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Fiction

Working Name: Person

By Edina Szvoren
Translated from Hungarian by Jim Tucker
In this short story by Hungarian author Edina Szvoren, a young writer’s troubled relationship with her parents is told through the everyday objects their struggles imbue with weight and new meaning.

My face today is Gothic. I twirl a turquoise bracelet around my fingers. My Brigitte Bardot glasses, their lenses translucent, create the effect of swollen cheekbones. The grease spots on them are weeks old, months. When I wipe them off, my head aches from their absence. My gray incisors are a pile of roof tiles. I turn from the café mirror and, scissoring my legs, lift the empty chair opposite me, again and again, until I wear out. I put up my feet. A waiter sizes me up from behind a raised shoulder. There are amorphous white spots on my nails. You could, or should, tell the future from them. Take the ring finger, for example: my son’s life. (He won a recitation contest with an Ágnes Nemes Nagy poem.) The index finger is my literary career, and the middle one is the school principal who is sweet on me. I look up. Here comes Mother and her burning bones, like someone battered daily. But, in fact, she’s only proud.

A tall woman, exuding the smell of pomade, she sits down. Like one with sea legs, she can only lean, not bend over. Her hair quivers in strong but flexible curlicues as she shakes her head in disapproval. She props her bag against the chair leg; its long shoulder straps remain upright, stiff in the air, imperiously, for several minutes. Her shoes, as is her way, form part of the Mercedes logo under the table. The shoes are a gift from Papa. The Indian bag: a gift from Papa. Her gold-plated eyeglass chain: a gift from Papa. My mother and I have met in cafés ever since Papa disowned me for one of my writings.

A hard-breasted case officer for the National Health, she carried me in her womb for nine months. Now she pulls out her yellow plastic case, sixteen years old, a cloverleaf pattern embossed on its lower left corner. She offers me her open palm with a selection of pens. Her skin glows hot, but her promo pens are cold. (Back in the day, thermometers would freeze in her armpits.) She’s got a political pen, one with cholesterol, and a Jehovah’s Witnesses. I pick one out and tighten my upper lip over my teeth. My mother slides the lottery ticket over to me and taps on Papa’s numbers with a bent index finger. Her bones are like the steel inserts in work boots. Seventeen and eleven. I’ve been taking part in this nonsense for sixteen years now. I only get paid if it’s a winner. So I take Mother’s pen (cholesterol) and mark my X’s in the second square, far from Papa’s. Twenty-six and twenty-eight. Me, I have no regular numbers. Papa always goes first, then me, and my mother last, since she’s happy with one sole X. I look at the lotto ticket, and swing my legs. The plastic tips on my laces clack together. Papa’s scratchy two X’s protrude from the box; my mother’s looks like a twirled mustache. Your grandson, I say. Just to get us talking. (My parents know more about the Qahatika Indians than about my son.) He’s won a recitation contest; it’s on YouTube. My mother holds her waist erect like a first violinist in the orchestra. Her response: Like you at that age. Well, of course, at that age I was building trains on the bed out of father’s size 10 shoes, stuffing them full of plush rabbits and dogs, the passengers. If I can’t remember the trains, I can’t be the same person (working name).

Mother, whose regular number is eighty, signals for the check and leaves. She pays even if we win. It would never occur to me to push the matter. I’m perfectly satisfied that we’ve managed, over sixteen years, two three-number winners and six pairs, perhaps seven. My mother, out of the blue, slides an official bank envelope over to my cup, her stare a windowsill, polished to a mirror finish. Last week we hit a Pick Three. You can finally have your teeth done, she remarks, every inch a moral creature. (I like to avoid mentioning the fact that light-year is her favorite word.) She swings her Indian bag up over her shoulder and goes, always moving toward something better, more expansive, like undersea methane bubbles breaking out of ice-prison.

Today my face is Gothic, my calves Romanesque. I push my sunglasses up onto my brow and take a look in the envelope. I riffle through the banknotes. Must be more than nine hundred thousand forints. I pull my lips taut over my teeth, and make a little pucker. The waiters whisper behind a shield of nickel trays. My purse sits in the middle of the round marble table, its zipper teeth broken off in spots. Its mouth has a twisted—human—smile. The drinks menu has a crumple in it, the trace of my mother’s hand. Her will presses the shapes of ancient ferns into stone.


“Munkanéven ember” © Edina Szvoren. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by Jim Tucker. All rights reserved.

