Solitude is hard at first: it’s like being sentenced. There are times when you find it unbearable. And perhaps that severe sentence might seem lighter if you could, after all, share it with someone, it doesn’t matter who: with rough companions, anonymous women. There are such times, times of weakness. But they pass, because slowly the loneliness enfolds you, takes personal possession of you, like a mysterious force of life — like time, time in which everything happens. Suddenly you understand that everything that has happened has happened according to its own timetable. First came curiosity, then desire, then work, and finally, here comes loneliness. There’s nothing you want now: you have no hope of consolation in a new woman, no hope of a friend whose wise counsel might heal your soul. You find all human talk vanity, even the wisest. There is so much selfishness in every human feeling. It’s all empty promises, refined forms of blackmaiclass="underline" all helpless, hopeless attachment! Once you know this, you no longer hope for anything from people; you don’t expect women to be of help, you recognize the price and terrifying consequences of money, power, and success, and you no longer want anything of life but to huddle up in some mean corner, without companionship, assistance, and comfort, and listen to the silence that slowly begins to lap at your soul as it does at the shores of time … Then, and only then, you have the right to leave: because leaving is something you do have a perfect right to.
Every man has the right to prepare himself for his own leave-taking, for a solitary death in his own sepulchral silence; to void his soul for the last time, to turn his soul into as empty and hallowed a place as it was at the beginning of time, in childhood. That was the way Lázár one day took the road to Rome. I myself have only now arrived at the point of loneliness. I too had a long road to travel. I must admit I had hoped for another way. But there isn’t another way. In the end, or shortly before the end, one must be alone.
But first I married Judit Áldozó. That’s just how things worked out.
One day, at four in the afternoon, the telephone rang in my room. My wife picked it up. By that time she knew everything: knew that I was sick with the delirium of waiting. She treated me like a helpless invalid, ready to sacrifice everything for my sake. But when it came to herself, to her own condition, she was quite incapable of genuine sacrifice: she fought it to the bitter end. She wanted to keep me. But by that time the other woman had proved stronger, and I went away with her.
She picked up the receiver and asked something. I was sitting with my books with my back to the phone, reading. I could tell from the shakiness of her voice that something important was happening, that this was the moment at which the waiting and the tension had come to an end, the moment we had all been preparing for all those years. She came over to me with the phone in her hand, silently put it down on the table, and left the room.
“Hello,” said a familiar voice, Judit’s voice. She said it in English, as if she had forgotten Hungarian.
Then silence. I asked her where she was. She gave me the address of a hotel near the railway station. I put the phone down, found my hat and gloves, and went down the stairs, my head full of all kinds of thoughts, except the thought that this would be the last time I would go down these particular stairs. I still had a car then, the car always parked in front of the house. I drove over to the slightly shady, third-class hotel. Judit was waiting in the lounge among her luggage. She was wearing a checkered skirt, a pale-blue woolen jumper, expensive gloves, and a traveling hat. She sat so comfortably in the lounge of that third-class establishment it seemed the whole situation — her departure and homecoming — was part of some long-discussed mutual arrangement. She extended her hand to me, quite the lady now.
“Should I stay here?” she asked, looking round, indicating the hotel, uncertainly, as if she had decided to let me make all the decisions.
I slipped the porter some money and told him to put her luggage in my car. She followed me without a word, sat beside me in the passenger seat. Her luggage was nice — leather cases, English manufacture, complete with the labels of not entirely familiar foreign hotels. I remember how, in those first few moments, this handsome luggage filled me with a sort of monstrous satisfaction. I was happy because I had no need to feel embarrassed by Judit’s luggage. I headed for the grand hotel on the island and booked a room for her. I myself took a room on the Danube embankment and phoned home from there, asking to have my clothes and suitcases sent on. I never entered our house again. For six months we managed like this, my wife at home, Judit at the island hotel, I at the hotel on the embankment. Then the divorce came through, and I married Judit the next day.
I had no contact with the world at all during those six months. I broke all those contacts I had been so careful to maintain not so long ago. It was like breaking with a family. I went about my business at the factory, but as for the rest, the social circle, and that turbulent form of the world we call society, I saw neither hide nor hair of them. I continued to receive invitations for a while, invitations issued in a spirit of false generosity, of barely hidden schadenfreude and curiosity. Everyone wanted to see the rebel, the man who had kicked over the traces. They wanted to drag me through salons where the conversation was always of something else but where they kept a wary ironic eye on you as though you were some sort of madman who might any moment say or do something shocking: such guests are a little frightening but can entertain the company. People who called themselves my friends sought me out with an air of mysterious solemnity: they seemed to have made a grave promise to “save” me. They wrote me letters, visited me in my office, and talked to me soul-to-soul. Eventually they all took offense and left me to my fate. In no time at all people talked of me as if I had committed fraud or some other crime.
Nevertheless, these six months were a calm oasis in my life. The truth is always simple and calming. Judit lived on the island, and we dined together every evening. She was patient and prepared to wait. She was in no hurry. Sometimes people understand something and know it’s not worth hassling or panicking, because everything will happen in due course anyway. We observed each other like opponents before a duel. At that time we still thought this duel would be the chief concern of our lives … a life-or-death affair, and that at the end of it, however scarred and patched by then, we would declare an armistice, a gentlemen’s agreement. I had surrendered my social rank, my class loyalty, my family, and indeed the woman who loved me, for her. She had not given up anything for me, but she was perfectly prepared to sacrifice everything. She had made the move. She had acted. One day it happens: expectation turns to action.
It took me a long time to understand what the true state of affairs between us was. It took her a long time too. There was nobody near us, around us, who might have warned us. Lázár was living abroad by that time like a person who had been offended in some way and had chosen to die. And then, one day, he actually did die, in Rome, at the age of fifty-two. There wasn’t anyone left to act as a witness to my life, to watch over me or constrain me.
From the moment we met in that third-class hotel near the station, we lived like émigrés, émigrés who had arrived in an utterly alien country in which they tried to emulate its manners, to assimilate, to blend in with the great mass of people, doing everything possible not to stand out, and if possible not to give in to sentimentality, not to think of the homes they had left and those they had loved. Neither of us spoke about it, but we both knew that whatever lives we had lived before were now finished, quite over. We waited and watched.