Fiction Translation / Anita Harag Tr. Marietta Morry and Walter Burgess
:: The Morning Boy ::
The chair squeaks, I lean back, the floor creaks under the chair, the table makes a cracking sound when I put my elbow on it. I have noticed that I loudly crack my knuckles. I do that every couple of minutes, but it could be any kind of sound. For example, something coming from outside: a branch snaps against the window or someone slams a car door, or it could be a sound from inside like the wood contracting as the cool air rushes in. Perhaps he hasn’t even gotten up yet. Just after nine, why should he be awake at nine. Maybe at ten or eleven; from then there would be only a couple of hours left. I shouldn’t try so hard not to make any noise; he won’t hear it anyway. I can walk over to the window to close it. I’m sure the armchair doesn’t squeak; I just need to make it that far. On the other hand, the parquet floor creaks and it takes at least five steps from the armchair to the desk. If he wakes up and goes to the kitchen, he will need to pass by the bedroom door and hear that the window is open. The sounds change as if the garden moved inside the house. The car drives by in the bedroom, the bird tweets in the bedroom, the wind blows the branches in the bedroom. I have to close the window, but if I stand up now and walk over there, it could be the squeaking of the floor that wakes him. That’s even worse.
I can see the picture on the wall if I lean back from my laptop. Yet I don’t recognize anything in it, there’s nothing there to be recognized. Colors and shapes swirl around each other, the whole picture is somehow happy. The room also becomes happier because of the picture. I wiggle my toes; I try to move my small toe on its own, but the others move with it. It’s an evolutionary regression, I’m sure that monkeys can do it, they need all of them for climbing. Perhaps it would be simpler if we were monkeys. We would cuddle each other, groom each other, know each other’s voices; it would be natural to be close to the others and we wouldn’t be able to sleep without the warmth and familiar sound of another animal.
I don’t know this sound, this droning. It originates from somewhere in the house, perhaps from his room; he turned on his machine, but what machine would have such a loud drone. This house is too nice to have such a loud computer. I don’t know if it has been droning before, only I didn’t notice it, or if it just started now. I listen intently. There will be sounds once he gets up. Chair squeaking, furniture creaking, or something. The opening of the door, closing of the door, toilet flushing. Water running. A crow starts croaking in the room. I should really close my window, I’m chilly, my hands are cold. How cold your hands are, Eszter says; are you anxious? The window is maybe four steps from here; from there it is only two steps to the bookcase. I had earlier spotted that book with the yellow spine, it would be good to get it. I would still be able to see the picture from the armchair. It was painted by Eszter.
The window shouldn’t be closed after all. A closed room amplifies the sounds. I make it to the bookcase in three long steps. The books lean against each other helter-skelter on the shelves. Eszter has been talking for months about wanting to do something with the empty spaces but hasn’t found the time. There used to be something round in the corner, the floor is darker there, perhaps a large plant with a leaky pot. One of the pictures has also disappeared from the wall, a lighter square and a hole where the nail used to be. If I opened the dresser, one of the drawers would perhaps be empty and the other one would only be half full with Eszter’s panties. Everything is as it used to be; the spaces not yet filled. There is no carpet on the floor which would allow me to walk quietly. He took that as well. According to Eszter, he also took things that she hasn’t yet noticed and will only miss later. Items she doesn’t think of because she only used them rarely, like the potato masher, that was always her husband’s job, now she uses a fork to mash the potatoes. The stove-top espresso machine had the same fate. She rarely drinks coffee but sometimes has a hankering for it. She thought she would not miss those things, the coffee machine, the potato masher and God knows what else.
She doesn’t understand how she can miss the possessions of someone if she doesn’t miss him. It doesn’t matter if she misses him, I told her. It’s his books I miss, Eszter answered, she misses his plants, and she’s not alone. Her plants also miss her husband’s plants. The plants know; they sense it. Her husband knew how to water them, or rather he still knows but no longer does it. Eszter called him the plant whisperer; he could save the saddest looking plant. Can she still call him that? Or is that something only used when they were a couple? It’s all right if you miss him, I told Eszter again. I only miss his plants, she answered, and his books. And the coffee machine.
