Strange experience

I shrugged away the unsettling train of thoughts. Instead, I tried to keep my mind occupied with something constructive. I returned to Milán's book that I had not read for quite a while. I admitted with a pang of regret that I neglected my translator job during the past few days, notwithstanding I truly enjoyed the gloomy story and was eager to go on with it.

However, as I read the last part of the novel (I usually read some of the remaining chapters before I began to translate one), I felt decidedly odd.
The final scenes turned out surprisingly violent. Furthermore I found them somewhat elusive. The narrative left some riddles open, the reader could only suspect the sinister ending from a few slipped hints.
Those glorious legends of the ancient Eastern Pagan cults, the secrets of Mesopotamian and Chaldean magic created a very distinctive atmosphere anyway; and the ending sent chills along my spine.

I have already read countless ghost stories, horror novels and crimes whose characters wallowed in blood up to their ankles, yet it was different. It literally made me feel weakened.

I could not recall anything similar, although once I felt a bit dizzy after reading a particularly blood-soaked scene of a Stephen King book (he truly has had impressive imaginations about slicing human flesh and also a knack for naturalistic and brutal descriptions). When I was at the age of eleven, I was terrified to read King's books (the first S. K. books of my life, I have borrowed them from my cousin Zsolti's father), or some reports from the supposedly "true" stories of 'The Unexplainable'.
Yet this time, as a grown-up person it was more than weird to feel uneasy, only because I read a disturbing story when I was alone in the flat.

Seeking for solace, I went out to the tiny balcony. It looked onto a ground with trees and lawn, surrounded by blocks of flats and a row of garages. So peaceful it was that sitting in the balcony, one could think they were in the middle of a forest and not in a town. The thrumming of the cars and the noise of people talking could not be heard there.
All in all, it was the most comfortable place to hide away. Except for the insects - I have been a big friend of nature, yet I feel a bit repelled by flies, beetles and wasps, especially when they touched my skin.
I covered a plaid on the sunlit ground and sat down. I closed my eyes and relaxed my tense muscles inch by inch.
I tried the first meditation practices that I learnt from Vanda's book.

This time, instead of feeling comforted, I saw the most embarrassing images in my head.
Dark figures in a dark room, I was afraid of them. I was afraid of the unthinkable.
My eyes snapped open quickly.
Yet I could still remember the face of one of the figures: I recognised him as Máté.

Unasked help

I really did not know whether there was any connection. I suspected getting accustomed with failure would not good to any person, not even one who was much stronger and mentally stable than myself. With so much humiliation to remember, I often felt worthless, which cut off the wings of my achievement.

As though I did not have enough trouble, Máté sent me a new letter.
Last occasion, I answered his email, merely to be polite. Yet he wrote again.

Dearest Mina,
Hopefully we will meet soon. We could help you with your problems. You would be interested in our stuff anyway.
Máté

I did not have a clue what was that certain "stuff", but I did not want to find out.
The fact that even a foolish man could notice my problems anytime still bothered me endlessly.
I knew my unsure mental state, my loneliness, and uncertainty made me an easy target for swindlers. How many times they could had deluded me!
Like that unhappy relationship. Had my self-esteem been all right, it could have never happened.

Years ago, I always used to have my worries - was I beautiful enough? Was I attractive? Did somebody love me... appreciate me?
In that relationship, I got pleasant-sounding promises that somebody did indeed.
However, I had to pay the price.

And the scientologists...
I met them first when I was eighteen. I was walking on a street of N*, when a young blonde with a questionnaire came up to me.
"Hello" she said, smiling. "Would you like to make your life any better?"
Of course I would. I stepped closer to her tentatively.
"You certainly have problems like so many others. Nowadays several people are depressed. Perhaps you are one of them."
I nodded eagerly. Those days I used to hope that somebody could help me.
"Would you like to make your comprehensive abilities better... your IQ higher..."
I offered her a broad smile.
"Come with me then, please. In our centre, I can show you some books..."
I followed her to a nearby street, where we entered a building. We got into a big hall which looked like a fine café, with shining white walls. The people there must be well-off ones.
We sat down a table, and I could see a publication on it, with the word scientology.
I turned the girl's offer down immediately - I knew that several esteemed psychiatrists condemned them.
Only after leaving the hall, a thought hit me. What had I done again? One does not enter an unknown building with a stranger who she just met.

