Здравейте ,
представям ви писателя Питър Ортутай , който с разказите си задава много въпроси и дава много отговори.Неговия стил на писане много ми допада .Ето един от разказите , които много ме докосна. Защо , сами ще разберете, след като го прочетете .
Hello ,
I would like to introduce to you a writer Peter Ortutay , who with his stories asks a lot of questions and gives a lot of answers.I like his writing style very much .Here is one of the stories that touched me very much. Why , you will find out after reading it yourself .
Old Guys on Motor Bikes
At the time
these things happened, I was slightly embittered by circumstances which I
deemed simply a series of repeated failures. There was uncertainty in the
atmosphere all over and around me. At least it seemed to. I felt lost in the
maze of events, for I had absolutely no idea what to do further on in
the future. By future I meant that little time that might have been portioned
out for me by heavenly forces to spend in this world of shadows. Because, as
she, the headmistress said with a pious smile on her face of a zealous believer
(oh, the hypocrite!), she did not have the intention to prolong my job contract
at the school. Oh no, by no means no, how could I think about such a nasty
thing as just being sacked by her on purpose for neglecting my duties. No, no.
But why don’t I retire instead? It’s time, high time. You see, she said, you
had been working very hard and for very long years as a pedagogue, which is not
simply a profession but a vocation, a calling, and she had the inkling I had
got a bit tired during the years. No enthusiasm in me or anything. And besides
I was paid a pretty high (high?, my foot) salary here as a veteran teacher, a
salary that she could easily split at least between two novices, who would be,
I would agree, more handsome and good-looking, much more energetic and
enthusiastic, and besides just think about, will I, the economy she could have
this way. There would be no need at all to cut the bonuses she received so far
from our Good Fathers of the school. Well, she did not, like me and all the
other teacher colleagues as well, work for money either, but on the other hand,
money is money you know .... And what is still more important young teachers
are by far more obedient than the old dogs who are not ready to learn the new
tricks she wanted them to master. See what she means? So, I’d rather understand
her point and see the light of the day. It is not as difficult as that if one
is smart enough (I was not, was I?) to understand. After all life is not all
honey and cakes, or lollypop, is it? But, on the other hand she had some good
news for me as well. I could participate for the last time, if I wished, in a
low-cost travel to Mariazell, which is a very nice place quite close to here,
in the neighboring Austria. Officially it should be a pilgrimage on part of the
Catholic school she was the head of, and cost almost nothing. Our Good Fathers
were going to pay the travelling costs and also part of the accommodation. Not
the food and the beer of course. But Janosh, her assistant, would take some
very good Eger wine with him from his own cellars and perhaps some bracer as
well. It would be fun, sure. No need to
worry.
I said thanks,
and told my Christian boss, my sister in Christ that it was O.K., and I would
go with pleasure with them to take part in the pilgrimage. And I also told her
that, well, I knew (and asked her to excuse me) that I had passed sixty–two,
and this way I was also a sinner as everybody else since Adam and Eve, sinned a
lot against people and God, so it would do me no harm at all if I decided to
repent. Why not to listen to a sermon, to make a confession and to participate
in a Holy Communion in that most famous Cathedral of Mariazell, and say thanks
to God for having allowed me to reach an age to retire. Besides the trip, well,
the pilgrimage, really promised to be fun. Good weather, good company, good
people, and of course one was unable not to yield the temptations either the
journey in a convenient bus promised to have in store, then the wine directly
from the producer, pick–me–up, and Austrian beer. What can be better than that?
There is no use meditating about future and panicking.
Well, what else
can I say? The trip was pleasant indeed. On our way to Mariazell we managed to
see some of the places of interest and a couple of pubs in the town of Sopron,
had a good swim in Lake Balaton, stopped for a while in Vienna, walked in
Kaertner Strasse, ate, drank to our heart’s content, and felt good. In
Mariazell itself, however, we faced a little problem, and some of the ‘pilgrims’
even grumbled about it. It happened that our Good Fathers also wanted to
economize a little, and accommodation, as it were, was not precisely up to the
mark. You know even bed and breakfast in most of the countries in Europe is not
cheap at all, and so was it in this small Austrian town, too, frequented by
tourists and pilgrims. We had to be satisfied with sleeping in a hostel where
luxury was an unknown notion. There were just one rest–room and a sort of cabin
for washing in the end of the corridor, and often one had to queue up to wash
his hands. But did it matter? After all we arrived at Mariazell not to bathe in
tubs filled with hot water and foam, but to pray. Jesus Christ also suffered.
So why couldn’t we for at least a couple of days? Sure we could. No bathroom
and conveniences? And eight beds in a room in a barrack? Who cares about such
trifles?