She still calls him her husband; they are not officially divorced yet. Therefore, she still has a husband somewhere. I still have to get used to this. I have never been with anyone before who had a husband – someone who lived with a husband for fifteen years, had a child, and lived here as a threesome for ten. They slept in this room, in this bed, in this house. The parquet floor also creaked under the husband’s feet. Eszter loved him. She loved a husband. They washed their clothes together; three loads, that’s a lot of laundry. Their clothes had the same scent, a uni-scent. I don’t even know where the washing machine is in this house. I could start using the same detergent and my clothes would also have that uni-scent, and then, perhaps, her son would accept me, would recognize my scent.
I cannot pay attention to the book with the yellow spine. I started reading it from the first sentence and now I am up to the fortieth and don’t remember a thing. The word “woodpecker” appeared in it several times. I lay the book on my knees. The armchair is comfortable; if the husband left it behind, then it belongs to Eszter. She would sit in it the way I am sitting now, with my legs under me, my head against the back of the chair. She must sit here in the mornings to read, listening to find out if her son is up yet. She is familiar with his sounds. She knows what this drone is; she doesn’t even notice it. She looks at her watch, it tells her when her son gets up and when she needs to start worrying if he doesn’t stir. But Eszter probably doesn’t sit in the room and doesn’t read; mothers are usually in the kitchen preparing breakfast, stirring cocoa; there is a routine. When her son leaves his room to pee, she’s already warming the milk. I don’t know why I think the child drinks cocoa, he’s already twelve, perhaps he has grown out of the habit of cocoa. Although he hasn’t graduated to whiskey yet; last night Eszter found a bottle of whiskey in the freezer. It must have been there for so long that her husband forgot about it. Although it’s possible that it belongs to Eszter; she didn’t say anything about the whiskey, only showed it to me after the boy had gone to bed. It’s no longer cocoa, but not yet whiskey. But what do twelve year olds drink in the morning? This is our first morning together; Eszter didn’t say anything about what I should serve him. She will be coming back around noon. She needs to chair a panel discussion this morning, but will be home by noon and we can leave for our hike together.
I’m thirsty. My water was finished twenty minutes ago; I drink a lot when nervous. Despite the fact that she talked to each of us separately about what was going to happen. We will go for a hike on Saturday at noon. Eszter is at a conference in the morning. I will sleep over; therefore the son and I will be alone in the house for a couple of hours. Will that be OK with you, she asked her son. OK. Is it OK with you, she asked me. OK. I don’t know what her son’s OK meant. Is it OK, indeed, or does it mean that it doesn’t matter to him, which would actually mean not OK. This could make Eszter think that it was really OK, when it simply meant that it wasn’t OK and Eszter knew this, but you have to start somewhere. If it were up to her son, OK would always mean not OK. But she didn’t tell me that, so that I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.
After all, this is his house. I’m not about to wake him up, the way the mailman or a courier would do if they arrive unannounced. Once he’s up, once I hear him stirring in his room, I can go fetch some water. I won’t be drinking before; at least I won’t need to go to the toilet. If I was to wake him, first he wouldn’t know what he hears. Mine is not the usual voice. He would recognize that it is neither his mother’s nor his father’s; perhaps while half asleep he would think it’s his father and then would remember the divorce and realize that his father no longer lives here. Their voices wouldn’t make him get up anyway. It’s an unfamiliar voice and he would be startled that there is a stranger in the house, and then would remember it’s his mother’s girlfriend. His mother has a girlfriend who sleeps in the house; OK.
OK, he answered when Eszter told him three months ago that she was in love with me and spends the night at my place when he is at his father’s. She asked him if he wanted to talk about this. He didn’t. It would have been weird, Eszter told me afterwards. I tell him everything and yet he wouldn’t have known about this, that I, that we, you know; it would have been weird that I loved someone so much, and he, of all people, wouldn’t know about it. A few days later, her son asked her how long she had been in love with me. He didn’t say my name. According to Eszter he didn’t remember it; after all, he only heard it once. Five months. You’ve been painting ever since, he replied, or, ever since you’ve been painting. I don’t remember exactly how he said it. Since we met, Eszter keeps thinking about painting all the time; when she could paint next or if there was enough paint at home. She enjoys discovering a red or yellow speck of paint in the most unexpected parts of her body; for example, at the back of her knee. I have hung three of her paintings in my apartment. Her son didn’t state it, instead he asked whether Eszter loves me because she started to paint.
