“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 maiclass="underline" 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, amiable 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.