from ME AND ME
MIKLÓS VÁMOS TRANSLATED FROM HUNGARIAN BY ÁGI BORI
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Richter félévenként egyszer megpróbálta magához édesgetni a lányát. A beszélgetés színhelye rendszerint a Zserbó volt. Hogy milyen jó lenne, ha Nyika ővele lakna, nem pedig Lizával, aki sajnos egyre rosszabb állapotban van. Hogy ha Nyika visszajönne őhozzá, akkor sokkal kevesebb turnét vállalna, és esténként együtt mehetnének moziba. Hogy így meg úgy. Meg amúgy.
Nyika viszont jól érezte magát az anyjánál. Déltájt, mikor az iskolából hazaért, Liza a kanapén hevert, intett az ujjaival a lányának, ez volt a szerbusz. Néha megkérdezte: jártál a patikában, kicsikém? Nyika odaadta neki a gyógyszert, a zavaros szemű asszony fejbólintással köszönte meg. Aranka behozta az ebédet, Liza tányérja az éjjeliszekrényre került, két-három kanál levesen kívül mindent otthagyott. Ennie kéne, nagyságám, mert elfogy, mint a gyertyaszál! Aranka ezt a mondatot étkezéseknél szinte refrényszerűen ismételgette. Liza nem felelt, a fal felé fordult. Nyika pedig átment a szomszédba, Zsikéhez. Aranka hiába próbálta időnként ráncba szedni, Nyika lerázta magáról a csataló—így hívta a háta mögött—intelmeit, mint kutya a vizet. Azokat a dolgokat, melyeket a kamaszlányok az anyjukkal tárgyalnak ki, Nyika a barátnőjével vitatta meg, akit Aranka viszont “a kis nyafka-affekta” néven emlegetett Lizának. Már megint a kis nyafka-affektával kódorog a mi kis Nyikánk, vetette oda a plafonra meredő asszonynak, igazán szigorúbban foghatná, nagyságám, mert egy-kettő és kész a baj.
Nyika szótlanul hallgatta Richter kiselőadásait a Zserbóban. Majd gondolkozz rajta, mondta a férfi, jó, felelte ő. De nem gondolkozott. Amikor az apja a jövőjéről faggatta, hogy tulajdonképpen mi akarna lenni, akkor is hallgatott. Hogy össze kéne szednie magát, mert ilyen pocsék bizonyítvánnyal még a gimnáziumba se jut be, és mehet zsákot hordani. Richter tragikus színekkel ecsetelte a sanyarú sorsot, ami vár reá, kivéve ha most végre megjön az esze. De Nyika ezt nem vette komolyan, apa mindig csak siránkozik. Zsikével strandra, moziba jártak, fiúkkal randevúztak a téren, és mindez fontosabbnak tűnt, mint az a nevetséges apróság, hogy Bényeiné vagy Kudlik Marianne hányast ad neki. Intőit és bizonyítványait az anyja úgyis olvasatlan írta alá.
Hű, az volt ám a nagylányos dolog, mikor Zsikével beültek a Luxorba, kávét rendeltek szódával, aztán rágyújtottak. Zsike Mátrát, Nyika Sportot hozott magával, kipróbálták mind a kettőt. A Sport akkorka volt csupán, mint a mutatóujj első két perce, néhány szívás után el kellett dobni, mert a körmükre égett, hát inkább a Mátrát fogyasztották, az hosszabb és erősebb, őket csak a hosszméret érdekelte, hogy minél tovább tarthassák elegánsan hajló kezükben a cigit. Nyika időnként fulladozva köhögött, ne tüdőzd le, te hülye, súgta Zsike. Ha egy-egy pasi szemezni kezdett velük, rettentően röhögtek, élvezték.
Margit ma ismét kifestett szemmel jött iskolába. Kérem a t. szülőt, hasson oda, hogy a jövőben ez ne ismétlődhessék meg. Kudlik Marianne, o. f.
