[For Waterhot]

“‘Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,’ cried the Nightingale, ‘and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?’”
Oscar Wilde, The Nightingale and the Rose

In desolate hours of loneliness with the curtains still open I would sit on the bare floorboards of the flat, tears trickling down the side of my nose before losing themselves in the warm folds of tissue, the telephone taunting me with its silence as the daylight gave way to the orange glow of the streetlights, shadows of the leaves dancing on the wall. Brooding a rare luxury squeezed in between my lover’s departure and my son being dropped off with the nanny after their weekend at her boyfriend’s. The intoxicating intensity, every ounce of passion spent only to have him torn from me. Nausea would flood me at the thought of him returning to the bosom of his family after he had announced flatly that the best solution would be for her breast cancer to have spread to her lymphatic system (which would mean that he could both inherit her considerable wealth and abscond with me guilt-free). In my selfish agony, the sheer callousness of his statement did not sink in.

I do not shudder back to the present from warm daydreams of what might have been. Even THAK does not haunt my waking thoughts (although he occasionally intrudes on my dreams) since I faded unobtrusively from his life (my preferred, non-confrontational resolution to relationships as opposed to a violent caesura). I have no curiosity about what has become of my past loves, with the exception of the briefest of my liaisons (Graham) and the admirer who languished after me during our secondary schooldays without my noticing (or at least consciously acknowledging his interest), IM, too preoccupied was I pursuing another in vain. The mere thought of bumping into one of them accidentally makes me queasy (though as I live in exile the likelihood is remote). My instinct would be instant appraisal, had he outperformed me? Does he outearn me? Had whatever creature he had in tow aged better than me? Was she wittier or had he deliberately selected less of a challenge?

The best scenario would be from the Human League’s song Louise describing former lovers crossing paths: “When he saw her getting off the bus, It seemed to wipe away the years, Her face was older, just a little rough, But her eyes were still so clear”. There is no sign of enmity: “She took a moment just to recognise, The man she’d known so well before, And as he started to apologise, Lose any bitterness she bore, She gently put her finger on his lips, To let him know she understood, And with her suitcase standing on the floor, Embraced him like a lover would”. They part with hope and the tantalising knowledge of possibility: “And though they talked for just a little while, Before she said she had to go, He saw the meeting as a tiny sign, That told him all he had to know, And so Louise, Waved from the bus, And as she left, She gave that smile, As if they were still lovers”.
However, the last twinge of longing ceased long ago when the train pulled into the station at Luxembourg. I used to stare along the platform in case he was waiting. If he had abandoned his flat and could tolerate being placed under constant surveillance he may well have moved back home, after all he did protest that his love for her had been mysteriously rekindled.

Again I look to Kosztolányi, more profound than Wilde, a shrewder judge of human foibles, whose worldly sophistication is preserved in exquisite poetry and prose. His character, the student, reveals how wistfulness can fester and become pathological, how grief can be confused with its comforting simulation, how when all yearnings have been condensed into an erotically charged fantasy the sheer banality of real life can never compete, never surpass the sublime torture conjured up by our imagination. What is lost can never be recaptured. Nor would we really want it back if we had the choice.

Dezső Kosztolányi, Krisztina Hrussz’s Miraculous Visit (1911)

The cabaret singer Krisztina Hrussz was buried on 7th January 1902. The funeral took place at three in the afternoon. The frost had set in and it had grown completely dark by the time the coffin was brought out into the courtyard and placed on top of the timber catafalque for the last rites to be performed before putting it on the hearse. The priest’s nose had turned cherry-red from the cold. An aftertaste of lunch lingered in his mouth, the slightly acrid bouquet of the Badacsony wine. In the mist he could now see angels and roses. With a stiff movement, he lifted the aspergillum onto the coffin. Medical student Vidor Tass, the singer’s sweetheart, stood by his side, the centre of attention in his careless black attire, elegantly retaining his composure, not betraying his grief. Around him a few second-rate thespians, a proper actor and the cabaret director. Almost all of them felt good, here, in the midst of mourning and they were thinking of their lunch. Lascivious and opulent feelings lent a hint of piquancy to the seriousness of the heartfelt emotion. Later, once the service had ended, and the horses had set off for the cemetery, the black plumes of mourning attached to their brow bands vibrating, between the torch and lantern-bearers, freezing rain began to fall, which coated the coffin with a delicate film of ice creating the impression from the outside that it was made of glass. The top hats also became encrusted with a thin glassy layer. This cold and sparkling covering spread over everything, transforming objects to glass and sugared chestnut, the tarmac into an ice rink and then it melted away like an apparition, leaving cold feet to stamp in the chilly puddles of slush. The funeral cortege had almost begun winding its way up the hill. The student gazed at this blazing and dark procession, as if it were a procession in the hereafter, in the early afternoon. He was gawping and marvelling at the sight of it all rather than mourning. The whole spectacle appeared so incredible. Three days previously Krisztina had fallen ill with pneumonia. Now she had quite simply been snatched away from him, swiftly and brutally, like when someone is blindfolded during the night, manhandled by an abductor, bundled into a coach and wakes up somewhere else in the morning. It left the student in a daze. He did not really believe in death. He listened to the melancholy singing, the lamentations in Latin and his thoughts drifted to his afternoon tea with cocoa. The masons sealed up the crypt. They slapped thin mortar on the fresh bricks. Then he came down the hillside alone. He let his arms swing by his side. He was thinking about the girl. Whimpering a little inside. Once again the sense of disbelief seized him with painful vehemence. He was looking for Krisztina and she – oh yes – she was no more.

