The Slap and Other Stories
George Hatvary
Man and Wife
In the park, he and his wife had the bench all to themselves. “It’s nice here,” she said.
The tone of his “Yes” was civil enough to prevent her from asking what was the matter. Long explanations were not, of course, necessary; it was enough to remind her of what he had explained more than once, that he was slower than she in getting over a quarrel. But that his present mood was an example of this difference in their temperaments he preferred not to force into her consciousness, for the idea of her attempting to accelerate the process by, for example, taking hold of his hand was now repellent. He was incapable of pretending to welcome such a gesture; rather than having to withdraw from it, he preferred carefully to hide his present feelings of indifference.
Concentration on what he knew all along, that his resentment would eventually dissolve, would have helped him to forgive her as she had already forgiven him. But he found satisfaction in his isolation. To be cut off from the last link between himself and humanity had a dark charm of its own; and that his wife next to him was cherishing the illusion of re-established harmony between them, only enhanced his perverse pleasure.
He looked across the park at a group of Georgian houses silhouetted against the moonlit sky. The night had reduced all colors, but one could see illuminated windows shimmering through the trees. He experienced longing—for what? He asked himself, attempting to visualize conventional settings: the country, the tropics, some European city, the sea-washed beach. None satisfied his hungry imagination and he had to conclude that what he longed for was directly around him: the bench, the park, a quietly lit-up street, the soft air. This, read about or remembered or envisioned from a sickbed, measured up in beauty and intensity to any setting in which to—well, drink deeply of life. But how could he under the circumstances? He was shackled.
Were he younger, had their marriage begun in the passionate years of early youth, he would have toyed more seriously with the idea which, he felt, must at one time or another occur to every man—some day to walk out of his marriage. But he had known years of solitude, and now visualizing himself alone on this bench he remembered a younger man with casual friends, longing to be loved—longing, he had to admit, precisely for this.
Thus the dark joy of a previous moment, unable to lead to any resolution, lay purposeless in him, then died, leaving a feeling of inner desolation.
It was into this that her next remark fell: “Electric lights give such a beautiful effect when they’re not messed up with neon.”
He was unable to match the ease of her tone; he could only observe, “Maybe you don’t hate New York so much after all.” He regretted his remark, for he feared the tiresome repetition of a dispute in which he would again have to emphasize that this too was New York—more so, historically speaking, than the jungle of stone northward.
But she avoided it. “It’s really the heat one objects to,” she said reflectively. “I’ve been thinking so much lately about a place in the country…”
This too had come up before, and he let his attention drift from her words. They had already decided that a summer cottage was beyond their means for the present, so why insist on dreams? To her, of course, the idea had greater reality, since she had grown up in a house; but neither he nor his family had ever owned one, and from facing new experiences he instinctively shrank. Even if they had the money he wouldn’t know how to go about it—where to look for property, what agent to see, how to judge the grounds, the house, the appliances. When she dropped her voice to conclude a sentence he merely said, “We’ve only had one hot spell this summer.”
“Yes, haven’t we been lucky?”
As he looked at her he noticed a woman and a dog approaching on the dim walk. Generally he made no secret of looking at women—in fact it was his wife who would often squeeze his hand or press his arm to indicate that some desirable creature was not to be missed. The joke they shared was that he rarely had to be reminded, but he knew that he must never let her know to what depths these nonchalant impressions could penetrate. Now, for instance, he felt his wife must not realize that her face was not the primary object within his visual range, and he sought safety from discovery by removing his elbow from the back of the bench and shifting his eyes to the ground—to a crumpled piece of paper at his feet.
“August isn’t over yet,” she said, and he looked up at her, noting that the dog was a Scottie and the woman handsome, with massive hair.
His wife too was handsome, perhaps beautiful—it was hard to say, for their years together had transformed her face to a symbol of her whole being. Her features had acquired a kind of transparency, with other aspects appearing foremost. In the gradual loss of his fresh vision of her he saw sometimes the blessing, sometimes the bane of marriage.
The woman and the dog were now almost directly in front of them and they both looked up. The dog came as close to them as the leash allowed, inducing the woman to hesitate, then to stop, then to take a step toward them. He noticed the unlit cigarette between her fingers.
Her words of request and the little grunt of assent with which he extended the flame dissolved in his wife’s smiling words: “Nice doggie!”
She thanked him, and he remembered the blueness of her eyes as he watched the Scottie move with short, rapid steps and wagging tail in its mistress’s wake.
His wife’s lingering smile was now directed at him, and he was ready to receive it. “Now if I’d been sitting here alone,” he said, “do you suppose she would’ve asked me for a light?”
She shook her head and he said, he hoped lightly enough, “Ce la vie.”
They sat without speaking, until he said, “Strange how we take the present for granted. When I was young I never thought of myself at forty without qualifying it with an ’if I live that long—as I do now when I think of myself at fifty or sixty. Well, here I am at forty and in good health. Isn’t it a miracle? I ought to be grateful.”
“To whom?”
“That,” he said looking up at her, “will be the cornerstone of my return to God.” He smiled both at the idea of his becoming religious and her skepticism. “It’s hard to get rid of the anthropomorphic concept of God drummed into us in childhood. We should practice thinking of God as It—a principle. That of course would remove one’s incentive to be grateful.”
