Anita Harag
Translated by Walter Burgess & Marietta Morry
Silky Smooth
The grains of rice keep dropping from my sister’s plate onto the tablecloth. She spears the wiener schnitzel with her fork; there is oil seeping out of it. Her elbow touches Mother’s. Mine touch Father’s and Zoli’s. I glance at Zoli to see if he notices that my sister is stuffing herself. He doesn’t pay attention; he is trying to extract a pickle from the jar. His finger reaches inside, if Mother saw it, she would tell him off and say use a fork. She looks at my sister and pats her arm. They share a smile. Aren’t you hungry, she asks me. You've hardly touched your food. The soup filled me up a lot, and I push my plate aside. It knocks against the pot.
After dinner, my sister even eats two coconut balls. Mother put sour cherries in them. She formed a ball from the chocolatey dough, pushed a sour cherry into it with her thumb and rolled it in coconut flakes. This is both Father’s and my sister’s favorite; when I was a child, we made them every Sunday. It was hard to get the floury dough off my hands when I helped. It colored the water in the kitchen dark brown, black residue remained under my nails. I pick up a ball with two fingers. Do all of them have a sour cherry, I ask. Yes, all of them, aren’t they to your taste? You know I don’t like them. Then just take it out. My sister is stroking her belly. She is stroking her flat belly around and around as if she were at least five or six months pregnant. It is only six weeks. She says that she felt it when she got pregnant. Some women can do that. Father takes the lid off the pickle jar and drinks up the left-over brine. Behind him the volumes of the Treasury of World Literature are lined up. A lot of worn-out colorful spines with golden letters, an inheritance from my grandmother. I never understood the system, after Faulkner’s “The Sound and the Fury” comes Aitmatov, there are volumes of Dostoyevsky on both the highest and the middle shelf. In front of the books are scented candles as well as kindergarten photos of both me and my sister. After graduation from high school, I asked Mother what I should read. In those days my grandmother still had the series, but even without those we had plenty of books. She recommended Marquez, “One Hundred Years of Solitude” or “Love in the Time of Cholera”. I chose the latter; all day I lay on the small bed and kept reading. If my sister came in, Mother told her to let me read. Now she has two copies of the “One Hundred Years of Solitude”.
My first memory of my sister is watching her in Mother’s lap. Mother is wearing a blouse with yellow and red flowers. One of the flowers is bigger and lighter than the rest, that flower is my sister’s drool. It is everywhere, on toys, on Father’s arm, on my hand. I rub my fingers together and smell them. I cannot compare this odor to anything. I am not even sure that it is an odor at all. I cannot touch my sister without getting covered with drool, nor Mother. Everything on her has drool.
We need to buy a new dining table she burst out when my sister told us that she was pregnant. Then she started crying and kept hugging her for a long time. Father was glad in his own way. He shook hands with Peti and gave two pecks on my sister’s cheeks. I hugged her for a long time. I felt her heartbeat, she was so excited she almost trembled. They got married a year ago. It just happened, Peti said, as we sat down in the living room. He put his hand on my sister’s belly. It’s going to be a boy, he said. No way, it’s going to be a girl, my sister answered. Of course, it doesn’t matter as long as it’s healthy. I looked at them trying to decide whether they looked like parents of boys or girls. Perhaps, boys. No, rather, girls. I roll up the sleeves of my pullover just high enough to show the mole in the shape of a bat on my forearm. My sister is due in June, by that time we won’t need pullovers. We'll be sitting here in the living room, sweating even though the blinds are down.
