“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 ridiculous 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.”