#17 Deep breath - Translation 1.2

Chapter one (cont.) of Rita Halász's Deep Breath

Dec 17, 2024

You can read the first part of this chapter here.

What if my mum isn’t right, this is the thought that wakes me at half past five. We can fix things, we just have to want to. Just because it didn’t work out for her, I shouldn’t give up at the first hurdle. The window is covered by a film of grey snow, I can’t see anything. The kids are asleep, my dad promised that he’d take them to kindergarten this week. The younger one has only been going for a couple of weeks; this time around I simply acknowledged that the sign to identify her at the institution was a coat hanger. With the older one I nearly started crying when they told me it’d be a bucket. I was late to the meeting, all the good signs were taken. Isn’t there anything cuter left, I asked. The only other option was a pot. Bucket it was.

I need to vacuum and mop, but first, dusting. Sometimes I forget the order. Péter is right, I’m a terrible housewife. I hate that word. My dad used to say it a lot, Babika, you should sign up for housewife training. You’re so fucking useless, I will sign you up for housewife training. That would be Péter to me. Maybe if I said something then, don’t talk to me like that, he’d be giving me a foot massage and bringing me French toast and tea for breakfast now. I imagine myself screaming. I punch the mattress, I bury my face in the pillow, I bite the blanket, but I’m just lying still. On the bookshelves I can make out Greek Tales and Fables. I first read it after year 5. First there was chaos, then it listed a thousand names, and how the world was born. I couldn’t understand any of it. I read it again, I still couldn’t understand it. I got a piece of paper, I wrote down the names, the events, I drew a family tree, until it all became clear. That’s what I need now, paper and a pencil. Or maybe a pen. To untangle the threads, causes, effects, arrows, Roman and Arabic numerals. I don’t get out of bed for a piece of paper because the floor creaks. At times like this, even the smallest movement is dangerous, the kids are easy to wake. I lie on my back, my eyes are open, I don’t blink, I don’t breathe, I’m silent so I can think.

I have been scrubbing the corners of the bathroom with a toothbrush for half an hour. I have already mopped twice, first with Domestos and then with vinegar. Vinegar used to make Péter gag. My dad took the kids to kindergarten this morning, he turned to me from the door, don’t throw away everything if possible. Twenty-seven expired, dusty bottles. Shampoo, shower gel, deodorant, shaving cream, aftershave, white jars of prescription creams with yellow crust. I take my dad’s clothes down from the clothesline. They stink. They’re dirty around the collar, some stains haven’t come out, they need to be washed again. There’s no stain remover, I scrub them with soap. I open the top loader, the handle is half-broken. It’s thirty-five years old, the best according to my dad.

I go to the toilet for the second time today, that’s what central heating does. I only just notice how clean it is. My mum must’ve come back to clean the toilet, after this many years. Andi messages me and asks me to take a photo of my neck. I don’t respond. I walk around the apartment, I enjoy its warmth and light, it’s nice to be alone, I can see the trees, the snow a thick blanket on the branches. There comes a rattling sound from the bathroom. It’s the washing machine. I unplug it, it’s hard to open. The barrel is too high up, I can’t move it, it won’t even budge an inch. Did I close the door incorrectly? I attached it to the hooks, I pushed down, it clicked. I remember it clicking. My dad will be beside himself. I better call him, to prepare him as soon as possible, he might have to buy a new one. He says he’ll pop home to have a look, don’t worry about it. I try not to worry about it, I loiter around the apartment.

Wow, it’s hot in here, he says and turns down the heating. He goes to the bathroom, puts his sturdy body on top of it, it crackles and creaks. It’s a good little washing machine, I’m glad I don’t have to buy a new one. You attached the hooks wrong. He stands with his hands on his hips, looking at the mirror, the shelves, to see what I threw away. He will definitely mention the cream, to which I will say that it was long expired, and in turn he will wave me away, you don’t have to take those things so seriously. It’s all so sparkly in here! Much better this way. No criticism is forthcoming. His praise feels nice.

At Izabella street, we had a separate mop for the bedrooms, the kitchen, and the bathroom. Péter disliked it when I mixed them up. I could have remembered it, but I didn’t want to. We didn’t use to have different mops. Of course not, because you’ve never lived in a normal household. What you do under the guise of housework is a big fat zero. Your mum, don’t make me laugh, she can’t even cook. My mother cooks fine, but she won’t step foot in the kitchen if she can avoid it. But her homemade egg noodles can’t be beaten. She mixes the dough by feel, pours the mixture onto the chopping board, then uses a thin knife to cut it into long strips. It goes in the worn, red pot. She cracks open eight eggs, but tells my dad it’s six. Babika, four would be plenty. She lets the bottom get crispy, just for me.

The washing machine is done, my dad is shocked that I put his clothes back on again. They were very smelly, I say, taking out a T-shirt and pressing it under his nose, see how nice it smells now. Still, it’s a waste, water, electricity, money. I explain the stains, the wet-dog stink. I wait for him to get angry, to raise his voice. He sighs, do it the way you want to.

I write a to-do list. Living room, kitchen, job hunting. Call Péter, ask him to transfer money to our shared account. I don’t want to hear his voice. I go up to the mirror and take the scarf off. Nothing happened, you’re crazy. A pale red bruise. What should I be taking a photo of, ridiculous, it’s barely visible. It’s not even red, more brown. The skin is rough where his nails dug in.

I have been sitting on the couch motionless for two hours, the snow falls in clumps outside. It’s five o’clock, they’ll be home from kindergarten soon. I type Iván’s number in my phone. I learned it by heart after Péter told me while watching a movie that if I ever cheated on him, he would kill me. I’ve left, I’m at my dad’s, I type to Iván. I delete it. Even though I decided to concentrate on the good things, I see everything through a shimmering black veil. I asked my mum if there were any signs at the beginning that their relationship wouldn’t work. She replied that my father didn’t give her any of his chocolate once. Who breaks up over chocolate?

Last winter Péter crossed a red light with the little one, I stayed on the footpath with the older one. He was shouting from across the road, there are no cars coming, come on. I didn’t move. I made him look stupid in front of the kids, he snapped at me once we did cross. Damaged authority. He is the head of the family, if he says we can cross, we cross. He argued that teaching to cross safely even when the light is red is a parental responsibility. I disagreed. You’re neurotic, he concluded.

My dad brings the kids home. Who will go first, telling us what happened in kindergarten. They fight. The little one should go first, but why her, the older then, not fair, of course you love her more, you even felt sorrier for her last time when she hit her hand. I snap at them. Was everything alright, I ask my dad. He calls me aside, lowers his voice. The little one hit a boy with a wooden block, his head was bleeding. He spoke with the parents, luckily he is a fourth child, they didn’t make a big deal out of it.

They nag me, let’s go down to the garden and build a snowman. I don’t want to go outside, I don’t want to be with them. I want to be alone and think about when and how I messed up, feel sorry for myself, cry, blow my nose, watch as others feel worried for me, tell them not to worry, go to cafes and the cinema, read, people-watch all day. I’ll watch you from the window, you can wave to me any time. The little likes this, she’s on her way out already. The older stands in the door, wringing her gloves. Dad would have played. Her voice isn’t reproachful, just rather sad.

#17 Deep breath - Translation 1.2

Chapter one (cont.) of Rita Halász's Deep Breath

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