A t. szülő viszont nem hatott oda. Nyika viszont hamis igazolásokat gyártott: igazolom, hogy lányom légcsőhurut miatt a tanításon nem vehet részt, Richter Andorné; és Zsikével csavargott a városban. Többnyire a szigetre mentek át kishajóval, hajkurászták a pávákat, mindenütt fűre léptek, ahol tilos, pattanásos arcú kamaszokkal csókolóztak Szent Margit zárdájának romjai között. Képzeld, mesélte Zsike, az a forradásos szájú letaperolt. És erre te? Naná, nehogy nem hagytam, vihogott Zsike, belerúgtam neki oda. Oda? Naná, hogy oda. Á, ez rém vicces volt, hogy pont oda, a fiú kínba torzult arccal nyögdécselt, Zsike élethűen adta elő a jelenetet.
Richter Andor többször járt az iskolában, beszélt az igazgatóval, az osztályfőnökkel, sajnos, szegény feleségem egészségi állapota, hogy úgy mondjam… Emiatt a kislányom, ugye, nem képes a képességeinek megfelelően… Kérem, vegyék figyelembe…
A tantestület mindent figyelembe vett, így jött ki Nyikának a kettő egész kilencvenhatos átlag. Richter addigra már a Kerényi Lipót Általános Gimnázium igazgatóját is meglátogatta, szegény feleségem, kérem, vegyék figyelembe stb. Nyika inkább fodrásztanuló szeretett volna lenni, Zsikével együtt. Richter azonban a sarkára állt, Nyika pedig vállvonogatva beletörődött, hogy gimnáziumba megy, ha egyszer apának ez a mániája.
Három hét nyaralás a zenészek szövetsége boglári üdülőjében. Richter itt ismertette össze Nyikát Mártával, remélvén, hogy jövendőbeli élettársa szót ért majd a lányával. Nyikának viszont csöppet sem tetszett a platinaszőke asszony, s ráncolt homlokkal figyelte az apja mesterkedéseit, sejtette, mire megy a játék. Richter célozgatott, tudod, Nyika, Mártus férje disszidált, és ő azóta egyedül él, a szövetségben dolgozik, roppant rendes asszony, én nagyon szeretem, mert olyan jószívű, és nagyon intelligens, sőt művelt. Főleg sőt, gondolta Nyika, mert ez Márta szavajárása volt: menjünk le a partra napozni, sőt fürödni, mondta a reggelinél. Vagy: vigyáznom kell az alakomra, sőt fogynom. Nyika elnevezte Sőt Mártának. Lassacskán Richter is sőtözni kezdett, tiszta időnk van, sőt kék az ég. Sőt, ismételte Nyika ellenségesen, az apja nem értette, mit mondsz? Semmit.
Esténként Nyika egy frissen szerzett barátnőjével táncolni járt, s rendre a kialkudott időpontoknál későbben tért haza, Richter veszekedett, mégiscsak ő az apja, és ha ő azt mondja, kilencig maradhat, akkor azt kilencet jelent, nem fél tízet, sőt tizenegyet. Nyika viszont makacsul késett, míg Richter elvesztette a türelmét, és megpofozta. Nyika attól fogva beszédsztrájkot kezdett, és egy árva mukkot sem szólt. Az apja harmadnap reggel bocsánatot kért tőle, ne haragudj, türelmetlen voltam, na, mondj már valamit, ebbe bele kell őrülni! Rendben van, dünnyögte Nyika, és aznap este negyed tizenkettőkor keveredett elő. Richter az üdülő kapujában várta. Veszekedés, csapkodás, pofon és elölről.
Egy szakállas fiú, hazakísérés ürügyén, az üdülő előtti fasorban gyöngéden a földre teremtette Nyikát, benyúlt a blúza alá, harapdálta a nyakát. Ő tűrte, a csókokat viszonozta is, igaz, eléggé ügyetlenül. De amikor a fiú a hasánál markolászott, próbálta letornászni róla a bugyiját, Nyika beleboxolt a szakállas arcba, fölugrott és elszaladt. Maga se tudta, mért cselekedett így, ösztönei vezérelték, idáig játék, ám innét már olyasmi következnék, amitől óvakodni kell.