A few months passed by, and, without any side-thoughts, I have read Ron L. Hubbard's novel which I borrowed from the library. I don't know its original title which was translated "Terror" into Hungarian. The book was a moderately intriguing dark fantasy/horror about the dreadful hallucinations of a man who had gone mad and attacked his friend and his own wife with an axe.

Two years later, when I had that vile relationship (which made me more desperate than I have ever been), I searched for the scientologists willingly.
I still could hope for help from others.
The young people I found in the dianetics centre were friendly and helpful with me.
I told them honestly about my personality disorders and the medicine called Zoloft I took for a month half a year ago (in the doctor's opinion, actually I should had taken it for at least six months, but, as I was afraid of side-effects, I quitted taking it).
The scientologists said I was right, such medicines could damage one's mental health even more than it was damaged before.
Well, I don't know much about scientologists, but on that point, they were right indeed. Anti-depressants are, like psychiatrists suggest, different than average tranquillants, and they do not lead to addiction, yet they can change one's personality dramatically.
(Years later, I refused to take medicines even when I was in the possible worst mental state, and for a reason.)

In that dianetics centre, a dark haired, slim girl gave me a test of a well-known university. It was about one's mental state and mood.
The result was surprisingly credible, and saddening at the same time.
According to the test which measured one's state on a scale between -100 and +100, I had the worst results of mental well-being in general, zest for life, and hopes for the future (from -95 to -60). Whilst my willingness to change, my will-power and the hard work for good and better achievements were above +30-40, which was a spectacular difference.
They told me the wrong ones held down the impressive efforts, and I should change.

I was enthusiastic. Perhaps they would really help me use my abilities and skills properly and change my life into a better one.

I have read Hubbard's book 'Scientology', I have learnt what was reverie (a special expression for a meditation-like state) and auditing (one leads you back to ancient bad memories which are suppressed in the subconscious and have a bad effect on your life, and, recalling and reliving those memories many times, they will supposedly lost their painful edge).

Fortunately I got bored with the entire thing and did not have enough patience to visit the centre several times. Besides, my psychiatrist (who could not help either, but he was a very fair and clever man and it was a pleasure to talk to him) talked me out of contacting scientologists.

Not as though that unwanted relationship did not do much more harm than any scientologist.

This time I had a more than a bit odd acquaintance with supposed helpful intentions.

I had to think it through that, as all my good friends - Vanda... my lovely Vanda... and Zentai... - fled from me, and even my parents had enough with me; whilst idiots were sticking to me, I apparently must did something wrong.

Did I something wrong?

By that time, not a person could trust neither my judgment nor my abilities. Least of all myself. It had to do something with my earlier - failed - ideas.
Like modelling. Models are required to be triumphant and easy-going creatures. Ones who could not know and accept anything else than victory. I have never been near that.

Perhaps I could had been, years ago. Had I appreciated my talent and skills in writing and intellectual issues, and the utter incompetence when it comes to men. Why was it that hard to accept it, that it took so many years, I did not know.

By the age of twenty-one, I was there, unknowing whether I was a lesbian (was it the case indeed, I could not count on miracles when I was with a man) or completely frigid (this way, either). Neither does not do any good to model work which was meant for sexiest of girls.