At home I put the coconut balls in the fridge. Zoli doesn’t have a sweet tooth, and I don’t like sour cherries, but even so Mother packed a boxful for us. I go to the bathroom to wash my hands. I am no longer surprised by the hole in the floor, my eyes got used to it. We’ve been going around it for three weeks. The workers removed the tiles and prepared the hole, then their car broke down. They will come when they manage to borrow another car. Every morning, I worry that Zoli will step in it while half asleep and break his leg. One night I fell into it up to my waist, my legs were swinging in the air, my hips are too wide, I couldn’t climb out. Then I woke up. Zoli was lying on the other side of the bed with one arm touching the floor. I moved closer to him. If I reach out a few centimeters I can touch his back with my fingers, perhaps he’ll sense my breath and wake up. Turn around and embrace me. Or sense that I moved closer, that I am here watching his back. I move closer. A few more centimeters and I can touch him. Perhaps, two. One.
My sister is in the thirteenth week; I always need to convert that in my head to months. I can’t get used to it that she measures time by weeks. She doesn’t only say which week she is in but also how much time is left to the birth. She is due on June 16, but according to her, it will happen earlier. During ultrasound exams the doctor always tells her that the baby is bigger than expected and that they perhaps miscalculated the time of conception.
We are shopping, Mother is holding a maternity dress across her body to check the size. She touches her belly and says that she looks as if she were in her thirtieth week. Uh-huh, that’s the seventh month. I laugh too loud, the salespeople at the cash turn my way. Mother is also surprised; I don’t usually laugh at her jokes. My sister smiles and takes the dress from Mother and holds it in front of herself. She can’t button up her slacks properly and needs to pull her blouse down to hide her belly. I’ve outgrown my clothes; she says and shows how her pullover no longer covers her waist. She carries a couple of T-shirts and slacks into the dressing room. I didn’t like it when I outgrew my clothes. When I was seven, I kept pleading for a pink dress with white polka-dots that I saw in a shop window. We passed by it every day. Finally, Mother bought it but I could only wear it for four months. The sleeves got too short and cut into my arm. Mother put it away and gave it to my sister a couple of years later. She wouldn’t part with it, that is what she wore to the year-end assembly. She recited a poem. She usually hated it when she had to wear my hand-me-downs. I hated to hand them over to her; she hated wearing them. The two of you are carbon copies of each other, the teacher said at the assembly and started praising my sister. Emmácska is very smart. Emmácska is always the first to finish her assignments. Emmácska is a quick learner.
Mother shows me a pair of socks. They are thick and blue with a penguin on top. A penguin and a cat. When we found out it was a boy, Father took a plank and carved Ármin into it. Had it been a girl, it would have been Viola. I don’t know what pet name can be used for Ármin. Ármika. My sister says that no pet name is needed for Ármin. She doesn’t have a pet name either, not everyone needs one. Stay here and when Emma comes out, try to stall her, Mother says. What do you mean? Tell her to try on another dress or push something in her hand, I don’t know, for example, this elephant. The blue plush elephant fits in my palm. Mother rushes over to the cashier and I sit down beside the dressing room. The light brown curtain moves every now and then, she must be getting out of her slacks. She tells me that her body changes faster than she can get used to it. Sometimes she loses her balance and almost falls. I watch her feet under the curtain, that’s all that shows. She is standing barefoot on a white shag rug. She doesn’t budge, she only moves her toes. It’s a soft silky sensation. Her toenails are red. She can still reach her toenails. Or Peti puts on the polish, or she goes to a pedicurist. She stands there for a long time without moving, she must be sizing up her body. She stands in front of the mirror and caresses her belly. She looks to see how different is the outline of her hips, her waist and breasts also seem a bit bigger. Her behind will grow bigger, too. She will need to buy new panties, they are already too tight, the elastics cut into her and show through her jeans. Mother returns with a smile on her face. I got them, she says and holds up her bag for me to look inside. The socks with the penguins on them are there. That’s the very first thing she buys for my sister’s son.