Richter a nyaralás alatt is meg-megpengette a “milyen-jó-lenne-ha-hozzám-költöznél” réveteg húrjait, Nyikának és Mártusnak egyaránt, de külön-külön. Csakhogy míg Márta tekintetében napról napra komolyabban gondolta, Nyikával éppen fordítva alakult a helyzet. Richter már csupán megszokásból emlegette a témát a lányának, a lelke mélyén fogalmazódott a gondolat: talán nem is volna annyira fenékig tejföl Nyikával lakni, fene tudja, olyan kiállhatatlan lett ez a gyerek.
Nem akarok beleszólni a világért se, de talán a kelleténél többet engedsz meg neki, sőt! Márta így összegezte a véleményét a férfinak, magában pedig azt gondolta: micsoda elkényeztetett kis dög!
Ez a trió aztán mégis egy lakásba kényszerült. Mert Aranka véresre sírt szemmel fogadta őket: a nagysága az éjjel bevett két dobozt gyógyszert, és meghalt. A drabális nő gyerekhangon zokogott, magához rántott Nyikát, ó, árva lett a mi kis Margitunk!
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by Ági Bori
This short excerpt from Miklós Vámos’s 1979 novel Én és én (Me and Me) is a wonderful example of the author’s early work. It’s hard to believe that forty-five years ago, at the age of twenty-nine, Vámos had already found his voice. What is more, he had been writing seriously for a decade by then. Born in 1950 in Budapest—like the protagonist of this slim novel—Miklós Vámos grew up in what many at the time would have called a typical Eastern European family of “gemischter salat” (mixed salad). His ancestors on his father’s side were Jews who wanted to lead a simple Hungarian life, but fascism prevented them from doing so and, tragically, they perished in the Holocaust.
The protagonist Nyika (Margit Richter) grew up in an orderly family. There was seemingly nothing that should have prevented her from being a distinguished student, from having a respectable career, from getting married and having children, from being a so-called functional member of society. But after the suicide of her mother, Nyika’s life takes a turn for the worse: In the beginning she starts to act and behave irresponsibly, skips school, goes on lavish shopping sprees, and engages in physically degrading relationships—all of which eventually cause her to spiral and land in prison. Her father is weak and incapable of helping her get back on the right track. After her release from prison, she falls in with the wrong crowd again, and it is only by a stroke of luck that she manages to avoid more time behind bars. She meets Tamás, they get married, and Nyika gives birth to twins. Her life seems calmer, as if her past was behind her and forgotten. But the past inevitably resurfaces, and Nyika must make some tough choices. The excerpt takes place in the time leading up to the her mother’s suicide. Nyika’s childish courage and stunted personality caused by this traumatic event follow her throughout her life. She desperately wants to remain strong and have a happy life, and her ongoing struggle to understand the past is the cornerstone of the novel.
In the words of the author: “When I started to write this novel, I could have named my models for Nyika. But while writing a book, many things evolve, and that was roughly the same with this story, too. The text took on a life of its own, one thing followed another, and reality got tangled up with fiction. Locations changed, the storyline took unexpected turns, and the protagonist matured somewhat, despite her limited freedom and ability to advocate for herself. My readers used to ask me what prompted me to write this novel, what personal experiences influenced me, or who Nyika was truly based on. As time goes on, sometimes I begin to think that Nyika is more or less me—this is my personal homage to Flaubert, who once remarked: Madame Bovary is me.”
Miklós Vámos is a Hungarian writer who has published over forty books, many of them translated into multiple languages. He is the recipient of numerous literary awards, including the 2016 Prima Primissima Award, one of Hungary’s most prestigious. He is best known for his novel Apák könyve (The Book of Fathers), which has been translated into nearly thirty languages. His ancestors on his father’s side were Jews who perished in the Holocaust. Fortunately, his father—a member of a penitentiary march battalion—survived. Out of the five thousand Hungarian Jews sent off to their deaths late in the Second World War, only seven came back. His father was one of them. Vámos was raised in Socialist Hungary unaware of his Jewish origins. To save himself from his chaotic heritage, he turned to writing novels.