Perhaps the OK didn’t mean OK for me either. After her son’s OK, I couldn’t have said anything else. At the time, it seemed OK but it was in the afternoon, we have already spent afternoons together as a threesome. We also spent a couple of evenings together, watched movies in the living room, went for a walk after supper; I didn’t hold Eszter’s hand and we didn’t touch each other. Not on the street, nor in the house. I remember each time I wanted to touch her and didn’t. When we went to buy chocolate, it was different. We were standing in line in front of the cashier, the line was moving slowly, Eszter looked at me, smiled and gave me a peck on my lips. Afterwards, she and I talked a lot about it, and how that woman two paces behind us looked at us. And how this wasn’t really the same as it would have been kissing her husband while standing in line.
So, we had already got to watching movies with her son. We also go for walks together. After a walk we return to their place and Eszter accompanies me to the bus stop. We let three or four buses go by. I find it difficult to keep my distance from Eszter, from her hands, her mouth, her shoulders, her hair. We like it when Eszter sleeps over at my place. At night, half asleep, I tell her that I dreamt about her hair, her hair was the star of my dream; I only remember her hair, her curly dark brown hair. Really, she asks me. Yet, in the morning, she doesn’t remember a thing. I have told her about this dream during several nights; I wonder when will she wake up one morning and remember it?
It was my afternoon self who replied OK to her afternoon boy. I didn’t think about the morning boy and my morning self. I didn’t check with Eszter what I needed to know about this boy. What time he wakes up, should I go to him once he’s awake, should I prepare him breakfast; what does he eat for breakfast, or should I just leave him alone? Is he a sound sleeper? Should I wait for him outside by the table, should I take my laptop into the kitchen and work there? Eszter also works at the kitchen table. Should I be like Eszter? Parents have a special greeting when they see their child, first thing in the morning. Their voices change, they never greet anyone the way they greet their child in the morning. Perhaps I should learn it.
There are more and more sounds coming from the street. Children go to the playground shouting, they go down the sidewalk in toy cars, their mothers and fathers call out to them. Flóra, Beni, Zente and Léna have already passed by our house. Then came another Beni, although it’s possible that it was the same Beni as before, except on his way back. One of the swings in the playground squeaks, that’s where I sat with Eszter beside me and the evening boy beside her. The evening boy seems to be more anxious than the afternoon one; according to Eszter, I’m just imagining things. The evening boy is quieter, more serious, watches my every move, but if I look at him, he looks away. Yet, I sense that he’s watching me, he knows exactly where I am in the house, when and where I go, which way I’m heading, whether I’m putting my shoes on or walking to the living room. A couple of weeks ago, he came back from his father’s with a fresh haircut. He didn’t tell Eszter that he wanted to have his hair cut, even though Eszter liked to tuck his hair behind his ears and pat it. I can recall that gesture. Perhaps he had it cut because I noticed this gesture. He had such lovely hair, Eszter said afterwards when we were our own; it was lovely, wasn’t it, she asked.
Will you get over here this minute, I overhear from the street. I hope they bellow like this to a dog. I can’t imagine Eszter bellowing to her son, although she must do that some times. And what am I going to do when she bellows like that in front of me; will I leave the room or pretend that I’m not there. I will be the fifth chair, or a jug of lemonade. I won’t make a move, won’t look at either of them, chairs don’t look. I’m sure she will bellow at him in front of me. That will mean that I’m accepted. Once I’m a chair, then I’m accepted.
I close the window, at which point the door opens a bit. I pretend that I’m looking at the garden. A beetle is crawling on the window, that’s what I’m watching. I closed the window to prevent the insect on the ledge from coming in. I count the children going to the playground and let him watch me. When I’m being watched, I sense it and look back. That prompts the other person to turn away, because it’s hard to take that look. Almost impossible. One of the two always looks away.
I turn very carefully as if that’s how I usually turn. There’s no one standing at the door. I don’t see fingers on the door either, or a hand on the doorframe. I stay quiet; it is quiet. I don’t move, neither does anyone else. I walk over to the door; there is no one standing behind it. Yesterday we made crêpes and left the kitchen window open; it must have been the draft that opened the door. The hallway is dark; his door is closed. I listen for sounds but there is nothing coming from his room. Perhaps he’s standing by the door listening to see if I leave the bedroom. I close the door. When Eszter comes home and asks what we’ve been doing, I will tell her that I was working and he will say that he was studying. Or, what would a twelve year old do on a Saturday morning. He played games, but that I would hear, or at least the afternoon boy shouts words when playing the game that I don’t understand. He’s got his headset on. Eszter has to open his door to ask him to come to dinner because he doesn’t hear. Once when I asked Eszter what he was doing, she said he was running. He’s always running in the game, she said.
