VI/e Let the aliens – the
extra terrestrials ?? - to me! My uncle, old Sándor said, his arms
open wide, his mackintosh streaming in the wind. He said it with his
typical skepticism that was almost half-heartedness, not even death will
come for him; nobody has ever cared about him; I am an exception but what
kind of? Like an alien, extra terrestrial just like an alien extra
terrestrial and he sighed. Let the aliens extra terrestrial to
XII/a Sometimes I confess to Hungary. Till I live,
that’s right. To you, it appeared as the Peoples’ Republic, as the state,
I tell my uncle, old Sándor (he is already dead). And you, you know I have
to invent things so that I can be forgiven. For it doesn’t matter any
more, he shall believe - that I thougt - he was great, kind and good. As
if I were a woman, that it gave me an orgasm.
Well, my son, you are
- No, I am not, it’s just, the wound is far too fresh, I’ve
just broken up with Fanny
- With Fanny? In 80 days around the world? He
said, touching his dirty, white beard and he snarled that he wanted some
- As a hobby.
Bloody hell. Fish soup and tripe. Szeged.
IX/c Before you got hyper-drunk and had that well-known,
idle, ticket-validating-position that you remembered so well from the old
sitting-conductor-system, on top of a narrow one-square chest, you found
that great girl, slightly smelling of vomit; we wouldn’t have any
non-eliminable differences, you thought, at least I didn’t feel so, and
you already told her what you were showing, look at that…!
entirely clear where you were, it reminded you of a ruined night-beach
where the men are protected with metal bars from the water, for some
strange reason, women are not protected, in the meantime you can hear huge
splashes around and under you, all right you are on a junk, you can hear
dance-music, fish are jumping around you, suddenly your junk bumps against
the coast, frightening noises, sounds, maybe they are wild ducks; you
cannot even imagine, and one of them will turn into a golden duck and then
into a beautiful girl. You are talking to her: Look at
That I was in everybody’s place, that was
obvious… Can you see that? (She can.) However, I would ask if she thinks
it’s possible? (Yes, she thinks so.) Well, if it’s possible (and you think
it’s not) (by the way, she thinks it’s not possible either, but she
thought you were drunk) so if I am accidentally the only person in whose
place I wouldn’t like to be then who is here now? (She doesn’t know it
yet.) (Shall we introduce? Names don’t matter in a situation like this!)
(Names do matter, she whispers.) (Why, what’s your name?) (Fanny.) (And my
name is Imi.) Imi, Imi, Imi, she cries. Hundreds of Imis turn their heads
to our direction in that moment. Very well, let’s leave it at that. She
lets. I don’t, and I don’t like that fact that she does.) Because, you
say, you are nowhere. (If you are nowhere, she would like to be in your
place, she whispers.) (Now?) (Now.)
X/d WRITER-DANGER! I cry as if being frightened of my own
II/h Once on an ultimately happy and at the same time
hopeless sunny afternoon in June, I got so close to a girl called Anna;
she had green eyes and red hair, and the body of an ocelot. She was a
wonderfully and simple-mindedly attractive classmate of mine (we were in
the sixth class. (I remember she was wearing a badge of the pale-faced
singer, Delhusa Dzson, which disturbed me a bit. We were walking home but
made a detour and hid behind the sand-wall with elm-trees and gullies. We
wanted to show each other what we had and accidentally I hit her mouth
with my penis. I saw that typically enchanting and dignifiedly beautiful
smile appearing on a girl’s face for the first time. Anna, Anna!
I/i When I get home I say - because I am not hungry but I
have to leave soon:
- I am out of control mom, I am sorry.
– (this used to be one of my favourite sentences.)
When I saw old Sándor at the market next to the water tower at Szent
István square, he was working at the terribly lousy wooden and tin stalls
and as usually, he was worrying when would some accident, sound or sight
heartlessly tear him from his loneliness, although he wasn’t the person
who normally longed for loneliness. Opposite the Official Butcher’s shp he
bbbbbbbbbbbwas sweeping at the “wreather’s ” and the “parrot-seller”. He
wasn’t sweeping at that moment but, with a pitchy, grayish-yellowish
broomstick in his hand, he was boasting of being irritable and sensitive,
that the policemen can piss him off anytime, but not now, cos’ he’s got
better things to do; he was looking with narrowed eyes into the darkness
of the leaving cops. He was talking to that girl in her second year, who
was told city-wide to be available, available for everything, cos’ she was
a nymphomaniac really. But she wasn’t nymphomaniac as it turned out later,
but had some problems with her mother…
She hasn’t really known her
As a little girl she woke up one morning to realize that
her life situation had changed. She was hanging her long white socks in
her hand, and with a little cynical smile looked at her motionless mother
searchingly, knowing that she would leave her soon... Ever since she has
preferred not to wake up with someone else after sex.(in socks.) However,
for a teenage boy it doesn’t make any difference; who is stroked and
kissed by someone else must be nymphomaniac.
There was a bike underneath her, slightly turned aside, one feet
on the pedal, the other on the pavement, she is blondish-reddish, but
seriously, “her reddish-blonde ponytail beat repeatedly her jolly shoulder
pits” (where you read that, you don’t know.) She almost glided, as she
turned her head into your direction. This is not true! She belonged to the
sort of girls who preserved their slenderness by the power of the
so-called rubbing growing of the breast and ass - I am sorry. Moreover,
throwing back his head you can see the childishly charming double chin
under the arch of the long neck, ugh. Bloody hell! So, she enjoys
dominating boys, or interfering in others’, for instance her girlfriends’
private life, and she likes – as opposed to what you would expect - to act
as other people wish. You were about to say something to her, something
typical of you, something merciless and ruthless.
