As I said, she disappeared, disappeared as completely as if she had been sewn into a sack and thrown into the Danube.
They hid her disappearance from me for a while. My mother had been living alone for ages and Judit had looked after her. One afternoon I went to visit my mother and a strange person opened the door. That’s how I knew.
I understood that this was her only way of telling me. After all, she had no contact with me and had no legal hold on me. You can’t resolve a matter of decades in one dramatic scene or with a loud argument. Something eventually has to be done one way or another. Maybe something had happened in the meanwhile and I didn’t know about it. The three women in my life — my mother, my wife, and Judit — said nothing about it. I was their common interest, something they could arrange between them in some fashion; I just needed to be informed of the result. The upshot was that Judit left my mother’s household and traveled abroad. But even this I only found out later, once a policeman friend of mine had made a few inquiries at the passport office. She had gone to England. I also found out that this was no spur-of-the-moment, snap decision, but a course she had been considering for some time.
The three women had kept their silence. One of them went away. Another — my mother — said nothing, simply suffered. The third — my wife — waited and watched. By that time she knew everything, or almost everything. She acted in a circumspect manner, the way her culture, condition, and intelligence dictated. I can’t tell you how remarkably tactful she was! What should a refined, cultivated woman do when she discovers her husband is in deep trouble, and that the trouble is long-standing, that he has become detached from her; that, in effect, he is detached from everyone, that he is lonely, hopelessly drifting, and that perhaps, just perhaps, there is a woman somewhere with whom he might share this oppressive loneliness for the brief span of his life? Naturally, she fights. She waits, watches, and lives in hope. She does everything possible to enjoy the best possible relationship with her husband. Then she grows tired. Then she begins to lose self-control. There are moments when any woman turns feral … her very soul screams out in wounded pride and sheer animal passion. Then she calms down, grows resigned, if only because there is nothing she can do.
No, hang on a moment; I suspect she never does grow resigned … But these are merely details, shreds of emotion. In the end there is nothing to be done. One day she lets the husband go.
Judit vanished and no one spoke of her anymore. As I told you, it was as though she had been stitched into a sack. The silence about her, about a woman who had, after all, spent most of her life in my mother’s house, was so conspicuous it was as though they had dismissed a lazy tradesman. Now she was here, now she was gone. Servants come and go. What is it that moaning housewives say? “I tell you, they are all well-paid snakes-in-the-grass. Isn’t it strange how they have everything they need, but nothing is enough for them?” True, nothing was enough for Judit. One day she woke, recalled the something that had happened, and she wanted it all, everything. That’s why she left.
I fell ill. Not immediately, only some six months after her departure. It wasn’t a devastating illness, only a life-threatening one. The doctor could do nothing; no one could do anything. By that time I felt even I could do nothing. What ailed me? It’s hard to say. Of course the simplest thing would be to claim that the moment this woman left — a woman whose youth had been spent in my vicinity and whose body and soul constituted a kind of personal invitation to me — my suppressed feelings for her ignited like a fire down a mine. All the combustible material was there, stored in the pit of my soul … That sounds all very pretty. But it’s not entirely true … Should I say that, beyond my astonishment, beyond the alienating shock, I also felt a subtle, somewhat surprising sense of relief? That too is part of the truth, even if not the whole truth, as it is also true that at first it was my vanity that felt most bruised. I knew for a fact that she had gone abroad because of me, and secretly I was relieved: it was like having some wild animal hidden in the house and discovering one day that the beast had chosen to kick over the traces, that it had escaped and returned to the jungle. But at the same time I felt offended, because I thought she had no right to leave. It was as if some personal possession had decided to defy me. Yes, I was vain. But time passed.
One day I woke to find that I missed her.
That is the most miserable feeling. Missing someone. You look around and you don’t understand. You reach out a hesitant hand for a glass of water or a book. Everything is in its place, your life is in order — objects, people, the well-known routine, the world — and you go on as before. It’s just that there is something missing. You rearrange your room … was that the problem? No. You go away. The city you have long wanted to see is waiting for you in all its pomp, its rich solemnity. You wake early in a strange town, hurry down to the street equipped with street map and guidebook, locate the famous altarpiece at the famous church, admire the arches of the famous bridge; the waiter at the restaurant, full of local pride, brings you the famous local dish. There is a wonderful local wine that goes straight to your head. Great artists who once lived here have left a generous profusion of masterpieces for the city of their birth. You stroll past windows, doorways, under arches whose beauty and majesty has been the subject of world-famous scholarly books. Day and night the streets jostle with beautiful women and girls with lovely eyes. Those who live here are proud, proud of their beauty and refinement. You are the subject of their glances — some friendly, some gently mocking your loneliness, and inviting — meaningful feminine glances, eyes that sparkle. In the evening there’s the sound of music by the river, people singing by the light of paper lanterns, couples dancing and sipping wine. And in the midst of this rich mosaic of song and flattering light, there is a table set for you too, and a woman who makes charming conversation. Like a conscientious student, you take care to see everything and make the best of your time: as soon as the sun rises, you set out on your daily walk, your guidebook in your hand, furiously concentrating, anxious to be fully occupied as if you were afraid of missing something. Your sense of time is quite transformed. You are meticulous in your portioning of time, waking at the precise moment you intended. It is as if someone were waiting for you. And clearly, that is the point, though you dare not confess it to yourself for a long time: you really do believe that there is someone waiting. That is why you are so meticulous. And if you are observant and precise enough, if you get up early enough and go to bed late enough, if you see enough people, if you take trips here and there or visit particular places, you may just meet the person waiting for you. Of course you know that hoping so is childish. There’s nothing left for you but to trust in an infinitesimal chance. All the police know is that she has gone away, to somewhere in England. The British embassy are no better informed. Either that or they are not letting on. A mysterious universal screen, which stretches across the whole world, obscures her from your view. There are forty-seven million people in England, and London is one of the most densely populated cities in the world. Where to look for her? And if you did find her, what would you say to her? But you continue waiting.