I opened his door one day. The door was open a crack; I knocked, he said to come in. This “come in” sounded natural. He thought it was his mother; I had never been in his room before. I was surprised by the plants. He was sitting in the middle of a jungle, running. The small lamp in the corner makes the plants cast shadows on the wall. Would you like to have île flottante? Your mom would like to know. It was île flottante or panna cotta, some sort of dessert. He was surprised to see me there. He shook his head, didn’t really understand what I’d asked him, he was so taken aback that I was in his room that he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I left and closed the door behind me. His best friend left not long before, I could sense the stale adolescent air. According to Eszter, he hadn’t told his best friend about me yet. That’s why she wanted me to come later, after his friend had left. He would never get used to me, I thought as I returned to the kitchen. He doesn’t want any, I told Eszter. He doesn’t want any, she asked. He always wants some. She put some on a plate and carried it over to his room. He has beautiful plants, I said. He adores them, she answered. I hope he will turn the machine off. His hour is up, she said. I left soon after.
The leaves on Eszter’s plants are turning yellow; some already have brown stems. I touched the soil; it’s dry and should be watered now. We are all thirsty. If I manage to go to the kitchen, I’ll bring them water, too. I’ll ask Eszter if she has liquid plant food, they could use it. The plant food must have also belonged to her husband; another item she’ll miss when she notices it. I’ll bring some plant food; we’ll have communal plant food. My plants will be beside hers on the flower stand. My belongings will first be in this room. Then slowly we’ll move my plants to the living room, we’ll start with a piece here and there, a cardigan left behind on the armchair, a book on the coffee-table, my mug on the kitchen counter. He will slowly get used to my things, we’ll have joint activities, movie Thursdays, we’ll pop corn; I will bring over my grandmom’s popcorn machine, the popcorn will be just like in the cinema. Yes, this will be my first item here, something useful. He will find it less and less strange if I touch his shoulders or prepare him something for breakfast. I’ll know whether to talk to him or leave him alone. He will get used to my voice; won’t take off the headset when he hears a weird noise from a strange woman; and won’t start listening when I go to the washroom, to make sure that I’m not coming to his room. What would he need another mother for? Do I need a child? When we first met, I was surprised by how tall he was; I even told Eszter. Yes, she answered, it’s incredible that I once worried about dropping him. At least I needn’t worry about that.
Let’s say a year from now, Eszter will have to attend a conference again and he and I will stay here on our own. I have already moved in; this is my home. We not only go for walks and watch movies, we sit together in the kitchen, have breakfast without saying a word, but it’s a comfortable silence. He heard that I was in the kitchen, got up and joined me. Good morning, I said to him in a motherly tone, yet not the same way as Eszter. I would like to tell him that this whole thing is new for me as well. The husband, the child. I don’t know who he will be to me and who I will be to him. I will simply be Panni. Another person who loves him. Perhaps this will suffice.
A couple of weeks ago he didn’t want to come back from his father’s place. The same thing happened the Wednesday before. He wanted to stay there. In spite of the fact that during the first days he and Eszter were alone; I didn’t show up until the third or fourth day. It’s eleven-thirty. Should I start worrying about him now? Surely he’s not asleep, Eszter is due back at noon. Perhaps he really is asleep; I could go to the kitchen for a glass of water. The puttering, the water will surely wake him. Or he’s not well and doesn’t dare to say anything; or he’s not well and cannot speak. I’ll go to the door and listen. I’ll open the door and listen to sounds in the hallway. What do I say if that’s exactly when he leaves his room? I’ll say that I’m on the way to the kitchen. Or I’ll only say good morning and continue on my way to the kitchen. Yes, there’s no need to explain things. He’s a very bright boy; I heard him talk to Eszter a few days ago while they were doing the dishes, that the sister of one his classmates had leukemia. He and this boy talked through lunch break. And they also walked home together. He didn’t say a word, only listened to his classmate; he asked Eszter what he could have said. He told Eszter that he remembered every sentence that he heard. He doesn’t have a sister and, apart from his grandma, nobody died yet. He was still small when grandma died. What should he have said? Eszter replied that it was a good thing that he was quiet. How will I explain to Eszter that I spent the whole morning in the house and didn’t realize that this bright sensitive boy died? I’m halfway through the door; I even hold my breath. I take another step, that’s when something falls on the floor in his room. I get frightened and step back into the bedroom. And I’m also relieved. I carefully close the door. It was a thud like a copybook falling on the floor. I also heard a creak, as if someone was trying to reach for it from the bed or the chair. He’s awake and reading. I sit back in the armchair, watch the pattern of the parquet floor, then from there I move my glance to the picture; my knapsack is beside Eszter’s by the desk. Hers is lilac colored, mine mustard. I won’t be going to the parent-teacher interview, will I? He asked Eszter. She will go with Dad, won’t she?
