— This is unbelievably good, she says of the syrupy pancakes. I notice she has a scratched chin because of me. I don’t know how close I should be to her; we’re once more separated by a table’s length. I’m not even sure that she notices that I’m looking at her, watching her with new eyes. I don’t see how I could ever have thought that she was plain looking. My former self of a year and a half ago is an obscure hidden mystery to me, like a stranger.
— What? she says with a smile. She almost seems shy.
— Nothing, I say.
I’m pondering on the miracle of being able to feel so close to someone who isn’t related to me. Then she asks:
— Were you operated on recently? You didn’t have a scar before, nineteen months ago.
Our daughter looks from parent to parent. Does she realize that a new situation has now evolved in the house? That our relationship isn’t just about her anymore?
— Yeah, I had to have my appendix out two months ago. I’m not the same body that I was.
The child stares at me as I try to grab a hold of myself. I suddenly find it difficult to handle this intimacy; it flusters me, so I stand up and search for my sweater. I can’t let Anna see me in this condition, see how sensitive I am about her. She also stands up.
— I’m off to the library, she says and kisses the child good-bye. Then she hesitates a moment and looks at me. I hesitate and look back at her as well; she’s the one who takes the initiative and kisses me.
This hurls me into a conundrum that I’m too agitated to deal with, so I dress the child in her outdoor clothes and hold her in my arms for the two flights of stairs down to the carriage. If Anna were to ask me what my feelings are, what would I say? Should I tell her the truth, that I’m not sure and that I’m thinking things over? A man can’t always express instant opinions on things the moment they happen.
There aren’t many people around at this hour of the morning, but the three tables have been put up outside the café. I can’t quite imagine what will happen next, whether the various parts of the day will be different from now on. How will the hours of the day be spread after last night? Will each part of the day, the morning, afternoon, evening, and night, take on a new meaning? Am I in a relationship or am I not in a relationship? Am I her boyfriend now or are we not a couple? Is this a love relationship or a sexual relationship? If we are a couple, should I be wondering if that makes me the father of a family, at the age of twenty-two? Or am I a friend she sleeps with and, if so, what’s the difference?
Sixty-nine
I start off my rounds by hopping into the phone booth to call Dad. I let my daughter sit up in the stroller so that she can see me and jam my foot in the door of the phone booth. Dad is happy to hear me and starts by telling me that he’s more relaxed even when he doesn’t hear from me for several days now; he’s not was as worried about me as he was before.
— Sorry I haven’t called you for such a long time, I say.
— I can fully understand that you don’t have as much need for your old man as you did before, he says. Then he changes subject; he’s got some home news for me:
— Your twin Jósef has found a girlfriend at the community home.
— A nice girl, he adds, they live in the same home, he’s going to bring her for a visit next weekend. Her parents are coming, too, so I was wondering what I should cook? I’m not very good at that stuff; your mother was the one who dealt with the cooking.
— How about fish balls? And cocoa soup with whipped cream for dessert, just like you made for me on my last night?
— That’s a thought. Wasn’t it two tablespoons of potato flour in the fish balls?
— As far as I can remember.
— What do you think of Ravel?
— Why do you ask?
— I’ve just been listening to him.
— I’m not sure he’s the in-thing nowadays, Dad.
— You’re not short of money, Lobbi, now that there are more of you in your home?
— No, no need to worry about that.
There’s a mass going on in the church and it occurs to me that we could say hi to Father Thomas afterward, so I wait for him to come out of the church. He is happy to see me and wants to offer me an espresso and Amaretto at the café. We walk across the square together and I accept the coffee but turn down the liqueur. I take the child out of the stroller, hand her a biscuit, and sit opposite the priest, who is on nodding terms with everyone in the place. He looks at the child as we chat together, and I notice that he puts three lumps of sugar into his cup of coffee like my brother Jósef and eats the remains of the sugar with his teaspoon. Before I know it I’ve spilled out all my worries to Father Thomas, and tell him that I might have developed a crush on the woman I accidentally had a child with.
— I was so afraid that I would be rejected, that she would push me away from her, and when she didn’t do that I became even more scared.
He finishes his cup while I explain to him what it’s like to stand with one foot on a wobbling skiff and the other on a pier and to feel the pull of each foot going in opposite directions. I feel the need to fill him in on the background story and explain to him how a moment’s carelessness with a kind of a friend of a friend can accidentally lead to a child, how this little person who is now holding a semi-soggy biscuit in her hand came by pure chance and now lives a life of her own.
— Stuff happens, I say, feeding some biscuit crumbs to two doves prowling around the table.
— Coincidences have a meaning, he says, ordering another espresso.
Once more I watch him take three sugar cubes out of the bowl and put them into his cup.
— You did things in a slightly different order than usual, he continues, you first had a child and then got to know each other, he says, sipping his coffee.
— How long can a love relationship last? And a sexual relationship? And a mixture of the two? Can that last a whole lifetime, forever?
— Yes, yes, it most certainly can, says Father Thomas. There are so many facets to a relationship between a man and a woman and it isn’t for outsiders to understand what’s going on between them.
I feel I can hear Mom’s voice; that’s exactly how she might have put it.
— It’s so difficult to know where you have another person, to know what her feelings are, I say.
— Yes, that can happen, says Father Thomas, ordering another tumbler of Amaretto. As far as I can make out, you’ve already done all the things I would have advised you to give more thought to until you were sure.
My daughter has finished her biscuit and her face is totally smudged. I search my pockets and the stroller for something to wipe her with. My companion is quicker than I am and hands me a handkerchief.
— It’s clean, he says, I keep it especially for the parish children, in case the need arises, he adds, smiling at the child. I can see that he’s trying to work out what film to recommend. My daughter has developed an interest in the doves.
— I’m thinking of a movie, he then says, an old movie with, if I remember correctly, Yves Montana and Romy Schneider that I saw not so long ago and that might be instructive for you to watch. As you were saying, he continues, summarizing what I never said in just a few words, it isn’t the first night that’s the dangerous one, but the second night when the magic of the unknown has disappeared but not the magic of the unexpected. I think it was Romy who said it. You’re welcome to pop over tonight and watch it, if you have a babysitter.