In a Bucolic Land by Szilárd Borbély

Author:Szilárd Borbély
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2022-01-11T00:00:00+00:00

2.12 Proteus at the Psychiatrist’s

1a

On the cold metal frame there is sweat and vapor. You can see your breath

in the air. The goldfishes are no longer in the cement-lined pool

in front of the main building. Somebody took them away,

though they still swim somewhere in thought. The shallow

water was too warm just a few months ago. And it seemed as if they were suffocating,

if you could put it like that. Namely, there was

too little oxygen in the water. From the kitchen, stray cats

slinked over this way. They sat by the edge of the pool,

their gazes avidly following the group of

vividly yellow decorative fish. They were very slow. The cats, of course,

were well-fed. The hunting instinct slumbered within them

in the bright afternoon’s dazzling light. They just lazed there

in the sunshine. If the fish swam close to them, they prepared, reluctantly,

to leap with their hind legs. But clearly they weren’t taking this too seriously.

The fish got used to having no enemies. So they swam about, unsuspecting.

But it soon came to an end. The dried autumn leaves, gathered into the cement-patched

concrete pool, were provision for winter. Insects

could find refuge here. Just as they would

in the layers of manure and earth piled at the roses’ base.

Late autumn is the season of farewell. The darkness of water oozing away.

1b

It was five in the afternoon, I recall, when,

in front of the fairly recently constructed building with its

wine-dark stucco, I attached my bike to the October fog,

I attached it good and strong. Or maybe it was already November.

It was good, after work, to wind through the streets of the city. To jump

onto the sidewalk curbs, slipping like a fish

in between the cars creeping along in traffic jams. The movement,

the concentration, both were gratifying. It helped in

loosening tension, that bodily fear which

was with me in every moment. The anxiety

from the sound of jangling telephones. There was

nothing else, simply the lightweight metal frame, the derailleur

across the gears, speed increased as they’re shifted. In reality,

the physical strength of a normally functioning body

is its source of power. Breathing is labored, because

of the high vapor content of the gulped-in air. The crowd

heaves along like fish cast onto the shore, their mouths gaping.

2

To complete my obligation made me feel calm. Of course, I knew

that just as at other times, today as well I would not

remain too long next to the hospital bed. I pull the stool over from below

the medical chart on the wall, toward the nightstand, on which

there is mineral water, fruit juice, from the enameled drawers of the nightstand

came the scent of banana or other fruits. I left them here

yesterday. I always sit on the iron-framed white stool with

its fake leather seat, but even so I can’t hear what

he’s saying. I just nod. Then I ask the same things

that I always do: “How are you?

Can I help you with something? What should I bring? What

should I do?"—After the usual questions, I hear

the usual answers, mumbled by the old man with the

numbed face. Only his mumbling is alive, like that

of the waters. And the full glass on the cupboard watches.

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