But later on he wept. He collapsed on to the little table, which stood in front of the opaque window and convulsed with bitter sobs. He did not even undress at night. For three days he hardly slept. The minutes, hours and days passed by in a blur for him. When light peeped in through the shutters he did not know whether it was dawn or dusk.
“If only she would come back!” he sobbed into his pillow.
Towards spring he calmed down slightly. But his face became even more deathly pale. Now he could not even weep any longer and his tears flowed inwardly. This subsided grief of his only made him appear more dreadful, however. Those who saw him fell involuntarily silent.
“If only she would come back!” he sighed to himself.
In the evening he would lay out her clothes, her shoes and the yellow scarf which she could wind around her neck so daintily. He would imagine that she was sitting next to him. By the fireside, or on the chair or on the floor, her delicate, slightly freckled face turned towards the red warmth. Many times he could see her on the bed as well. He could hear her voice. If the doorbell rang he would rush to the door and was astonished that it wasn’t her who had come. On such occasions he would withdraw into the room and picture every minute detail of the tryst in his mind’s eye. Krisztina would walk through the door. He would help her off with her coat and offer her a chair. The girl, however, would cling to his neck, nestling her head against his chest and laughing loudly. He would play like this with the girl right through until dawn, listening to her laughter, gazing into her eyes. After these agonising and lethal embraces he would wake up the next morning with an ashen face and a bitter taste in his mouth.
Every day he would also go to the cabaret. He would look for her on the seedy little stage amongst the coloured footlights and would fail to find her. He would wait until midnight and then head homeward. At home he could not settle down. To his alarm, he realised that time was not the great healer for him. The girl was becoming ever more beautiful. Through the veil of the years her freckles shone at him, fair and charming, these sweet, erotic little speckles. Her mouth glittered like an enormous ruby and he could even taste the warm moisture of her silver saliva.
“If only she would come back!”
This sigh lingered within him like a sacred desire, the distilled essence of regret and mourning. He did not want to renounce it. He would have given his life if he could glimpse her – just for a moment. In his mind, he separated that moment into a million parts and felt as if in that moment he had experienced ecstasy’s every conceivable nuance. From day to day his desire grew more obsequious. He thought that if only he could see her coffin just once and could take a fearful glance through the glass, or if he could catch sight of the shadow of her dress in the mirror without ascertaining for certain whether it was made of clouds or lace. For such a moment he would have walked for years, without so much as a hat to protect his head and with bare feet bleeding. When in company, when good spirits tumbled exuberantly, in the middle of a dance this thought often sent shivers down his spine. His attempts to flee from it were futile. It stalked him. The student quietly surrendered. He wasted away into the shade of the deceased. Pale and gaunt he yearned for her to come back in the moonlight. He spoke without emotion. He dressed coldly and lustrously. On his breast, like the white slab of stone on the crypt, the immaculate shirt-front was always to be seen, gleaming, glinting and whoever set eyes on it thought of a corpse, of a girl, of the sorrowful head of a girl, who was palely slumbering beneath dreaming her unknown dream.
“If only she would come back!” his heart quivered.
His face said the same. Suffering etched its way into this soft countenance of wax. Even with the passing years it still mirrored the initial terror and alarm that had set rigid upon it and became hard as stone and cold as a death mask.

But one day Krisztina did come back.