I really have to leave the room now. Perhaps that’s what he’s waiting for; he’ll follow me. I leave the room with a glass in my hand, fill it up and make myself a sandwich. If he comes out, I’ll ask him if he would like some. He’s not hungry, he’ll say. That’s a problem. A twelve year old must have breakfast. Also, we’ll be going hiking, he must eat something. But how can I tell him that. Do I remind him that in an hour he’ll be hungry or do I ask whether I should prepare a sandwich for him for later. Perhaps he’ll get to hate me for caring for him so early in the game. He says he doesn’t want any, that’s all. After that I’ll have nothing to say. If I ask him how his sleep was, that’s even worse. He sits down by the table and doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t even look at me. I love his mom. That’s all I need to tell him. I sit down beside him and tell him that I love his mom. He’ll give me a serious look; I’ll then give him my most serious look. I’ll tell him in a lot of ways that I love his mom and that’s all there’s to it. Or I will tell him only once but using my most serious tone. Maybe that’s how I should start. I notice him in the kitchen, all I’ll say is: you know I love your mom, don’t you. We run into each other in the hallway; I love your mom. I’ll stand by his door and whisper it to his door: I love your mom. My whisper will also be serious. When one whispers, it’s because one needs to tell something at all cost. Only urgent things need to be whispered.
I go to the window; from here it is easy to see if Eszter is coming home. I’ll see her first and only hear her after. I’ll know that she’s coming, that she’s about to come in by the door. I spot in the corner of my eye something white on the floor. It’s difficult not to look at the fence and the street. The white something is a watering can behind the armchair. Maybe it has water in it. It does. I distribute it so that each plant gets some. Before we leave we’ll have to give them a thorough watering. Hi there! This is Eszter’s voice. I didn’t hear the key or the door opening. I walk over to the bedroom door and try to figure out from the sounds what’s happening. Eszter is taking off her coat, I don’t leave the room yet. Let the morning boy go outside first, greet his mother; let them be alone for a bit. Hi there, Eszter says again while she’s removing her shoes. No one comes out from the other room. I’m waiting. Is there anyone home? Where are you?
From the writer
:: Account ::
The genesis of the Hungarian original of this story is a volume of stories by many authors put together to mark the thirtieth anniversary of the Budapest Gay Pride parades. In Hungary this event has a very different significance than similar ones in other countries (what the future will hold in the US is unclear). The present Orbán regime in Hungary passed an amendment to the Fundamental Law (the Hungarian constitution) which says that “a family is a union of a father who is a man and a mother who is a woman” and that each Hungarian is either male or female.
Even though the story stands on its own as an absurd situation made more absurd by the narrator’s own inability to assert herself even a tiny bit; the context of its origin can add to the piquancy of her situation. The eponymous boy will have a difficult time explaining his living arrangement to his buddies. However, throughout the narrator’s dithering, he is likely sleeping or playing video games.
Anita Harag was born in Budapest in 1988. In 2020 she was the winner of the Margó Prize, awarded to the best first time fiction author of the year, for her first volume of short stories Her second book of stories came out in 2023. This story postdates her two books.
Marietta Morry and Walter Burgess are Canadian. In addition to stories by Anita Harag (twenty have been published), they also translate fiction by five other authors; these translations have appeared in literary reviews in North America and abroad, including in The New England Review, The Southern Review and Ploughshares. Gábor Szántó’s book “1945 and Other Stories”, six of its eight stories translated by them, was published in 2024.