grabbed theirtools and to the rhythm of the rubber factoryâs fitful ventilator kept hacking away at the underbrush, cutting and sawing the roots until they managed to dig a proper grave for Judit Weérâs material mementos.
.   .   .
That shirt is dreadful. Put on something presentable.
Iâm not going, Mother, I said.
Of course you are; now get dressed.
Iâve told you, Mother, Iâm not going.
Have it your way. You do as you please.
Cut it out, Mother, please, I said.
This is strictly my own business, do you understand?
Yes, Mother. But sheâll never forgive you.
Youâre wrong, Son. Youâve no idea how many things one can forgive oneself, when itâs necessary, she said, and then changed and ordered a taxi with a roof-rack.
.   .   .
The cab driver was very sorry, but Madam, please donât be angry, I am not a hearse; but my mother produced two thousand forints from her purse and suddenly it turned out that if itâs very necessary, even a coffin may be considered ordinary luggage. The driver girded his loins, but the coffin proved to be lighter than he had anticipated; instead of heaving it up to his shoulder, he simply carried it out under his arm. He put it on the roof rack and secured it with a set of elastic straps; my mother, wearing a black two-piece suit, feather-light sandals, and carrying a huge velvet pocketbook, took her place on the rear seat of the Zsiguli.
Letâs go, she said, and they took off for the Kerepesi; they drove down the main avenue of the cemetery, all the way to the rear, to the childrenâsgraves, but neither the party secretary, the Minister of Culture and Education, nor János Kádár was standing by the open pit, only the four gravediggers. My mother told the driver to wait; theyâd be done in a few minutes. So while the coffin was being lowered, the cabâs meter kept ticking. The four gravediggers hurled the clods at the Paganini and Stravinsky scores at two forints per shovelful. They were taking their time, the longer to stare at my mother on whom the black silk suit looked as inviting as it had at the time she bought it and put it on the first time in the dressing booth of a department store on Alexanderplatz.
The effect produced was not exactly what the GDR garment industry had expected from this two-piece suit. The designers could hardly have imagined that wives of actors, recuperating from postnatal depression, would fall victim to a lifetime of depression because of these suits. That secret mistresses of theater managers would have their stomachs pumped because of this secret weapon of a suit; that hundreds of women would want to burn at the stake this silk skirt and this two-buttoned silk jacket under which the straining nipples were filled with the cyanide that had poisoned a decade of their marital life. But no less eagerly was the little silk suit wished to the fiery stakes by former assistant directors, apprentice butchers, and waiters who even years later would wake in a sweat after dreams of almond-smelling breasts, and in the morning slap their own daughter and yell, donât ever let me catch you wearing that rag again, because the poor kid happened to be trying on a second-hand silk dress in front of the mirror. As I was saying, this was not what the GDR garment industry had in mind. The designers meant to create a simple, conservative summer outfit â to be worn with a blouse, of course, say, a cream-colored one â that office workers between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five would wear to the cinemaon weekends. But already in the dressing room on Alexanderplatz my mother realized what enormous power lay in that little silk thing, weighing hardly an ounce, and she was not even put out by the fact that she hadnât had her period for the third month in a row.
.   .   .
Letâs go, she said to the driver a few minutes later
.   .   .
That shirt is dreadful. Put on something presentable.
Iâm not going, Mother, I said.
Of course you are; now get dressed.
Iâve told you, Mother, Iâm not going.
Have it your way. You do as you please.
Cut it out, Mother, please, I said.
This is strictly my own business, do you understand?
Yes, Mother. But sheâll never forgive you.
Youâre wrong, Son. Youâve no idea how many things one can forgive oneself, when itâs necessary, she said, and then changed and ordered a taxi with a roof-rack.
.   .   .
The cab driver was very sorry, but Madam, please donât be angry, I am not a hearse; but my mother produced two thousand forints from her purse and suddenly it turned out that if itâs very necessary, even a coffin may be considered ordinary luggage. The driver girded his loins, but the coffin proved to be lighter than he had anticipated; instead of heaving it up to his shoulder, he simply carried it out under his arm. He put it on the roof rack and secured it with a set of elastic straps; my mother, wearing a black two-piece suit, feather-light sandals, and carrying a huge velvet pocketbook, took her place on the rear seat of the Zsiguli.
Letâs go, she said, and they took off for the Kerepesi; they drove down the main avenue of the cemetery, all the way to the rear, to the childrenâsgraves, but neither the party secretary, the Minister of Culture and Education, nor János Kádár was standing by the open pit, only the four gravediggers. My mother told the driver to wait; theyâd be done in a few minutes. So while the coffin was being lowered, the cabâs meter kept ticking. The four gravediggers hurled the clods at the Paganini and Stravinsky scores at two forints per shovelful. They were taking their time, the longer to stare at my mother on whom the black silk suit looked as inviting as it had at the time she bought it and put it on the first time in the dressing booth of a department store on Alexanderplatz.
The effect produced was not exactly what the GDR garment industry had expected from this two-piece suit. The designers could hardly have imagined that wives of actors, recuperating from postnatal depression, would fall victim to a lifetime of depression because of these suits. That secret mistresses of theater managers would have their stomachs pumped because of this secret weapon of a suit; that hundreds of women would want to burn at the stake this silk skirt and this two-buttoned silk jacket under which the straining nipples were filled with the cyanide that had poisoned a decade of their marital life. But no less eagerly was the little silk suit wished to the fiery stakes by former assistant directors, apprentice butchers, and waiters who even years later would wake in a sweat after dreams of almond-smelling breasts, and in the morning slap their own daughter and yell, donât ever let me catch you wearing that rag again, because the poor kid happened to be trying on a second-hand silk dress in front of the mirror. As I was saying, this was not what the GDR garment industry had in mind. The designers meant to create a simple, conservative summer outfit â to be worn with a blouse, of course, say, a cream-colored one â that office workers between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five would wear to the cinemaon weekends. But already in the dressing room on Alexanderplatz my mother realized what enormous power lay in that little silk thing, weighing hardly an ounce, and she was not even put out by the fact that she hadnât had her period for the third month in a row.
.   .   .
Letâs go, she said to the driver a few minutes later
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