A Book of Memories by Péter Nádas Page B

witness how this voice could be the source of unpleasantness and how it could secure a very special place for its owner: we spent many a morning sitting next to each other on the raised platform built for the director in the theater's improbably vast rehearsal hall —it reminded one of a riding school or, better yet, an industrial assembly floor—and whenever a disagreement, a seemingly unresolvable situation, created tension and, trying to justify themselves, everyone began speaking at once, the noise level rose as rapidly as mercury in a thermometer when one has a high fever; adding to the noise, the bored stagehands, high-strung extras, wardrobe and lighting crew members were ready to use the chance to chat among themselves; at moments like these, Frau Kühnert was always the first to be admonished by some nervous actress: "Sieglinde, couldn't you say that louder?" or an overeager assistant director might tell her rudely to keep her mouth shut, this was not a kaffeeklatch, he had a good mind to throw her out.. . and only then would he add what really mattered to everybody, that he wanted quiet, and Frau Kühnert's face would betray such genuine surprise, like that of a little boy who in blissful innocence has been playing with his weenie under the bushes and suddenly discovers that grownups find this activity most objectionable, and she would act as if this was happening to her for the very first time, as if nothing even remotely similar had ever happened before: her bulging eyes could not open wider, her profound embarrassment was betrayed by a girlish flush that abruptly darkened her complexion from neck to forehead, beads of perspiration would form above her mouth, which she'd wipe off cautiously, looking abashed; let's admit it—no one can get used to being continually attacked for something so basic to their makeup, and these irritable admonitions, these undeserved, rude words implied not only that her voice could be heard above the loudest din, representing and symbolizing it, as it were, but also that it carried explosive passion of such elemental force that it offended the ear, a voice that was embarrassing in all its unintended shamelessness, in a certain sense, the way it exposed people; she managed to embarrass me, too, in fact, when in the doorway she handed me the envelope as her skin turned crimson, for in view of our relationship nothing could account for either her blushing or her shouting.
    But that was precisely the difficult thing to do: to escape from the effects of this apparently shameless and inexplicable intrusion, to evade it somehow; her very first sentence was much more than a simple announcement —true, however great the volume of her voice (and it did resound throughout the house), all she said was that I had gotten a telegram, but that one declarative sentence was punctuated by intense loud panting, giving the sentence many rhythmic thrusts, and because I couldn't easily remain indifferent to so much excitement, I naturally assumed the very emotional state she meant to pass on to me; no matter how hard I tried to control myself, no matter how dark it was in the stairway and foyer, she had to sense and see my agitation; with her hand still on the door handle, and tilting her head slightly to the side, she even smiled a little, which she could afford to do, because with her second sentence her voice changed and, not without irony, she pounced on me:
    "But where the devil have you been so long, my dear sir?"
    "Excuse me ... ?"
    "It's been at least three hours since this telegram arrived. If you hadn't come home, I wouldn't have been able to sleep again."
    "I was at the theater."
    "In that case you should've been home an hour ago. Don't worry, I've figured it out."
    "But what happened?"
    "What happened? How should I know what's been happening with you. Will you come on in already!"
    And when, wavering between indifference (how I yearned for it!), agitation, and fear, but determined to end the