The worst sin one can commit against herself is suppressing and/or ignoring their deepest instincts and needs.
For me, admitting their existence and bring them to my conscious mind was especially painful, because this way I had to surrender some of my dreams and purposes. Being a model would meant more power than most of other things. And power was my ultimate obsession. I intended to live in my own way from my childhood. I craved for controling my life, ignoring others's rules and doing anything I wanted.
And I was stripped from a great chance, as I refused to show any kind of obedience and submission. Of course I knew that an attractive female - if she was smart enough to manipulate her acquaintances with some feigned obedience - could reach much more than a woman who was just intelligent. I have learnt it from the magazines for women I had enjoyed to read as a child.
Later I have witnessed it in real life. And not only when I tried to model - also at school, at work.
Much to my outrage, many girls were more successful than me, although they were obviously less quick-witted and talented than me. Only because they were better at performing than (of course, they did not perform on stage but with their interpersonal relationships).

By then, the question was whether my permanent failures as a woman, all the disappointment
(... utter humiliation, exploitation, terror...)
had to do something with the setbacks of my professional and intellectual life.

What have I done so wrong?

I withdrew into my room in a sour mood. My mother's behaviour hurt me. One does not expect something like that from her own mother.
A reminiscence flashed through my mind. When Mónika had a rival (a classmate of hers from the neighbourhood), my godmother often slipped a mocking remark about the girl in family circle. She has been, of course, condescendingly polite to the girl, yet she made it clear that Mónika's little finger was worth for more than the entire classmate herself.
Much to my anger, my mother never did so.

Not as though others had a much higher opinion of me.
Vanda and Ottó were angry with me.
Once in a while I wondered whether my mother was right and Vanda was, as crude as it sounds, ashamed of me. My mother said I was not an appropriate company for my friend. Which was not far from the truth.
It did not take a genius to understand that my friend, who was after all a lady, the boss of her own bookstore and publisher, wearing Prada and Tommy Hilfiger, did not need the friendship of a penniless plain girl from the country who failed everything she ever did. Vanda has been a generous and kind-hearted person, and not snobby at all, yet having me around, not to mention introducing me to her bunch of friends (certainly also successful and wealthy people) must had been unpleasant, to say the least. I did not really know what was required in a high class circle, but a friend like me was not one decidedly.

My faithful Gabika was still patient with me though. She never looked down on me, but sometimes I could notice that she secretly pitied me, and from time to time she told me in her tactful manners that perhaps I should attend a school or find a simple job.

Zentai was, just like Vanda, less lenient. He was furious to witness my self-destructive ways. Sometimes I had an unpleasant insight that he condemned me.

True that they could not praise me for what I'd done during the past years.
Actually I despised myself, too. They still could not judge me half as strictly as I did myself. Years passed by and I could not forgive my own old - and big - mistakes.
I was always afraid that people despised me because I was penniless. Perhaps it was just a projection. If someone was hostile with me, I immediately thought they were hostile because I did not have money. They noticed that I was not a rich girl, as the lack of money and success was clearly written on my shreds of old-fashioned clothes, my ancient and worn shoes, my sulky and desperate expression.

A sheer insult

I was startled by the sudden shriek of the doorbell.
I did not bother to switch off the computer or stand up. The door of my room was closed anyway to keep the disturbing noises away, and weren't it that way, I surely closed it immediately.
I could not expect any visit from one of my dearly beloved friends: Vanda (my heart clenched when I thought when would I see her again), Gabika, Zentai were in Budapest.
I did not have time for superficial chit-chat with strangers or acquaintances.

My mother opened the door of the flat.
Judging by her voice, the visitor was a young girl. Perhaps a student of my mother.
For a few minutes, I could hear my mother talking and chatting with feigned ease - she has always been just as withdrawn and shy like myself, yet she has made great efforts to be friendly with everyone.
My mouth twitched as I eavesdropped the polite sounds of the conversation. My mother's been polite and helpful when it comes to strangers, yet she has not had much patience with me. She never missed pointing out how disappointed she was that I did not get a normal civil job. All right, all the parents say the same, yet saying it at least ten times each day is a touch annoying.

