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ManHimself in Bratislava II

manhimself | 21-06-2005 | počet komentárov (2)
tagy: Bratislava a okolie| Netriedené| Slovensko

“An anchor man braces at the beginning of the century, ManHimself unites style with substance, innocence with experience… He describes the compromised lives we recognize as our own…�?

Marcel and Peter „Pino“ Ungvőlgyi, the leader of the pop band Puding pani elvisovej, winner of the Slovak music award Aurel for the best album cover (Automati), playing bass; in the rehearsal’s room. Pino is also featured in Marcel Lacko film, e.g. Trailer 11 – the Health. ‘And did you ever hear that my father was an avaricious, grasping man?’.

The manor-house of Bratislava was a building of considerable antiquity, moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood. Mr. Spišák often spoke of it, and sometimes went there. His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the games covers.

To this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked by the characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating rain.

I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way.

There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad gravel-walk girdling a grass-plat, and this set in the heavy frame of the forest. The house presented two pointed gables in its front; the windows were latticed and narrow: the front door was narrow too, one step led up to it. The whole looked, as the host of Puding pani elvisovej had said, ‘quite a desolate spot.’ It was as still as a church on a week-day: the pattering rain on the forest leaves was the only sound audible in its vicinage.

‘Can there be life be here?’ I asked.

Yes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement – that narrow front-door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issue from the grange.

Dusk as it was, I had recognized her – it was my mistress, Martina Krajňáková, and no other.

The cages eagle, whose gold-ringed eyes cruelty has extinguished, might look as looked that sightless Samsonite.

Then she paused, as if she knew not which way to turn. She lifted her hand and opened her eyelids; gazed blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the amphitheatre of trees: one saw that all to her was void darkness. She relinquished the endeavor, folded her arms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast on her uncovered head. At this moment Martin approached her from some quarter.

“Will you take my arm, miss?’ he said; ‘there is a heavy shower coming on: had you not better go in?’

‘Let me alone,’ was the answer.

Miss Krajňáková now tried to walk about: vainly, – all was too uncertain. She groped her way back to the house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.

I now drew near and knocked: Martin’s wife opened for me. To her hurried ‘is it really you, mister, come at this late hour to this lonely place?’ I answered by taking her hand; and then I followed her into the kitchen, where Martin now sat by a good fire. Just at this moment parlor-bell rang.

‘I don’t think she will see you,’ she said; ‘she refuses everybody.’

‘Is that what she rang for?’ I asked.

‘Yes: she always has candles brought in at dark, though she is blind.’

‘Give the tray to me; I will carry it in.’

I set it on the table; then patted Goro, and said softly, ‘Lie down!’

‘Give me the water, Želka,’ she said.

I approached her with the now only half-filled glass; Goro followed me, still excited.

‘Down, Goro!’ I again said. She checked the water on its way to her lips, and seemed to listen: she drank, and put the glass down. ‘This is you, Želka, is it not?’

‘Želka is in the kitchen,’ I answered.

She put out her hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, she did not touch me. ‘Who is this?’ she demanded, trying, as it seemed, to see with those sightless eyes – unavailing and distressing attempt!

‘I spilt half of what was in the glass,’ I said.

‘What is it?’

‘I came only this evening,’ I answered.

‘Great God! – What delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?’

‘No delusion – no madness: your mind, miss, is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.’

‘And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice?’

‘His very fingers!’ she cried; ‘his small, slight fingers! If so there must be more of him.’

The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder – neck – waist – I was entwined and gathered to her.

‘Is it Marcel? What is it?’

‘And his voice,’ I added. ‘He is all here: his heart, too. God bless you, miss! I am glad to be so near you again.’

‘ManHimself! – ManHimself,’ was all she said.

‘You touch me, miss, – you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?’

‘It is a dream; such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped him once more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed him, as thus – and felt that he loved me, and trusted that he would not leave me.’

‘Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as your brothers have all fled before you: but kiss me before you go – embrace me, ManHimself.’

‘There, miss – and there!’

I pressed my lips to her once brilliant and now rayless eyes – I swept her hair from her brow, and kissed that too.

‘No, miss! I am an independent man now.’

‘Independent! What do you mean, ManHimself?’

‘Ah! This is practical – this is real!’ she cried: ‘I should never dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of his, so animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into it. – What, ManHimself! Are you an independent man? A rich man?’