Let’s drink a
wine-and-soda! Rum. Before. Let’s eat cabbage-hash. You outburst.
Injustice. Your uncle, old Sándor mumbled, who didn’t at all enjoy the
situation. Injustice. That was all you heard. He spat and bent down with a
blissful smile to pick a bunch of navy-blue cardboard boxes, a pair of red
woman shoes was attached to it with phone wires, he lifted it and leant it
against the side of the wreather’s.
He brought the cardboard boxes
home, to his stable. The shoes were for one of his ex-wives. Mould for
What shall I do now? Old Sándor asked, his
arms open wide, while you were watching the girl delighted and enchanted.
Or you were only showing teenager’s interest. Or pretending to be
indifferent, you were eavesdropping. (The girl went to secondary school,
she was in her second year, you went to technical school, in your first
II/i Anna – with a full mouth – laughed. Imi is
life. She said. Imi?
That’s what the parson said during the elevation
of the Host,didn’t he?
Something similar, yes. But he thinks it the
other way round and goes into details, I think. God knows. Does he say
No, he says, there is future.
You are stupid.
Surprisingly, a so-called whore (a professional woman) initiated you and
not the second-year-girl. You were surprised by her nakedness and you
can’t express it another way the cloudless shining of her smile, and her
open-wide, watchful eyes; you were surprised that she took her purity for
so obvious, and at the same time she was proud of it; and you were
surprised by the kind of behaviour that her body was not presented as if
being virgin but at least untouched and you were also surprised by her
unimaginably high level of concentration which meant that she didn’t care
what the “voyeur” was doing or thinking.
Strange. You said.
If you only needed to write and you wouldn’t write this, you could give a
detailed account of a room’s interior now, that the walls are covered with
different oriental… no, with plants from the Nile valley, and that there
are show-cases and glass-fronted cabinets at unusual places for your eyes;
because you didn’t know furniture like this in such a big quantity, the
whole flat looks like a heated physics or biology equipment store, that
are obviously very cold, so you got undressed accordingly, but when you
looked up you got hot, it must have been difficult for the woman..! (You
didn’t pay only because both of you took her husband into
XIII/b A sentence for each
day; today’s favourite is exactly 30 years old, not that its age would
“I’ll have a baby but from someone else.”
VII/I In the boathouse, in front of Stefánia (Szeged)
there is a jolly group of technical school students together with forestry
students, shining, hard, alone, in fact with tears in the eyes because you
finally got rid of human pain (your mothers and fathers!) or at least you
are not aware of it at the moment, you have another beer, only for the
sake of the “sailor” to share this joy!
You drink and scream until
everybody listens to you; then you huddle together like people do before a
plague, and you start to talk that love is in danger…! Girls. Have
XII/b One of our very dear female friends who had
enough of the company of tired and peevish men started to paint a sugar
cube with nail polish. Ráckert, a place in the universe where one is
allowed to smoke was sultry, ignorant, and ambitious, and what made you
sick all day, was that everybody around you was an excellent teacher or
extremely efficient, moreover, an extremely efficient and excellent
teacher, here and now you crack up, you turn to others with an absolute
distrust assuring a complete confidence and then you discover your
inclination to be a teacher.
“Don’t do it like that but like this;
look, I won’t show you any more.”
At last you can love yourself openly,
for you can’t do anything against it, and you scream, oh, how many
bad-mannered, unlucky people!
So we separated, each of us with our own
fucking silence, until it turns out that she painted dots onto the sides
of the sugar cubes, one dot more for each new side. Then she took it and
threw it into the water. Time passed and the dots started to separate from
the sugar, it couldn’t be called a cube any longer.
How would you
explain this? She asked, for it’s better when one or more men entertain a
woman than when she entertains herself even if she is as creative as a
woman can be.
1) I think this is a form of fortune telling; in this case,
and first of all, it is the possible answer to the question of a woman
after the millennium; it says that at the coming Flood, yes, Noah’s Ark
will sink and the leopard will lose its dots.
2) The possible answer
for men is that we count the leopard’s dots in vain. It won’t be any
friendlier or cooler.
3) Numbers determine each other but they don’t
border on each other so they don’t follow from each other (You have to
work it out!)
4) It seems rather senseless to throw with numbers, in
other words, it seems senseless to throw numbers if you don’t have a dice
(because it’s unfastened)
XIII/c In my dreams I was in a deep, cold and green water,
with a cube in my arms. I struggle with the cube that has the size of a
child’s head, I am trying to lift it in vain, then I see a dot of a dice
in front of my face. Then a huge fish appears its scales are rotting, its
bulging eyes are winking at me like an old prostitute in Thököly Road. I
cannot bear it any longer without taking some fresh air, I am about to
leave the company when the cube suddenly comes alive, its sides start to
wave strangely; my hands get relieved, but only for a second, for the
struggle with the fish goes on. The cube turns over in the water, it
starts to turn round, as if it turned round an imagined cube.
XII/c And the happy song (…) crying full
Translated by Monika Rees
Solymosi Bálint was born in 1959. His last book appeared at the end of 2000 by Orpheusz Publisher. His book titled
“Branches from a Fake Cypress” that include his short stories “ The
Twelve Craftsmen” came out in 1995 for the book fair. At the
beginning of his career he wrote poems, which were published in spring
1992 with the title ” The Fake Negro” (JAK).
The excerpts we bring in this issue are parts of his new novel in preparation.