So purified in
soul (if not quite in body) after having done our duties expected by God and
the Good Fathers, we packed our belongings, and after some queueing up in the
end of the corridor cleaned our teeth and washed our hands in the rest–room,
and were ready to make as a tree and leaf (leave). But obviously our prayers
lacked sincerity or some other deep feelings, and were not listened to by the
Lord very attentively, for there was yet another ordeal waiting for us. Just
before setting off the bus driver declared there was a minor problem. What is
it? – asked the head–mistress with her habitual sweet smile of a Saint. No air
in the system, said the driver. In other words, it broke down. A mechanic was
needed, and quickly. That’s no joke. It would cost us an arm and a leg, and
half a day at least. So let the people go for a little additional walk, a
constitutional if you please, in this pretty little town of a fairy tale, and
take a look at things they had no time to look at but which were worth looking
at. Or let them have an ice–cream or two, or a beer, or a sip of brandy, or
whatever they prefer, and if they had spent all their Forints changed into Austrian
Euros up to now, then they may drink cold water from the well in the center of
the town surrounded by statues of those lovely little angels. We would meet at
6 p.m. here, outside the hostel. Hopefully the repairs would have been over by
that time, and there would be air in the system again. So accepting all these
clever pieces of advice from the boss some friends and me too were strolling in
the pretty little town, and as – due to June and the heatwave ––we grew rather
thirsty during this cultural activity of ours had a pint, then another or
perhaps more because it was impossible to resist the temptation offered by
good, cold and foaming beer of the town of Mariazell. After all, the town was
famous not only because of its Cathedral but for its beer, too. We would have
sinned if we had missed it.God forbid. But after this rather liberal libation I
felt I must sit down on a bench in the central square and maybe doze off a
little. But if I start thinking about it more thoroughly, then the ‘maybe’
should be replaced by ‘for sure’. Because, as far as I can remember, when all
of a sudden I heard some very loud booming and rattling, I had to open a pair
of very heavy eyelids of mine. Oh no, I thought in despair, I don’t need that
at all. Another ordeal! Oh Lord, what do you punish me for? Why don’t you let
tipsy people doze a little in this allegedly always sleepy and quiet little
fairy town that respects and loves you so dearly?
Well, after
having opened my eyes wide it was not difficult to discover the reason of this
much booming and rattling. A gang of motor–cyclists, about ten or twelve people
on terrifically expensive and fast travelling Yamaha motor–bikes, the types
police also usually have, arrived at the central square and were ready to park
down. I am far from being an expert in the field of motor–bikes, but surely
they were not some cheap jalopies at all. Despite the mud and dust covering
most parts of the machines, everything was glistening and glittering, and also
the noise that they made was perhaps music to an expert ear of a professional.
One could have bought at least a smaller family house with a garden here in
this country for the price one of them cost. But to make a long story short,
there it goes. Who do you think the motor cyclists were? Well, just a boy and
his girl, the little precious pussy cat on duty on the rear saddle I thought,
embracing the boy’s hip from behind as suitable. Both of them clad in very
expensive leather jackets and pants, with safety helmets, price also equaling a
king’s fortune. Some of the girls were waving long fair hair as handkerchiefs
from under the helmet.
Well, the gang
stopped the motors (as a result no more booming and rattling), propped up the
bikes, got off from the saddle at first the boy, then the lass. Then both of
them took off the helmets, at first the boy, then the lass. I looked at them
and could not believe my eyes. No doubt and problem, they seemed to belong to
each other, for long years already. But what amazed me was that the guys (of
both sexes) so described did not look at all young or even youngish. How funny,
I thought, because at this age, between 65 and 70, or even sooner, ‘smart’
people get bored with each other and often look for a younger substitute and
change partners, and one of them is, as a rule, much younger in this absolutely
perfect civilization. But here ‘the boy and the lass’ formed an elderly couple
who like birds of a feather – there were certain unmistakable signs to show –
stuck together till doomsday comes. Exhausted by long rides they looked, but
smiling and laughing at each other, joking and teasing the others merrily as
college boys and girls do. And they were also talking, loudly talking. In
German it sounded to me. They were talking about things concerning this
beautiful, beautiful life. It was beautiful indeed for them, because they had
the opportunity to rediscover it with their own eyes, on their own very
expensive motor bikes, and with a partner at that, the woman or the man who
they never got tired of loving. Moreover, who they still always loved, the same
as, or may be in a slightly different way than, some thirty or forty years ago,
when they were still absolutely young and avid, and perhaps silly. Because now,
lo and behold, they became serious grown–ups with some grey in the hair, or
dyed blonde hair (for looks also matters, the ladies seemed to say), got older
of course, were retired, and it is the state of being retired that makes it
exactly the very it. Now they had the time, plenty of time, and thank God also
the means, to enjoy life, and mind their own business at last. All they needed
was a motor bike the saddle of which they could jump in as in a horse’s, and
then the whole world started opening before their eyes to marvel fully at it
and at all its beauties. Oh God, how good you can be to your poor little
creatures!
At first, I must
confess, I was almost eaten up by green envy thinking some people were treated
so very nicely by fate, while others were not. Lucky you! But then a calm
change slipped into my heart. For there
was, figuratively speaking, a message sent by the guys on motor bikes to me.
Look, they said, you envious old cur, life has sense and meaning, can’t you
see? We succeeded in finding it. Why can you not? –– the message seemed to say.
You could, after all, also jump into the saddle of a motor bike like ours, and
look again with due awe and reverence at all the wonders and marvels of the
world if you were desirous of discovering them again. Oh, you say you cannot
afford it? You just don’t have enough dough for expensive motor bikes and
stuff.? What poor excuse! It doesn’t matter. You can go and travel all over the
world with the help of your imagination nowadays (books, media, computers, and
the very place you live), and with the love to your brethren, the most
important of whom, please do not forget, are those who stand the nearest to
you, your children, your parents, and your spouse of course. The latter should
be, as those stupid Americans often say if not yet married, “my most
significant other” … of my own self. Don’t you know it has also been written
down in the Bible: she left her parents and followed him. Never mind if it is
vice versa: he followed her. Or can you forget that you loved her (him) so much
at a time, and you still owe love to her (him). You promised it, nae, you made
an oath, either at an altar or the registrar, or both to stick together like
birds of a feather in good and evil until death separates you, did you not?.
The world and life are always beautiful and full of sense if there is love in
your heart and soul. Never mind that you had retired. It just makes life the
more interesting. Actually it (life) has only now been started. So go on and
start living, you fearful Jesuit. No one can do it for you, just you.
That was the
message the antennae of my soul, heart and brain (in this order of importance)
received from the old guys on motorbikes in Mariazell. No way to forget, is
there?
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