She nodded, and he relapsed into thought. Theology was useful just now, for he felt an urge to communicate with the least danger of a precipitate gesture or word of affection on her part. Theology made her think, and thinking, she was always his friend rather than wife.
But she was getting sleepy. He looked away from the sure signs in her face—her diminishing eyes and drooping mouth—in a futile attempt to prolong the evening, losing himself for a moment in the cheerful chatter coming from a neighboring bench. But when she asked what time it was he looked at his watch and met her yawn.
“Ten thirty.”
“Maybe we ought to go home, darling.”
Oh, if the pattern were such that he could let her go and remain here alone! The dark trees and the soft air were to be taken from him. Did he dare, as a compromise, to walk her home and then return?
“All right,” he said, rising.
As they left the park she reached for his hand and he let her take it and hold on to it, but he wondered whether on arriving at the house it might not be possible to say that he had a headache or felt restless so as to justify staying out longer.
But in front of the entrance he merely reached for his key, unlocked the door and followed her up the stairs.
The apartment was warm and he turned on the air conditioner, then sat down with The New Yorker.
“Do you want anything to eat?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
“I’m very tired,” she said. “There’s left-over chicken in the fridge if you get hungry later.”
He had opened the magazine at random but now on dipping into the article before him, he realized that he too was sleepy. Nevertheless, he remained in his chair, flipping pages and looking at cartoons, listening to his wife moving around beyond the doorway. The bathroom door closed and there came the metallic gliding of the shower curtain, the rush of water into the tub. A feeling had come over him, which sought to be defined as pity, and as if pity sought to be justified, he found himself thinking that one could easily slip in the bathtub and injure oneself. All this was sheer superstition, yet concrete details had already been set in motion in his mind: the shriek he would hear, his rushing to her, his feverish groping at the phone. Was 911 the number to call?
Then she appeared, wrapped in a towel, came to his chair and kissed him.
“Good night,” he said, watching her vanish beyond the doorway.
She called “Good night” from the bedroom.
“Good night,” he called back, singing his words slightly.
All sound had now ceased in the apartment except for the hum of the machine in the window, and as he sat with the magazine now closed on his knee he thought of himself in relationship only with the furniture, and the walls and the silence. Here was an example of life without her, sitting here alone at night beyond the ken of the closest friend. The thought had sprung from neither desire nor fear; it had come abstractly, merely as a remembered fragment from earlier that evening.
He put down the magazine, tuned off the air conditioner and opened the window. He could now hear the faint but pronounced rhythm of rock coming from somewhere, voices on the street, a random car passing. In the building opposite there was light in some windows. A car came slowly and pulled into the last parking spot in the block. A couple got out and went into the building. After a few minutes a dark window lit up and someone adjusted the blind.
He wasn’t hungry. He lit a cigarette, then put it out. He was trying to cut down. In the bathroom, the strong light bedazzled his eyes so that he had to grope his way into the bedroom. Slowly he made out his wife’s form in the bed. She had kicked off the light blanket on her side, but the room was being cooled sufficiently and he covered her again. She was sleeping with her arms spread out, her head tilted to one side, her hair, which she had neglected to put up, falling down her neck. He had seen her sleep with her mouth open; he had heard her break into a snore. But now she was breathing evenly and her lips lay nicely against each other. He lay down next to her and propped on one elbow, watched the calm face, the symbol of her being, which, he shuddered to realize, he had in the secrecy of his heart so monstrously abused. “I love you,” he said without making a sound, longing to take her in his arms and cover her with kisses. But it would be cruel to wake her. He merely bent over her, allowing his lips the slightest touch of hers, then laid his head on his pillow. He wondered whether it was possible that she had, in a dream, been aware of his kiss.
isbn 1-59661-057-3
145 pages/$20
irrepressible romantic nature
George Hatvary’s writing has an amazingly versatile range, equally at home in the action and suspense genres as in the quietly observed family drama in which nothing much appears to change on the surface, yet the internal changes are enormous. If you search for a common thread or a dominant theme in these stories, you might decide, as I did, that the clue lies in his irrepressible romantic nature. Dip into this collection, which spans several decades, and prepare to be charmed.
—Susan Brownmiller
amazingly versatile range
These stories by a master storyteller run the gamut from sensitive to powerful, from stories of inner conflict to tales of war. George Hatvary has a broad range of weapons in his arsenal, and he fires them with deadly aim.
—Edward Field
master storyteller with deadly aim
George Egon Hatvary was born in Hungary, the son of an opera singer. He has been a soldier and a scholar, but his first calling is writing fiction, such as The Suitor (Avon) and The Murder of Edgar Allen Poe (Carroll and Graf). Hatvary’s wife is a professor. Their daughter is a photographer.
Contents
The Slap
In Praise of Love
Kingdom and the Horse
The Jungle
Heiwa
Helen
Mildred of the Golden Hair
Man and Wife
The Mask
The Clown
The Dinner
The Slap and Other Stories
$20 USD
George Hatvary
March Street Press
3413 Wilshire
Greensboro NC
marchstreetpress.com
rbixby@earthlink.net
isbn 1-59661-057-3