English Hungarian (Original)

My face today is Gothic. I twirl a turquoise bracelet around my fingers. My Brigitte Bardot glasses, their lenses translucent, create the effect of swollen cheekbones. The grease spots on them are weeks old, months. When I wipe them off, my head aches from their absence. My gray incisors are a pile of roof tiles. I turn from the café mirror and, scissoring my legs, lift the empty chair opposite me, again and again, until I wear out. I put up my feet. A waiter sizes me up from behind a raised shoulder. There are amorphous white spots on my nails. You could, or should, tell the future from them. Take the ring finger, for example: my son’s life. (He won a recitation contest with an Ágnes Nemes Nagy poem.) The index finger is my literary career, and the middle one is the school principal who is sweet on me. I look up. Here comes Mother and her burning bones, like someone battered daily. But, in fact, she’s only proud.

A tall woman, exuding the smell of pomade, she sits down. Like one with sea legs, she can only lean, not bend over. Her hair quivers in strong but flexible curlicues as she shakes her head in disapproval. She props her bag against the chair leg; its long shoulder straps remain upright, stiff in the air, imperiously, for several minutes. Her shoes, as is her way, form part of the Mercedes logo under the table. The shoes are a gift from Papa. The Indian bag: a gift from Papa. Her gold-plated eyeglass chain: a gift from Papa. My mother and I have met in cafés ever since Papa disowned me for one of my writings.

A hard-breasted case officer for the National Health, she carried me in her womb for nine months. Now she pulls out her yellow plastic case, sixteen years old, a cloverleaf pattern embossed on its lower left corner. She offers me her open palm with a selection of pens. Her skin glows hot, but her promo pens are cold. (Back in the day, thermometers would freeze in her armpits.) She’s got a political pen, one with cholesterol, and a Jehovah’s Witnesses. I pick one out and tighten my upper lip over my teeth. My mother slides the lottery ticket over to me and taps on Papa’s numbers with a bent index finger. Her bones are like the steel inserts in work boots. Seventeen and eleven. I’ve been taking part in this nonsense for sixteen years now. I only get paid if it’s a winner. So I take Mother’s pen (cholesterol) and mark my X’s in the second square, far from Papa’s. Twenty-six and twenty-eight. Me, I have no regular numbers. Papa always goes first, then me, and my mother last, since she’s happy with one sole X. I look at the lotto ticket, and swing my legs. The plastic tips on my laces clack together. Papa’s scratchy two X’s protrude from the box; my mother’s looks like a twirled mustache. Your grandson, I say. Just to get us talking. (My parents know more about the Qahatika Indians than about my son.) He’s won a recitation contest; it’s on YouTube. My mother holds her waist erect like a first violinist in the orchestra. Her response: Like you at that age. Well, of course, at that age I was building trains on the bed out of father’s size 10 shoes, stuffing them full of plush rabbits and dogs, the passengers. If I can’t remember the trains, I can’t be the same person (working name).

Mother, whose regular number is eighty, signals for the check and leaves. She pays even if we win. It would never occur to me to push the matter. I’m perfectly satisfied that we’ve managed, over sixteen years, two three-number winners and six pairs, perhaps seven. My mother, out of the blue, slides an official bank envelope over to my cup, her stare a windowsill, polished to a mirror finish. Last week we hit a Pick Three. You can finally have your teeth done, she remarks, every inch a moral creature. (I like to avoid mentioning the fact that light-year is her favorite word.) She swings her Indian bag up over her shoulder and goes, always moving toward something better, more expansive, like undersea methane bubbles breaking out of ice-prison.

Today my face is Gothic, my calves Romanesque. I push my sunglasses up onto my brow and take a look in the envelope. I riffle through the banknotes. Must be more than nine hundred thousand forints. I pull my lips taut over my teeth, and make a little pucker. The waiters whisper behind a shield of nickel trays. My purse sits in the middle of the round marble table, its zipper teeth broken off in spots. Its mouth has a twisted—human—smile. The drinks menu has a crumple in it, the trace of my mother’s hand. Her will presses the shapes of ancient ferns into stone.


“Munkanéven ember” © Edina Szvoren. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by Jim Tucker. All rights reserved.

Munkanéven ember

Az arcom ma gótikus, ujjaimon türkiz karkötőt pörgetek. Áttetsző üvegű Brigitte Bardot-szemüvegem mint egy földagadt arccsont, a zsírfolt rajta: hetes, hónapos. Ha letörlöm, hiányuktól megfájdul a fejem. Szürke metszőfogaim egymásra csúszott tetőzsindelyek. Elfordulok a kávéházi tükörtől, és lábam ollójában a szemközti üres széket emelgetem, amíg el nem fáradok. Fölrakom, leteszem. Fölhúzott válla fedezékéből pincér méreget. A körmömön alaktalan, fehér foltok. Jósolni lehetne belőlük, vagy legalábbis kellene. A gyűrűsujj, tegyük föl, a fiam élete. (Szavalóversenyt nyert egy Nemes Nagy Ágnes-verssel.) A mutatóujj az irodalmi életem, a középső az iskolaigazgató, aki udvarolgat. Fölnézek. Hát itt van anya, a forró csontjaival: mint akit örökké ütnek. Pedig csak büszke.