Ági Bori originally hails from Hungary, and she has lived in the United States for more than thirty years. A decade ago, she decided to try her hand at translating and discovered she loved it. She is a fierce advocate for bringing more translated books to anglophone readers. In addition to translating between Hungarian and English, her favorite activity is reading Russian short stories in the original. Her translations and writings are available or forthcoming in 3:AM, Apofenie, Asymptote, The Baffler, B O D Y, The Forward, Hopscotch Translation, Hungarian Literature Online, the Los Angeles Review, Litro Magazine, MAYDAY, Northwest Review, Points in Case, The Rumpus, Tablet, Trafika Europe, and elsewhere. She is a translation editor at the Los Angeles Review.
Richter tried to butter up his daughter once every six months. These conversations usually took place at the famous Gerbeaud Café. How wonderful it would be if Nyika lived with him and not with Liza, whose condition, unfortunately, was getting worse by the day. If Nyika came back to him, he would go on fewer tours, and in the evenings they could go to the movies. Things of that nature. And so on.
But Nyika enjoyed staying at her mother’s place. Around noon, when she got home from school, Liza would lie on the couch and motion with her fingers toward her daughter—that’s how she greeted her. Sometimes she would ask: Did you go to the pharmacy, my sweet thing? Nyika handed her the medication, which the bleary-eyed woman acknowledged with a nod. Aranka, the housekeeper, brought in lunch, but Liza’s plate ended up on the nightstand; she ate only two or three spoonfuls of soup and left the rest. You need to eat, Madam, or else you’ll waste away like a candlestick! Aranka’s regurgitation of this phrase became a familiar mealtime refrain. Liza gave no answer and turned toward the wall. At that point Nyika usually went over to see her neighbor, Zsike. From time to time, Aranka tried to put Nyika in her place, but Nyika always managed to shake off the remonstrances of the old war horse—what she called the housekeeper behind her back—like a dog shaking off water. Things teenage girls discussed with their mothers Nyika discussed with her girlfriend, whom Aranka, for her part, always called a spoiled little brat when mentioning her to Liza: Our Nyika is out again wasting her time with that spoiled little brat, she told the woman staring at the ceiling. You should keep her on a tight leash, Madam, or she’ll get in trouble before you know it.
Nyika silently listened to Richter’s mini lectures at the Gerbeaud Café. Please think about it, said the man. Fine, said Nyika. But she didn’t. When her father tried to pry into her future, what she wanted to be, she again went quiet. He told her that she should really pull herself together because with her terrible grades she wouldn’t even get into high school, and would wind up a day laborer. Richter painted a picture of a bleak future, most certainly inevitable, unless she came to her senses. But Nyika didn’t take the warnings seriously since her father was always full of complaints. She and Zsike went to the beach, the movies, met up with boys at a nearby square—and all that seemed much more important than a ridiculous trifle like the grades Mrs. Bényei or Marianne Kudlik gave her. Her mother signed off on her poor report cards and notes without even looking at them anyway.
What felt the most grown-up was when she and Zsike went to the Luxor Café, ordered coffee and sparkling water, and then lit up cigarettes. Zsike’s were Mátra, Nyika’s were Sport, and they tried both brands. The Sport cigarettes were barely longer than the two upper joints of an index finger and had to be thrown away after a few drags, otherwise they burnt your nails, so the longer and stronger Mátras were preferred. They only cared about length, wanting to hold the cigarettes between their elegantly bent fingers for as long as possible. Nyika occasionally had a coughing fit. Don’t inhale, you idiot, Zsike whispered. If a man tried to make eye contact with them, they began to laugh hysterically. They loved the attention.
Dear Parent, Margit came to school today wearing eye makeup again. (The school always used Nyika’s legal first name when sending notes home.) I kindly ask that you do your utmost to ensure this does not happen in the future. Marianne Kudlik, Head Teacher.
