( Prose-propositions)


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 me!  
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 drunk.
- 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 more wine
- Why?
- As a hobby.  
VI/f  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…!
It wasn’t 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..!   
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 shadow.
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.)
VII/g 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 mother. 
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 another one.  
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 year.)  
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 Imi?
No, he says, there is future.
You are stupid.
VII/h 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.
Again, 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 account!)     
XIII/b A sentence for each day; today’s favourite is exactly 30 years old, not that its age would matter anyway.
“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 mercy…!  
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 extra.

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.



  © All rights belong to the authors or their heirs. 2004.