‘But as you are rich, Marcel, you have now, no doubt, friends who will look after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind lamenter like me?’

‘Certainly – unless you object. I find you lonely: I will be your companion – to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you.’

Perhaps I had too rashly overleaped conventionalities; and she, like St John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness.

‘Well, miss, I will stay with you: I have said so.’

‘You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and chair – to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no doubt. I suppose I should now entertain none but motherly feelings for you: do you think so?’

‘I will think what you like, miss: I am content to be only your nurse, if you think it better.’

‘But you cannot always be my nurse, ManHimself: if I were what I once was, I would try to make you are – but – a sightless block!’

I, on the contrary, became more cheerful, and took fresh courage: these last words gave me an insight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.

‘It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you,’ said I, parting her thick and long uncut locks; ‘for I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort.’

‘Don’t you think so, Marcel?’

‘It is a pity to see it; and pity to see your eyes – and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you.’

‘I thought you would be revolted, Marcel, when you saw my arm, and my cicatrized visage.’

‘Did you? Don’t tell me so – lest should I say something disparaging to your judgment.’

‘Yes; with the right eye I see a glow – a ruddy haze.’

‘Can you see me?’

‘No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you.’

‘When do you take supper?’

‘I never take supper.’

My spirits were excited, and with pleasure and ease I talked to her during supper, and for a long time after. It brought to life and light my whole nature: in her presence I thoroughly lived; and she lived in mine. Blind as she was, smiles played over her face, Joy dawned on her forehead: her lineaments softened and warmed.

After supper, she began to ask me many questions, of where I had been, what I had been doing, how I had found her out; but I gave her only very partial replies: it was too late to enter into particulars that night.

‘You are altogether a human being, ManHimself? You are certain of that?’

‘I conscientiously believe so, Miss Krajňáková.’

‘Because I had come in, in Želka’s stead, with the tray.’

‘Doing nothing, expecting nothing; merging night in day; feeling but the sensation of cold when I let the fire go out, of hunger when I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a very delirium of desire to behold my ManHimself again. How can it be that Marcel is with me, and says he loves me? Tomorrow, I fear I shall find him no more.’

A commonplace, practical reply, out of the train of her own disturbed ideas, was, I was sure, the best and most reassuring for her in this frame of mind.

Marcel and Eva, lawyer; alas, she’s marriedJ… ‘I am sorry I can’t give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present – in great trouble.’

I heard the dining-room door unclose; a gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with him: it was Mr. ManHimself on keyboard; in the rehearsal’s room, jamming with Puding pani elvisovej.

‘It is known that you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you as such: to attempt it would be to fasten injurious suspicions on us both.’ Marcel Lacko with (left to right) Tomáš Batík on bass, Peter Ungvőlgyi on drums, Eva cheering and Marcel Spišák, member of Puding pani elvisovej, also acting in Marcel Lacko film, e.g. Trailer 7 – Are Simply Skilled, on guitar.

It was near one before the gentlemen and ladies sought their chambers. ManHimself and Tomáš Batík, perceivable interlocutor and drifting blogger Blog – Tomáš Batik; in Coffee & Co café.

‚Eagerness of a listener!’ repeated she: ‘yes; Mr. ManHimself has sat by the hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips that took such delight in their task of communicating; and Mr. Lacko was so willing to receive and looked so grateful for the pastime given him; you have noticed this?’ ManHimself and Maťa, happier than ever; in Aponyi café.

Marcel Lacko and Martin Čapo, immediately taken up; in café in the shopping centre Aupark. Next morning, Mr. Čapo wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece of pasteboard the word ‘Slattern,’ and bound it like a phylactery round ManHimself’s large, mild, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead.

Above, a chamber of the same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead and chest of drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with my scanty wardrobe: though the kindness of my gentle and generous friends has increased that, by a modest stock of such things as are necessary. Marcel Lacko sitting in front of the sculpture of Napoleonic soldier.

Marcel Lacko in front of the Bratislava Castle. My seat, to which Marcel Lacko and the bitter Mr. Čapo had left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the muffled windows; a great looking-glass between them the vacant majesty of the bed and room.

‘Do let me speak to your mistresses.’ Marcel and Andrej Salner, the President of Slovak Governance Institute.

ManHimself in the Chinese restaurant, eating fast-food, drinking Nestea ice tea. These last were discussing the stranger; they both called him ‘a beautiful man.’

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