A Book of Memories by Péter Nádas

provided by floor lamps with dark silk shades and wall fixtures whose glow was dimmed by little caps made of stiff waxed paper; because the chandeliers were never turned on, Professor Kühnert was forced to adopt rather peculiar work habits: he was a short man, at least a head shorter than his wife, and in build her total opposite, almost feature for feature: thin-boned, fragile, and delicate, his skin so translucently white that one could see pulsating purple blood vessels pressing against it on his temple, neck, and hands; his eyes were small, deep-set, and as insignificant and expressionless as his quietly unobtrusive way of doing his scholarly work in his poorly lit study —work that, by the way, many people judged quite significant—for there was no lamp on his huge black desk, either, and whenever Frau Kühnert called me to the telephone, I could see him rummaging with his long, thin fingers, like a blind man, among piles of newspapers, notes, and books until, by touch alone, he would identify the sought-after piece of paper, pick it out, take it across the room, past the bluish glare of the TV screen, stop under one of the small wall lamps, placed rather high up, and under its pale yellow light begin to read— sometimes leaning against the wall, which I could tell had become a habit with him, because during the day a spot, traces of regular contact left by his head and shoulders, was clearly visible on the yellow wallpaper—until, spurred on by an unexpected idea or simply by protracted brooding, he would interrupt his peaceful reading and return to his desk by the same route to jot something down; Frau Kühnert, enthroned in her comfortable armchair, seemed as unaware of the professor's repeated crossings before the television screen as the professor seemed undisturbed by the incoherent noises emanating from it or by the perpetual dimness of the apartment; I never heard them exchange a single word, though their silence did not seem to be the result of some petty, calculating revenge, and what had turned them mute to each other was not resentment—flaunted conspicuously yet indicating a very fervent attachment between man and wife, the kind of silence which rancorous couples often give as a present to each other in order to extort something—no, their silence had no express purpose, but it is possible that a slowly cooling mutual hatred had stiffened them into this neutral state, although nothing seemed to allude to its cause, since they appeared perfectly content and well-adjusted, behaving in each other's presence like two wild animals of different species, acknowledging each other's presence, but also acknowledging that the laws of the species were far stronger than the laws of the sexes, and since each could be neither a mate nor a prey, communication was also impossible.
    There I was, watching Frau Kühnert's face with a certain resignation, in spite of my emotional state, for I knew from experience that I couldn't get rid of her easily, since the more I tried, the louder and more insistent she'd become; I kept on looking in her eyes and decided to suffer this one skirmish, since it would be the last; black-stemmed, bleached-blond hairs like brush bristles poked out of the fleshy welts of her low brow — my fingers were telling me the envelope was open—her nose was long and narrow, her lipstick cracked, and of course it was unavoidable that my glance would stray farther down to her breasts, the only part of her body that offered some compensation for so much ugliness: huge, disproportionately large breasts which, without a brassiere, might be somewhat disappointing, but the nipples pressing hard against the tight sweater were certainly no deception; as we were standing in the door of the almost totally dark hallway—at the same moment she began shouting again and Professor Kühnert emerged from the living room, with his white shirt opened to his waist (he always wore white shirts, and when reading or