After a bout of pagan revelry the student went home one torrid May afternoon.
Along the Boulevard the acacias deliriously poured out their heat. They protruded out of the asphalt, swayed and stretched and screamed their overpowering, resounding fragrance towards the heavens.
The student felt faint in this cacophonous riot of perfume. His stomach churned. Far away in a corner of the sky coiled sulphurous wisps of cloud, obscure lights, like when somebody plays with a mirror in the dark. He went onwards in the direction of his flat.
The maid met him in the hallway: “You have a visitor”.
“Who is it?”
“A young lady”.
Vidor Tass was astonished and could not think who might be seeking out his company because he had not received a female visitor since Krisztina’s death.
He opened the door to the room.
The girl was sitting on the bed. The yellow scarf around her neck. Her expression was placid, almost cheerful.
“Krisztina,” he said softly.
“Darling,” said the girl and caressed him. The student was not remotely surprised. He looked for a match and lit two candles. Now he could see Krisztina clearly. Death had definitely done her good. She was far healthier than she had been when alive. She had even put on a little weight in the coffin. But she was elegant, fresh as a daisy. Her white dress was the same one she had been buried in and it gently snuggled up to her face. It really suited her. Its fringe was slightly tattered, here and there it was decorated with green blossoms of mould, but it was barely perceptible, down the sides it sparkled the diamond of the grave, saltpetre. She reached out her hand to him.
“Look, my ring”.
“The old ring”.
The student looked at her inquiringly nevertheless.
“Don’t ask any questions,” the girl said in a choking voice, “I’m here, you can see me after all, fresh and resplendent. Don’t think of the short stories by Viktor Cholnoky in which ghosts come back from the dead. I am neither a spirit nor a spectre. But I don’t have time for idle chatter. I can only stay with you for thirty minutes. Then I have to go back. Take out your watch. It is now three o’clock. At half past three I will no longer be here”.
“Only thirty minutes,” sighed the student with feigned pathos.
The girl was slightly offended by this.
“Don’t put on an act, darling,” she said, “Every minute is worth its weight in gold”.
“A thousand pieces of gold!” cried the student, “Your kiss…your kiss…is worth a thousand times more…”
“You have been calling out for me every day for eight years. Now your wish has come true. What is your heart’s desire?”
Krisztina opened her arms and her lips cleft in two, red and fresh, as she awaited his kiss in a swoon.
The student kissed her.
Afterwards they sat opposite each other.
The student on the tabouret, the girl on the couch. They gazed at each other for a short while. But it was as if they had been disappointed by the kiss. They grew sad and the student hung his head. This, then, was the encounter he had so ardently dreamt about. What a reuniting. It seemed as if it had come somewhat abruptly. What was he to do now? Silence descended on the room, his heart was pounding, the hands of the watch crept forward. Only five minutes had gone by. Twenty-five minutes remained. The time seemed to stretch ahead interminably. The silence became more and more awkward.
The student coughed.
“How are you?” he asked, “That is to say, what’s new?”
The girl goggled at him, eyes wide. After all it did constitute an indiscretion to make such an inquiry of a dead person.
“Shall I put the kettle on?” he asked quickly.
“No, thank you”.
“Did you,” he gabbled “that little Herman has got married? Three years ago already. They even have a child. A strong, healthy little boy”.
“How interesting,” the girl replied in a bored voice.
“A lot has happened in the meantime. My Father died of stomach cancer. He suffered a great deal, the poor fellow”.
“How interesting”.
“You’re not interested? Since then I have obtained my medical degree. Next year I’ll be opening a surgery and I’ll be buying a flat in the neighbourhood. With three bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom, kitchen and electric lighting”.
“How interesting”.
“Nusi was a flop on the stage”.
“How interesting”.
”But Ili has been a runaway success. The audiences are crazy for her”.
“How interesting”.
The student felt a cramp in his throat. He sneaked a look at the watch and noticed that a mere seven minutes had elapsed since the girl’s arrival. He fumbled for words in deadly embarrassment. Every minute seemed like an eternity. First of all he wanted to say something cheerful, then something very serious and doleful, but he did not deem either option appropriate and so preferred to keep silent. Krisztina sat on the sofa with downcast eyes and stared at the pattern in the carpet.
In the meantime it started raining.
“It’s raining,” said the student quietly.
“Yes,” replied the girl.
“It was a nice day yesterday, though”.
“Yes”.
“What a storm”.
“Yes”.
He had a sudden flash of inspiration.
“Are you not cold in that thin dress?”
“No,” laughed the girl.
Another few words, another strained effort and they suddenly fell silent.
They both stared into space. The student got up as if he wanted to extricate himself from the embarrassing situation. Still only nine minutes had ticked by. Krisztina leaned back on the couch. The student stood by the window. Then something dreadful happened. The girl felt as if her jaws had clamped, she would have liked to have yelled aloud how fed up she was and run, run out of this room. She struggled against it in vain. Her ligaments tore open her mouth and she, like a little automaton, and – this was not a trick of the light – , gave a wide, healthy yawn. She yawned once. She yawned twice. She yawned a third time. Then she picked up her umbrella from the table and made her way to the door. Perhaps she still wanted to say something, but when she reached the handle, she was again overwhelmed with the desire to yawn and she disappeared from the room without uttering a word.
The student found himself alone again. He felt a sense of relief, of release. He drummed his fingers on the table for a while. He looked at the street, the umbrella, the storm and the streaming window panes. He shrugged his shoulders. He too yawned. He looked at his pocket watch. It was ten past three.
They could still have had a whole twenty minutes together.

Translation copyright © Chameleon 2006. May not be reproduced in full or in part without express prior permission.