The Case Worker (GT) by György Konrád

Author:György Konrád
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-963-14-3684-6
Publisher: Magvető Kiadó

3

The iron curtain of obscurity rises, an electric guide stops in front of me with his beer mug. He removes his plate cap, a plum-sized swelling on his bald head. He strokes it with his fingertips, waiting for what I say to him. Although I know he got it from his son, I ask in court that he got it. “It hit me with my own punch. Can you imagine that? ” I can. I was able to visit them for half a year, the guide moaned on the kitchen stone, the boy hit him first then. He postponed this turn, sleeping in front of him for weeks, months, on the reeds of scaffolding, in the concrete rings pushed side by side, in the sandboxes on the banks of the Danube, in the wagons pushed to the side track to avoid his father. He practiced with a rubber rope, he already knew he was stronger, so when he heard his men's roaring threatening mutterings, he stepped out of the clash through the window of the downstairs apartment. To a senior police officer on testimony, he said he wouldn’t mind being arrested; he fears he will kill his father. “Good,” the policeman said, putting bread and meat in front of him in the guardroom, twisting the radio, telling him that at this old age he too wanted to kill his father, but somehow it didn’t happen, and now he takes it. He showed the boy a slender grip to defend himself, if he had to, use it, but preferably not hit his father. The next day, the guide was more unpleasant than usual: he was determined to report his family because his wife, daughter, and son were making love in threes. He always inferred this from small signs. “As I expose my legs, I collide,” he sometimes cried about it, swelling his anger. Sometimes he started giggling, “I’m wasting you in your dream”. One night he insisted drunk: they would only do it before him, if they were to pig in his absence, now they would not be ashamed, and he began to tear the clothes of his wife and daughter. He pinched their breasts, pushed them to the bed, slapped them with the head of his hand, but stared at his son with one eye. He didn't touch it, waiting for him to intervene. But as he moved, he cut him in the mouth, punching him where he hit him, just him. The twisting grip was effective, the guide knelt forward and knelt and roared. It was bad to listen, his son hitting him on the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. I knocked on them a quarter of an hour later, the guide still lying on the ground like he had suffered a concussion. He moaned and, burying his face in his hands, betrayed his face. However, although he has only been left behind for the evening shows for half a year, and the others are kicking together, he insists unchanged.

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