But Dear Parent didn’t do a thing. Nyika began to write fake responses: I hereby attest that my daughter has bronchitis and is unable to go to school. Signed, Mrs. Andor Richter. She then spent the day wandering around the city with Zsike. Most of the time they went to Margaret Island in a small boat, chased the peacocks, walked on the grass in all the places it was forbidden, and French-kissed teenage boys with pockmarked faces among the ruins of Saint Margaret’s Convent. Get this, said Zsike, that guy with the scar on his lips tried to feel me up. What’d you do? I stopped him, of course, Zsike laughed, and kicked him right there. Right there? Yeah, right there. Ah, it was hilarious, he moaned and screwed up his face, said Zsike, giving a vivid description of the scene.
Andor Richter visited the middle school several times, speaking with the principal and the head teacher. Unfortunately, my poor wife’s health, how shall I put it… Because of this my little girl, of course, is not able to perform to the best of her abilities at school… Please take it into consideration…
The faculty did take everything into consideration, and that’s how Nyika ended up with a C minus. By then, Richter had even visited the principal of Lipót Kerényi High School: my poor wife, please take it into consideration, and so on. Nyika’s dream was to go to beauty school with Zsike. But Richter dug in his heels, and Nyika eventually shrugged her shoulders, resigning herself to a four-year high school since her father was so obsessed with the idea.
Next came a three-week long vacation in Balatonboglár, at the retreat of the National Association of Musicians. That’s where Richter introduced Nyika to Márta, hoping that she and his future life partner would get along. But Nyika despised the platinum blonde and watched her father’s maneuvers with a wrinkled brow and strong suspicions. She was familiar with this page from her father’s playbook. Richter was dropping hints left and right: You know, Nyika, Márta’s husband emigrated, and ever since then she’s been alone, she works for the association, she’s a wonderful woman, and I love her because she has a heart of gold, she’s intelligent, and moreover, she’s erudite. Moreover, alright, thought Nyika, because it seemed to be Márta’s favorite word: Let’s go and sunbathe on the beach, and moreover, we can swim in the lake, she said at breakfast. Or: I must watch my figure, and moreover, I need to lose some weight. Nyika nicknamed her Moreover Márta. Before long, Richter started to say “moreover,” too. Such a clear day, and moreover, the sky is so blue. Moreover, Nyika repeated with a hint of animosity in her voice, but her father didn’t understand. What are you saying? he asked. Nothing.
In the evenings Nyika went dancing with a friend she had just met and time after time came home past her negotiated curfew. Richter tried to argue with her: He was her father after all, and if he said nine, that meant nine, and not nine thirty or eleven. But Nyika stubbornly returned late every night, until Richter lost his patience and slapped her across the face. After that, Nyika went on a silent strike and didn’t make a peep. On the third day her father apologized: Forgive me, I was impatient, come on, say something, this is driving me crazy! Fine, mumbled Nyika, and that night she came home at eleven fifteen. Richter was waiting for her at the main gate of the retreat. An argument, a slap across the face, and they were back to square one.
Under the pretext of escorting her home, a bearded young man gently pushed Nyika to the ground by a row of trees, reached under her shirt, and nibbled on her neck. She let him, and even reciprocated his kisses, albeit in an amateur manner. But when the young man began to fondle her stomach and tried to remove her underwear, Nyika punched his bearded face, jumped up, and ran away. She didn’t know why she did it; she was driven by instinct. It was all fun and games until then, but from that point on she had to be careful.
Richter brought up the “how-wonderful-it-would-be-if-you-moved-in-with-me” topic a few times even during the vacation, to both Nyika and Márta, separately. But while in Márta’s case he felt more serious about it with each passing day, his feelings began to change regarding Nyika. Richter kept bringing up the issue with his daughter purely out of habit, but in the depths of his soul a thought began to formulate: Who knows, it might not be so fun living with Nyika, after all, since the child has become unbearable.
I know it’s none of my business, but perhaps you allow her too much freedom! That’s how Márta summarized her thoughts to Richter, but what she really thought was: Spoiled little brat!
But in the end, the trio would be forced to cohabitate. Because after their vacation Aranka welcomed them with bloodshot eyes: Madam swallowed two bottles of pills last night and died! The thickset woman sobbed like a child and pulled Nyika to her chest: Our poor little Margit has become an orphan!