For our seventh wedding anniversary, we get a vase and a card. It’s my sister who hands me the box, it’s harder and harder to hug her because of her belly. First, I read the card. Happy Wedding Anniversary! The years disappear but your love will never disappear. To my godparents, Ármin. I let Zoli see it, too. Do you want us to be the godparents? They nod, who else. I stroke my sister’s belly. I stroke it often hoping Ármin would kick when I touch it. Her belly is taut, I don’t feel anything. It looks like the one Grampa Laci used to have. We always wanted to touch it and ask how far along the baby was. I am holding her belly, inside it is Ármin, my nephew, my sister’s child. Yet it still feels as if I were holding Grampa Laci’s empty beer belly. She lets everyone touch her belly. Even strangers at the bus stop. They keep stroking it and ask her how many months. Boy or girl. Has it got a name already. That’s a very nice name. I find it disgusting when strangers’ hands touch my sister’s belly.
At home I place the blue vase on a shelf. They bought it at Ikea, they have lunch there almost every weekend; my sister has a craving for cheesecake. I look at the white wall behind the vase. We should paint the place, I tell Zoli when he comes out of the bathroom. Paint? We painted it three years ago. I know, but it is to make the place cleaner. It could use it. OK, he answers and wipes his hands on his trousers. I have reminded him so many times before not to wipe them on his trousers, he should use a towel.
After we paint the living room, we rearrange the furniture. The bookcase goes to the other side; we remove the pictures from the wall but after we took them off, we can’t find a place for them. We lean them against the wall in the hallway and push the sofa in front of the bookcase. Don’t put it here, it’s not right there, let’s push it over there. Zoli gets more and more agitated. Finally, we hang the pictures in the bedroom and put the poster that was in there, where the bookcase had been. For days I am startled when I get home. It astounds me how many books are lined up on the shelves. Somewhere there must be “Love in the Time Cholera” and “One Hundred Years of Solitude”. It surprises me how large the coffee table is, how well the carpet matches the sofa. The curtains have too many flowers, I notice for the first time that they don’t go with the carpet. Zoli and I go to pick two simpler ones. When we get home, I remember how a month ago we returned from Ikea just like this, we bought a drawer organizer and that was the last time we had sex. Half a year ago we never missed an opportunity.
I try not to notice Mother’s disappointment when she opens the door. I hold an orchid in my hands, but she doesn’t know that yet, it is hidden in the purple tissue paper. Come on in, she says and rushes back to the kitchen. I hear the oil sizzling. We follow her and when she takes the latkes out of the frying pan, we hand her the flower. Happy Mothers’ Day, I say. She unwraps it carefully. It is a lilac-colored orchid. My sister and I agreed that she would bring a white one. It is very pretty, thank you. She puts it in the window. My sister and brother-in-law arrive. Mother gets an orchid from them, too, lilac colored because the white one at the florist’s was not nice enough.
After dinner Mother and I do the dishes. My sister has started her eighth month, she is not allowed to do anything, not even get up for a glass of water. Not that she wants to. She asks Peti to bring her one. Peti comes to the kitchen, we turn off the hot water for a second and start the cold. It mustn’t be too cold, Mother warns him. He goes back and we continue with the dishes. As soon as Mother puts the clean plates on the rack, I pick them up and put them where they belong. Let them drain for a while, she says, then your dish cloth won’t get so wet. I wait for a couple of minutes, wipe the tablecloth and arrange things. Zoli is going on a trip for two weeks, I say. The clean plates are piling up on the rack. His boss insists that he go. Glasgow. A three-hour flight. Even though he hates flying but I think this time he wants to go. Uh-huh, that’s good, Mother answers. I pick up the dish cloth again and continue wiping the dishes; I put the plates in the cupboard. That plate doesn’t go there and takes a small plate out of my hand; she opens the upper cupboard; the edge of the plate gets wet when her hand touches it. The other day I felt that Ármin was kicking, she gushes. I touched Emma’s belly and just then he kicked. In the very second! Uh-huh, that’s good. I wipe the last plate and put the dish cloth on the cold radiator and look at the Kőbánya brewery through the window. That’s where the zombie movie with Brad Pitt was made a couple of years ago. The crew was here for weeks while the movie was filmed until one or two in the morning and when they finished their applause, and cheers could be heard all the way here. One night Mother was woken up by the fireworks that illuminated the whole room. Afterwards there was some scandal over the filming and all the scenes from the Kőbánya brewery were cut from the movie.