I could make out some words: She promised help to the unknown girl to prepare for her examination, then the visitor left.
I put out my head to ask my mother who it was.
She told me her name, asking whether I remembered her.
It was a mere shock to me. Of course I did remember!
This was the girlie who won a beauty contest of a local newspaper, ahead of me. I still harboured a great deal of detest for her.
She won, I did not. Only because she was sweet sixteen, literally sweet, with waist length hair (fashionably straight) and with a typical appearance of "I'm a good little girl yet I'm into fun".
I look girlish, too, but my thin lips, troubled eyes, arrogant nose and chin, and, of course, my hideously thin figure express all my sour, hypersensitive and fragile ways. Besides, I'm everything but seductive.

Not as though I needed to be a winner at any cost (although those days I'd be overenthusiastic with it). I was fed up with sex. Yet I still hated to be underrated and ignored.

Besides, the girlie's mother was a school secretary at my mother's work place. She was the one who should had called my mother to the phone when I'd ask her... instead, she just said "She's having a class!", with the same tone as though she said "She is on a meeting with Prime Minister Gyurcsány Ferenc". Suffering from a serious anxiety disorder, I would had needed my mother to comfort me - and the secretary must had found my unnerved manners amusing. She certainly did not know that I was ill, so she must had believed I was simply hysterical, so instead of calling my mother to the phone, she turned me down with a lame excuse.

"So will you actually help her?!" I screamed to my mother.
"Yes" she shrugged with a small smile. She did not take my complaints seriously. She is a more peaceful and less competitive person than me.
I dare say I was furious.
True that what else could I expect. During the past twenty-one years, anytime I had a quarrel with a person, my mother supported the other and never me. She tried to stay "unbiased", and she succeeded too well.

Articles (or not)

As I got myself to take the task seriously, I got ready with three writing surprisingly soon. I was rather satisfied with them. They seemed up to par enough as any article in a newspaper. Kertész Imre could write better, of course - yet my manners (in my native language) has always been high class.

As a next move, I visited the website of Népszabadság (People's Liberty, a leading left-wing daily newspaper).
I was a bit taken aback to discover that there were several different e-mail addresses - each column had its own editor. True that I could had contracted the editorial directly, yet I suspected they got several emails a day, so had I sent my writings there, they could have been lost easily.
It took quite a few minutes to find the proper column for each of my articles, and the e-mail addresses of their editors.

Armed with the needed data, I triumphantly sent my articles to the addresses. I could not help feeling some hope.

A bit of calm at last

Sitting on a coach on my way home, I had a delightful and comforting idea: I could not get the blood sugar test until I found out the result of the newly taken medical, which would not happen in a month. I thought with a satisfied grin that the crook of my arm was safe for a while.

So I had joyful weeks ahead of me, with hard work and amazing books.
When I arrived home, I quickly withdrew behind the walls of my books - including fine horror novels - and copybooks. I even had some faraway plan about taking a Stephen King book from the library.

I did not get any answer from the liberal party that I wished to join. I did not give up though.
I called them on the phone.
A laughing young woman answered the call, she excused for the lack of answer, saying most of the members were in the middle of their examinations. So they were mostly students. (I could not help but felt disappointed - I hoped they were grown-up persons and a real party organisation and not students with a hobby.)
To have something useful to do, I began to work on a couple of short articles. They were not political, their subject were health and environmentalism, in which I always had interest.
However, I suspected I needed a great deal of luck to have the slightest chance to publish any of them. I had to face too many failures in the past few years to trust my own abilities, or the fact that I could do something properly.

Ordeals of a blood test

I was more than a bit desperate to find out that in our small town one could not be tested for HIV. To get the test, one needed to travel to the big town, N*, 50 kilometres away, to find the proper institute.
I called the county hospital to find out whether I needed a referral or not. They claimed I did not.

That evening, we had a quarrel at home. My mother was not willing to escort me to the test, making a lame excuse about teaching and her schedule. It would not be an impolite and callous thing itself, but I could not help recalling that hardly two years ago, when I entangled into that wrecked relationship, she was more than zealous to escort me to the gyneacologist for a blood test. To prescribe contraceptives did not necessarily needed a blood test, the doctor said, but in my case, with my anamnesis, it was needful, he added significantly, hinting of the eating disorders.
Those days, my mother was eager to sell me, I thought bitterly. Those days she could find a chance somehow to skip her highly important lessons.

