
Through the advertisement she had dangled the prospect of a room (a big room, however, in the green belt and with all mod cons) in exchange for an undertaking to look after her.
For the old boy’s mother had to make ends meet (or rather, to be more accurate about it, she was unable to make ends meet) from her pension.
To supplement her pension, the elderly lady did shorthand and typewriting for four hours a day at the head office of an export company.
But now, with the passage of time, not only the old boy but also his mother was getting old (albeit more slowly, to a lesser degree, and more reluctantly, than the old boy) (although she had been forced to acknowledge its symptoms nevertheless) (such as the backache she got while typing) (on account of which she had given it up — the typewriting, that is to say).
Nevertheless, the hard fact of the matter — namely that the old boy’s mother needed to find an extra two thousand forints a month (to supplement her pension) — remained unchanged.
And the old boy did not have two thousand forints a month extra (indeed, there were times when he was that much short).
Which was why, through an advertisement, and in exchange for an undertaking to look after her, she had dangled the prospect of a room (a big room, however, in the green belt with all mod cons) (which is to say the apartment where the old boy was registered, by right of being an immediate family member, as a permanent resident, though he never lived there, not even temporarily) (and from which he would now have to transfer to the apartment where he had been temporarily registered, by right of marriage, even though he had been permanently resident there for decades) (thereby yielding place to a caregiver who, by right of being the caregiver, would be permanently registered but, on the basis of the agreement, would not reside even temporarily in the old boy’s mother’s apartment) (patiently waiting in his or her present place of residence, which presumably did not meet his or her requirements, for the ultimately inevitable fact that the old lady, for all the hopes she would carry on to the extreme limit of human life …) (in short, on being left vacant as a consequence of this ultimately inevitable event, the apartment would pass on to him or her) (which for both of them, caregiver and cared-for alike) (after careful weighing up of the expected costs and the number of years that might come into consideration) (and bearing in mind the end-result, might yet prove, on human reckonings, to be a rational and mutually profitable business transaction).
“So you will have to arrange to be deregistered,” his mother said.
“Fine,” said the old boy.
“As soon as possible; not the way you generally arrange your affairs,” his mother added.
“Fine,” said the old boy.
“You surely can’t be expecting me to do without in my old age.”
“God forbid,” the old boy said.
“It’s not my fault,” his mother carried on, “You ought to have ordered your life differently.”
“No question about it,” the old boy acknowledged.
“I wanted to leave the apartment to you.”