We make coffee, for my sister it is café au lait made from chicory. Her cup has a blue handle, ours are yellow. We put the sugar and small spoons on the coffee table. I sit down in one of the armchairs, Peti and my sister sit on the sofa holding hands. In the background the TV is on, a porcupine fish is swimming slowly on the sea bottom, then it turns night, its quills are glistening, my thighs get sweaty in the armchair. My sister pulls up her shirt, takes a tube out of her bag and spreads a thick layer of lotion on her bare belly. It is to prevent stretch marks; she explains when she sees that I am staring. Her belly button protrudes. And after my skin gets smooth and silky. She always says that on such occasions. Until she lifts her shirt, I keep imagining that she has stuffed a pillow under it. We used to play this a lot. We grabbed pillows and stuffed them under our dresses. We played that we were pregnant and stuck a note on the door with “Maternity Ward” written on it. We stuffed socks where our breasts were supposed to be, without breasts we would have looked like fat children. We made a list of the expressions: Expecting. Pregnant. Bun in the oven. Up a duff. My sister had heard this last one somewhere and I didn’t find it funny. Mother disappears in the small room and returns with a bouquet of flowers. She hands it to my sister. Now, you’re also a mother, she says. I look at the bouquet of tulips. Mothers usually get orchids or tulips. My sister looks at the bouquet and sniffs it. What are you sniffing it for, Emma, tulips don’t have scent.
You should tell them, Zoli says on the way home. What? You know. There’s nothing to tell, I answer. Yes, there is. We’ve been trying for three years. We drive by the brewery, almost all its windows are broken. There are flowers and curtains in a few of them. It seems that there are people living there. I watch to see if someone leans out of one of the windows with the curtains. Brad Pitt let’s say. Brad Pitt leans out and waves. Or I see a hand as it waters the flowers while I’m looking. In twenty minutes, Mother calls to check if we got home. We did. Your sister called back ten minutes ago. Fine, I answer, we are just putting the food away. We end the call, and I toss the two boxes in the garbage bin. I go to the bedroom, I pull out the drawer of the night table, the thermometer is not there. I don’t remember when I last took my temperature. I put it down somewhere, but where. I walk around and around in the apartment, opening drawers and look behind the sofa.
Along with the socks decorated with the penguins, Mother also buys a teething ring and a white squirrel for Ármin. I look at shop windows, go inside the stores and touch the plush animals. They are all soft and silky. The bath toys are kept in a separate area. I squeeze an octopus, it has holes in its tentacles, you can squirt water through them. I picture the baby sitting in the tub, splashing the water with his hands and feet. You have to change your clothes after bathing him. As the octopus sinks in the bathtub, tiny bubbles rise to the surface. The baby watches them and squeals with laughter. I put the octopus in the empty basket. May I help you; the salesperson asks me. No, or rather … I don’t know what I’m looking for. Some kind of a toy. For a newborn. I follow the salesperson; she shows me a piece of cloth the size of a handkerchief. A lot of people buy this, handling it calms the newborn babies. She pushes the crumpled cloth in my hand. How many weeks, she asks, smiling. I look at my raincoat, it is bulging as if I were pregnant. Twenty-three I say. And do you know what sex it is? A little girl. Adél. That’s a very pretty name, she says, and I put the cloth in the basket. I take the octopus back to the bath toy area.
The Author: Anita Harag, was born in Budapest in 1988. In 2020 she won the Margó Prize, for the best first time author of the year, for her first volume of short stories. Her second volume of stories, including “Silky Smooth,” was published in September 2023.
The Translators: Marietta Morry and Walter Burgess are Canadian. In addition to stories by Anita Harag (twenty have been published), they also translate fiction by six other authors; many of these translations have appeared in literary reviews in six countries. Gábor Szántó’s book, 1945 and Other Stories, with six of its eight stories translated by them, was published in 2024.