At least she had the decency to offer that she and my father would take me there by car after 4. p.m.
I did not want to wait though. I wished to get over it as soon as possible.
Anyway, why should they come, too? Would it be less hurtful or hideous if my mother would be there to watch? Besides, such a place was one where several people - perhaps with a contagious illness - go, I did not want my parents to go there.
I turned the offer down and decided to go by the 7.10. bus next morning.

Despite of my desperate and unfocused hurry, I missed the bus. The next one departed at 9.15.
I could not tell how I felt during those wasted hours. I cried, actually cried, tears streamed on my face. I whimpered, sobbed, screamed with fury and shivered with fear.
Much to my surprise, those hours slipped by quite quickly though.
This time, I managed to catch the bus.

A quarter to ten, I entered the grey main building of the county hospital.
Next to the heavy wooden door of the broad entrance, there was a small room for the doorman. He was a thin, elderly man. I asked him where to go for a HIV test.
He was taken aback, yet he explained that I had to leave the building at the back door, then go straight ahead three hundred metres, and I would find a red brick building on the left, which was the laboratory.
I nodded, although I was not sure whether I could find it.

The hospital, the several buildings, was located on a big compound, it looked like a tiny town.
After ten minutes of wavering, I found the said brick building.
An unfriendly, overweighed female receptionist sat at the information desk.
"I'd like to know where to go for a HIV test" I told her.
"What test?" she barked. Perhaps she could not hear it, or she thought she did not hear it well.
"A HIV test" I repeated impatiently.
This time she understood, her eyes grew wide. Perhaps it had to do something with prejudices. My parents warned me. In their opinion, only drug addicted persons and/or prostitutes got that kind of tests. They thought it was just one of my several surreal fears. They told it was a vain torture for me, I should not go there - yet how could I know what did that other party of that failed relationship do?
"We don't to those tests here. Do you have a referral? You'll need one."
"On the phone, they said I did not!"
"Well, I doubt they'll do the test without a referral. Those tests are made at * Hospital anyway."

Of course I should had asked on the phone where to go exactly, but I did not have the presence of mind.

I grew more and more grumpy. All the receptionists said something similar, so I believed the overweighed woman told the truth.
I was nervous and weak. I did not have a mouthful of food that day - one must not eat before some blood tests. My fickle blood sugar level did not appreciate such jokes, besides, a journey by bus or train has been exhausting for me, as mostly I felt nauseated.

I left the county hospital, and wandered to the nearby - unknown - bus stop. I knew where the other hospital was and which direction led towards it. It was two or three kilometres away, on the boundaries of the town, I could not walk so long in such a state.
I reached the bus stop soon. I nodded with satisfaction - it was in the right direction. I buttoned my jacket, as I was cold. It was a rainy day, the sky was grey and cloudy.

I had to wait quite a few minutes until a bus appeared - the mass transport in the country has never been on the ball.
When a vehicle arrived at last, I got on quickly. I had enough time to watch out of the window, as my target was the terminus. I usually enjoyed watching unknow parts of a town, yet this time I was too nervous to pay any attention.

When the bus stopped, I asked the driver where I could find the hospital.
His brows rose.
"Which hospital?"
"* Hospital, the terminus."
"You have to go back then. It's the other terminus."

I felt torn apart. I took the wrong bus. The hospital was in the same direction I thought it must be, however, the bus made some detours in the city with twists and turns, I did not count on that.
I could not do any better than waiting to the next bus.

Although I did want to get over the whole procedure, it truly seemed I did my best to avoid it as long as I could.
It was the work of my subconscious for sure, and under different circumstances, I would be amazed to witness the hidden power of the human mind.

The buildings of the other hospital, just like the first one's, were located on a compound. It looked like an eerie hotel, with several trees inside and outside the fence (as the compound was located in a secluded area, it was surrounded by forests). Those tall trees stood there gloomily, and casted dark shadows on the paved roads of the compound, the paves seemed black and shining wet in the drizzling rain.

