Sandor Marai - Portraits of a Marriage

ALSO BY SNDOR MRAI

Esthers Inheritance
Embers
Casanova in Bolzano
The Rebels

This Is a Borzoi Book published by Alfred A. Knopf

Translation copyright 2011 by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada, Limited, Toronto.

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Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Previous editions of this work were published in different forms; in Hungary as Az igazi by Rvai, Budapest, in 1941; in Germany as Wandlungen Einer Ehe by J. P. Toth, Hamburg, in 1949; and in Germany as Judit Es Az Utohang by Uivary Griff, Mnchen, in 1980. This edition was originally published in Hungary as Az igazi. Judit s az uthang by Helikon Kiado, Budapest, in 2003. Copyright by Heirs of Sndor Mrai, Csaba Gaal, Toronto.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Mrai, Sndor, 19001989.

[Igazi. English]
Portraits of a marriage / by Sndor Mrai; translated from the Hungarian by George Szirtes. 1st American ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-59538-6
1. MarriageFiction. 2. Married peopleFiction. 3. SpousesFiction. 4. MistressesFiction. 5. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)Fiction. I. Szirtes, George, 1948 II. Title.
PH3281.M351413 2011
894.511334dc22 2010034251

Jacked design by Peter Mendelsund

v3.1

Part I

Look, see that man? Wait! turn your head away, look at me, keep talking. I wouldnt like it if he glanced this way and spotted me; I dont want him to greet us. Now you can look again The little squat one there in the fur-collared coat? No, of course not. Its the tall, pale-faced one in the black overcoat talking to that blond stick of a girl behind the counter. He is just having some candied orange peel wrapped. Strange, he never bought me candied orange peel.

Whats that, dear? Nothing. Wait, I have to blow my nose.

Has he gone? Tell me when he has gone.

Hes paying now? Can you see what his wallet looks like? Describe it carefully; I dont want to look that way. Is it brown crocodile skin? Yes? Oh, Im so pleased.

Why am I pleased? Just because. Well, yes, of course, I gave him the wallet, for his birthday. Ten years ago. Was I in love with him? Thats a hard question, dear. Yes, I believe I did love him. Has he gone yet?

Good, Im glad hes gone. Wait, I must powder my nose. Does it show that I have been crying? Its stupid, I know, but see how stupid people can be? My heart still beats faster when I see him. Can I tell you who he is? I can tell you, darling, its no secret. That man was my husband.

Come on, lets get some pistachio ice cream. I really cant understand why people say you cant eat ice cream in winter. I love this patisserie best in winter for the ice cream. There are times I almost believe that anything possible to be done should be done, not just because its good or makes sense, simply because its possible. For some years now in any case, ever since Ive been alone, Ive enjoyed coming here between five and seven in the winter. I like the crimson dcor, the Victorian furnishings, the old waitresses, the big metropolitan square beyond the shop-window, watching the customers arrive. Theres a sort of warmth about it all, just a touch of fin-de-sicle. And theres no better tea anywhere, have you noticed? I know the new generation of women dont go to patisseries. They prefer espressos, places where you have to rush, where there are no comfortable chairs, where it costs forty fillr for one black coffee, where they can eat salad for lunch, thats how it is now. But its not my world. What I want is refined patisseries like this, with such furniture, with crimson carpets, with their ancient countesses and princesses, their mirrored cupboards. As you may imagine, Im not here every day, but I do call in during the winter and feel comfortable here. My husband and I used to meet here pretty regularly, about six oclock, at teatime, after he finished at the office.

Oh yes, he was on his way home from the office just now. Its twenty after seven, his home time. I am familiar with every part of his routine, even now, as if it were his life I was living. At five minutes before six he rings for the office boy who brushes him down and presents him with his hat and coat, and he leaves the office, sending the car ahead so he can walk behind it and get some air. He doesnt do much walking, thats why he is so pale. Or there may be some other reason, I dont know now. I dont know the reason because I never see him, dont talk to him, havent talked to him for three years. I dont like those prissy little separations where the two parties walk arm-in-arm from the court, dine together at that famous restaurant in the park, are tender and solicitous toward each other as if nothing had happened and then, after divorce and dinner, go their own ways. Im not that sort of woman: my morality, my blood pressure wont allow it. I dont believe that men and women can be good friends after divorce. Marriage is marriage; divorce, divorce. Thats what I think.

But what do you think? True, youve never been married.

I dont think that relationships people have entered on and nurtured for decades, vows they have unthinkingly kept, are empty formalities, you see. I believe in the sanctity of marriage. I think divorce is a kind of sacrilege. Thats how I was brought up. But I believe it anyway, not just because of my upbringing, but because my religion demands that I believe it. I believe it because I am a woman and a divorce is no mere formality for me any more than the ritual in the church before the registrar is a formality: either it binds people together, body and soul, for once and for all, or it divides them, absolutely, and sends them their utterly separate ways. Not for one minute did I console myself with the thought that my husband and I would remain friends after our divorce. He was courteous, of course, and remained concerned for me, and generous too, as custom dictates that he should be. Not me, though. I was neither polite nor generous. I even took the piano, yes, as was my right. I was furious for revenge, and would happily have taken the whole house, right down to the curtainseverything. The moment we divorced I became his enemy and I remain so, as I will till the day I die. I dont want a friendly invitation to dinner at the restaurant in the park from him; I dont want to play the little woman, to be delicate, to be someone who visits her ex-husbands home and looks after things when the servant steals his linen. I wouldnt care if they stole the lot, everything, nor would I rush over to him if I heard he was ill. Why? Because we are divorced, you understand? Its not something to which one can become resigned.

Wait, I withdraw what I just said about him being ill. I wouldnt want him to fall ill. If he did I would visit him in the sanatorium. What are you laughing at? Are you laughing at me? Do you think Im hoping hell fall ill so I can visit him? Well, of course I hope that. As long as I have hope, I will carry on hoping. But I wouldnt want him to be too ill. He was so very pale, did you notice? He has been pale like that for some years now.