[To Neal, 5th August 1997]

“ég és föld között,
van és nincs között,
van és lehet között”
(Balla D. Károly: “Három Másodpercem”).

Hovering (lebegő).

Flying over the sloping rooftops, the dark chimneys, the bridges, the empty bridges and the telephone cables, white head lamps, red tail-lights, ceaseless motion – the Angel of Death, swooping silently to climb through a window, candle guttering, gripping the shoulder of the frail and dismayed, the fullest-hearted, cold spreading downwards as you gaze into the blackness of the sockets and you cannot escape, paralyzed. Downwards, downwards, like a predatory owl after its fill. Quietly ascending again to the star-sprinkled void. An ambulance siren, a certificate and the relatives inconsolable.

Van és lehet között. Heat, a trickle of sweat, discarded blankets and duvets slumped over an armchair – open window, trams from the street – laughter – walking, neon, sitting in the room with the lights off. One trickle of sweat, down behind the ear, brushing back your hair and I can’t see you. The fridge hums and the bottle too perspires when you remove it. A million people here, millions there, millions breathing, eating, but only one matters. How can there be so many of them when only one matters? Wiping your palm on a cushion. Even with the window wide, no relief. Moths intrude, captivated, dusty wings spreading against the wall, seeking camouflage. Gazing, gazing upwards, a smile, a blank ceiling. Nothing and no-one matters, only this proximity.

Van és lehet között. Restlessness. Not having arrived, uncertainty and certainty. Waiting, waiting. Hours, days, weeks.

N. Miniature cable car along the edge of the cliff, travelling just above the treetops like in a dream when all you have to do is will it and there you are, out of reach but not too close to the sun who would melt you in your pride. The river winds away towards Dinant. Early darkness. Wave to the children as you pass above the playground, climb out quickly on arrival and walk for a while through the car park.

All of this existence you carry with you in your mind, the senses speak ceaselessly. This water is cool, drink it. This tea is bitter, be polite and swallow it down. The language that lets you identify, the language that becomes mute. Narrowing, a proximity that absorbs, envelops, a silence, a touch, blue veins, pores, dampness. This whole world that spins and we don’t even notice, too enclosed in our own flesh. A lingering scent on a pillow. Sleep, senselessness.

Evening silence.

Double cappuccino by the bus-stop. Sparrows drinking from the puddles, squabbling over the contents of an iron mesh bin. I broke a washing machine today, imagine! The university’s insurance should cover it. I had to finish my washing by hand and spin it, all of which took up the time I had intended for this letter. On Friday, the last day. Saturday morning, packing, back through the town to the railway station and Kolozsvár with Enikő. Strange, this in-betweenness, this neither-here-nor-thereness, this thirst and longing. The acorns are falling onto the concrete paths, the students preparing for tomorrow’s exam. On the way to Tokaj, in Nagy Gábor’s bus, as I told you, we were half-dozing. The weather had cleared after pouring down in the morning (surprise, surprise!). He didn’t get lost this time, but drove too fast, overtaking too aggressively. Then, without warning, an explosion beneath us, the bus listing to one side, then again, skidding, scraping along the surface. Stopping slowly, shuddering. Broken axle, we thought. Two blown out tyres and we had to exit carefully so that the bus would not tip over into the ditch with us in it. Laughing by the roadside, mobile ‘phone call to find a replacement, a free glass or two of Tokaj’s best as compensation for the inconvenience.

I have a vivid image of you standing opposite the bus in the car park in Eger, sunglasses on. And of you inside the cathedral, as we all half-attempted to be discreet walking along the aisles, tutting at the bride’s bottled-red locks. I did not light a candle in Eger in the church. Usually I do, purely to appease, perhaps to show gratitude. The smell of wax, the smell of churches. Solemn images of the Virgin, serene, unfidgeting child.

Once, in “Cafe Hawelka” in Vienna, my pale features accentuated by my black velvet cloak, I wrote a poem in German for a young man at a nearby table. As I went to the toilet (a pretext), I discretely passed it to him. When I returned to my seat, he smiled, but I was not alone. I would feed you with ice-cream in Vienna and we could go on the big wheel, the Riesenrad, in Prater. Vienna was my first experience of Central Europe. Now I wonder, what is Croatia like? I saw it on the news tonight. A crowd cheering and a church draped with flags. Asserting nationhood.

I ache to see you.

I detest heights, so going on the Riesenrad is an act of masochism. It stops when you are suspended at the highest point and you can survey the city with the help of the indicators. Vienna, melange and dainty glasses of water. Athena with her golden helmet in front of the Parliament. Schottenkirche. Grinzinger Friedhof. Gustav Mahler – roses and irises freshly cut to wither in mourning.