perfect plane of life, closer to the Divine and eternal Bliss; that’s what it was a matter of, not a matter of a single night but of all nights over many years, and not a matter of nights at all but of days and mutual care, marital love and good and evil until death do you part. That’s what it was a matter of with that girl, that girl, that girl Emöke.
But later, sitting in the darkened auditorium where the Cultural Guide was showing a film (after several vain attempts to make the projector work, and only after the silent fellow, who was perhaps a factory foreman, had taken over, adjusting a screw here and there, and the projector had rattled to a start), a film that was precisely calculated for the maximum possible nonentertainment (and yet the people were entertained, because it was a movie and the projector was rattling away behind their backs and they were here to spend a week enjoying themselves), and as the room vanished in the smoky dusk I took Emöke’s hand, warm and soft, and because tomorrow was the last day of our stay at the recreation center and I had to do something — or atany rate I succumbed to instinct or to that social obligation to seduce young women on vacation, single, married, or widowed — I asked her to come outside for a stroll. She acquiesced, I got up, she got up too and in the flickering of the projector I glimpsed the schoolteacher’s gaze following her as she left the room by my side and went out into the night light of the August evening outside the building.
We walked through the night, along the white road between the fields, bordered by cherry trees and white milestones, the sweet smell of the blossoms and the countless voices of tiny creatures in the grass and the trees. I took Emöke’s hand, she didn’t object, I wanted to talk but I couldn’t think of anything to talk about. There was nothing I might say, since my conscience kept me from opening the dam that held back my usual August evening rhetoric (irresistible to any lone woman on vacation providing the speaker is sufficiently young and not overly ugly) because I once again realized that it was a matter of life and death and that she was different, deeper, more inaccessible than other girls. I merely stopped and said Emöke, she stopped too, and said Yes? and then I took her in my arms or I moved as if to take her in my arms, but she slipped out of the incomplete embrace. I tried again, I put my arm around her slender, very firm waist and drew her toward me but shedisengaged herself, turned and walked quickly away. I hurried after her, took her hand and again she didn’t object, and I said Emöke, don’t be angry. She shook her head and said, I’m not angry. But really, I insisted. Really, she said. It’s just that I’m disappointed. Disappointed? I asked. That’s right, replied Emöke. I’d begun to think you were different after all, but you aren’t, you’re just a prisoner of your body like all men. Don’t be angry at me for it, Emöke, I said. I’m not angry, she answered, I know that men are usually like that. It’s not your fault. You’re still imperfect. I thought you were on the way, but you aren’t, not yet. Not quite. And what about you, Emöke, I said, have you entirely given up everything physical already? Yes, replied Emöke. But you’re so young, I said. Don’t you want to marry again? She shook her head. Men are all the same, she said. I thought that I might find someone, some friend that I could live with, but just as a friend, you know, nothing physical, it disgusts me — no, I don’t feel contempt for it, I know that physical people need it, there’s nothing essentially bad about it, but it’s derived from badness, from imperfection, from the body, from matter, and man progresses only by reaching toward the spirit. But now I’ve stopped believing that I’ll ever be able to find a friend like that, so I’d rather be alone, with my little girl. She spoke, and her face was like
But later, sitting in the darkened auditorium where the Cultural Guide was showing a film (after several vain attempts to make the projector work, and only after the silent fellow, who was perhaps a factory foreman, had taken over, adjusting a screw here and there, and the projector had rattled to a start), a film that was precisely calculated for the maximum possible nonentertainment (and yet the people were entertained, because it was a movie and the projector was rattling away behind their backs and they were here to spend a week enjoying themselves), and as the room vanished in the smoky dusk I took Emöke’s hand, warm and soft, and because tomorrow was the last day of our stay at the recreation center and I had to do something — or atany rate I succumbed to instinct or to that social obligation to seduce young women on vacation, single, married, or widowed — I asked her to come outside for a stroll. She acquiesced, I got up, she got up too and in the flickering of the projector I glimpsed the schoolteacher’s gaze following her as she left the room by my side and went out into the night light of the August evening outside the building.
We walked through the night, along the white road between the fields, bordered by cherry trees and white milestones, the sweet smell of the blossoms and the countless voices of tiny creatures in the grass and the trees. I took Emöke’s hand, she didn’t object, I wanted to talk but I couldn’t think of anything to talk about. There was nothing I might say, since my conscience kept me from opening the dam that held back my usual August evening rhetoric (irresistible to any lone woman on vacation providing the speaker is sufficiently young and not overly ugly) because I once again realized that it was a matter of life and death and that she was different, deeper, more inaccessible than other girls. I merely stopped and said Emöke, she stopped too, and said Yes? and then I took her in my arms or I moved as if to take her in my arms, but she slipped out of the incomplete embrace. I tried again, I put my arm around her slender, very firm waist and drew her toward me but shedisengaged herself, turned and walked quickly away. I hurried after her, took her hand and again she didn’t object, and I said Emöke, don’t be angry. She shook her head and said, I’m not angry. But really, I insisted. Really, she said. It’s just that I’m disappointed. Disappointed? I asked. That’s right, replied Emöke. I’d begun to think you were different after all, but you aren’t, you’re just a prisoner of your body like all men. Don’t be angry at me for it, Emöke, I said. I’m not angry, she answered, I know that men are usually like that. It’s not your fault. You’re still imperfect. I thought you were on the way, but you aren’t, not yet. Not quite. And what about you, Emöke, I said, have you entirely given up everything physical already? Yes, replied Emöke. But you’re so young, I said. Don’t you want to marry again? She shook her head. Men are all the same, she said. I thought that I might find someone, some friend that I could live with, but just as a friend, you know, nothing physical, it disgusts me — no, I don’t feel contempt for it, I know that physical people need it, there’s nothing essentially bad about it, but it’s derived from badness, from imperfection, from the body, from matter, and man progresses only by reaching toward the spirit. But now I’ve stopped believing that I’ll ever be able to find a friend like that, so I’d rather be alone, with my little girl. She spoke, and her face was like
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