Ez a magas, pomádészagú nő most leül. Mint egy tengerjáró, csak dőlni tud, hajolni nem. Haja erős, rugalmas csigákban rezeg, miközben rosszallón ingatja a fejét. Táskáját a széklábnak támasztja, és a hosszú vállpántok még percekig, parancsolón merednek a levegőbe. Cipői szokás szerint a Mercedes-jel egy részletét formázzák az asztal alatt. A cipő: Appa ajándéka. Az indiai táska: Appa ajándéka. Az aranyozott szemüveglánc: Appa ajándéka. Mióta Appa kitagadott egy írásom miatt, presszókban találkozom anyámmal.

Ez a kemény mellű TB-ügyintéző kilenc hónapig a méhében hordott. Most előveszi a tizenhat éves sárga műanyag tokot, a jobb alsó szegletben a dombornyomott lóherével. Tenyerén tollat kínál. A bőre parázslik, de a reklámtollai hűvösek. (Lázmérői a hónaljba fagytak annak idején.) Van politikai tolla, koleszterines meg jehovás. Választok egyet, és felső ajkamat a fogamra húzom. Anyám elém tolja a lottószelvényt, és begörbített mutatóujjal Appa számaira koppint. Csontjai, mint a munkavédelmi cipők acélbetéte. Hetvenkilenc és tizenegy. Tizenhat éve asszisztálok ehhez a marhasághoz. Pénzt csak akkor kapok tőlük, ha nyertes a szelvény. Fogom anyám tollát – a koleszterinest –, és ikszeimet Appa számaitól távol, a második cellában helyezem el. Huszonhat, huszonnyolc. Nem állandó számok. Az elsőbbség mindig Appáé, aztán én jövök, legvégül pedig anyám, mert ő egyetlen iksszel is beéri. Nézem a papírt, és lóbálom a lábam: cipőpertlim végén összeverődnek a műanyag toldalékok. Appa két iksze szálkás, és kilóg a keretből, anyámé, mint a pödört bajusz. Az unokád, mondom aztán. Hogy beszélgessünk. (Szüleim többet tudnak a kahatika indiánokról, mint a fiamról.) Szavalóversenyt nyert, fönt van a Youtube-on. Anyám egyenes derékkal ül, mint az elsőhegedűsök. Azt feleli: te ilyen idős korodban. Na, igen, ilyen idős koromban én Appa negyvenhármas cipőiből csináltam vonatot a franciaágyon: plüssnyulakat, plüsskutyákat tömködtem beléjük utasnak. Ha nem emlékszem a vonatozásra, már nem lehetek ugyanaz a – munkanéven – ember.

Anyám, akinek állandó száma a nyolcvanas, odainti a pincért, kéri a számlát, búcsúzkodik.  Akkor is ő fizet, ha nyerünk. Eszembe se jut békétlenkedni, túlfeszíteni a húrt – boldoggá tesz, hogy tizenhat év alatt kétszer volt hármasunk, hatszor vagy talán hétszer kettesünk. Anyám egyszer csak a csészém mellé csúsztat egy fejléces banki borítékot. A tekintete tükörfényesre szidolozott párkány. A múlt héten hármasunk volt. Végre megcsináltathatod a fogad, mondja ez a minden ízében erkölcsi lény. (Szeretem elhallgatni, hogy kedvenc szava a fényév.) Vállára lendíti az indiai táskát, és megy. Mint a jég fogságából kiszabaduló tengeri metánbuborék, úgy törekszik – mindig – valami jobb, valami tágasabb felé.

Arcom ma gótikus, vádlim román. Napszemüvegem a homlokomra tolom, és belenézek a borítékba. Fogdosom, lapozgatom a bankjegyeket: több lehet kilencszázezer forintnál. Fogsoromra húzom az ajkamat, csücsörítek. A pincérek alpakkatálcák mögött súgnak össze. Retikülöm a kerek márványasztal közepén, cipzárjából itt-ott kitört a fogazat. Szája torz – emberi – mosolyra áll.  Az itallapon horpadás. Anyám keze nyoma. Akarata őspáfrányokat présel a kövekbe.

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