This time I was more fortunate: I could easily find the laboratorium in the second building. There were a couple of young girls at the receptionist's room, some of them must be nurses. All of them were at my age, I could clearly see the shy and startled understanding and comradery in their eyes when I told them why did I come there. Being as young as me, they could exactly know a female could get into risky situations any time. They were helpful and polite while they explained that one cannot be tested for HIV in that hospital anymore (once there used to be such a department, but it had wounded up months before), I should go to a dermatology center at * Street.
I dropped my hands on the counter, limply and hopelessly. It meant another long way. It was almost noon.

* Street was in the centre of the town. I caught a bus, then walked along a street to reach a small square where the dermatology was supposedly located. After a bit of clueless wandering, I found it actually.

The receptionist was a kind, young blonde. She asked me why did I come.
"To be tested for HIV" I told her.
She did not seem utterly surprised.
"Why?" she asked calmly.
"To make sure that I'm healthy..." I said uncertainly.
This time, she was shocked.
"You came here willingly?" she asked, ashtonised.
I did not understand what did she mean. Not quite willingly, but I needed to, I intended to answer.
"So, you aren't her for a routine test for going abroad and study or have a job there?" she explained.
"No. It was my idea" I assured her.
"All right. Wait a minute here, in the hall. They will call you in very soon."

I sat down on a plastic chair. Every muscle of my body tensed. By then I was desperately aware of the fact that in a few minutes I would have to face a repelling injection needle.

It was utterly ironic that the other party of that vile relationship forced me to stay faithful, making my life unbearable with blackmail and control, searched through my possessions on a regular basis and watched my email box every day. He often lectured me about how should a "fair" and "honourable" female behave, modest, subservient and house-trained - whilst he went to drink every second day. He lived in a faraway town, fortunately, we could meet once a week. On other days of the week, he often had female drinking mates. I did not know or care whether he screwed them. I did not expect him so - he was not near as manly like Feri, Milán, Zentai, or Ottó.
That was why I never felt suspicious, not as though I was that interested. It was sheer shock to find out he managed to be "unfaithful".
Yet, despite of his claims of being moral, that day, I was the one to sit there, waiting for an AIDS test. Because of his fault, as I haven't ever had
(... willingly...)
any other partners.
Only Feri, who was conscientious enough to use rubber when I asked him to do so.
I could had found the situation utterly amazing, hadn't I been so scared.

In a few minutes, the door opened, a patient - a woman of forty - exited the room, nodding toward me.
"You may come in."
I staggered in, and crumpled on the chair which was meant for patients.
There were three people in the room: A young and slim female doctor, a nurse and an assistant.
The doctor sat on the other side of the table. With her straight dark brown hair and big eyes she seemed to be in her mid-twenties.
"What's the problem?" she asked me. "Did you have an one-night relationship?"
Had it only been the case! Yet I was more stupid than that. I had several one-night stand with the same person, who, by now, seemed to be a complete stranger.
"No. It was a long relationship with an utterly risky partner. I found out that he had another relationship. That one also had another. And this is only what I know. So I want a test" I explained reluctantly.
"And did you hear some bad news about that circle?" the doctor inquired.
I shook my head.
"I could not. He lives in another town. We never contact and we are not on speaking terms. I don't know two hoots about him, fortunately."
The doctor shot a glance towards her assistant, yet she did not slip a remark.
"When did it happen?" she asked.
"More than one and a half year ago..."
"No, no, that's not important. I'm asking that only to know whether it was three weeks ago or more. It is the window time. We can detect the virus in a human's system after three weeks." She nodded. "Well, all right. Please, pull up your shirt on your left arm."
I did so, and began to quiver.
"Could not it be the back of the hand?" I begged.
She looked at me.
"Why? That way, it would hurt much more."
I gulped. I hated it, too, yet being stabbed at the crook of the arm seemed to be even more vile. It is such a vulnerable spot.
"Why?" the nurse interfered. "I can see your vein bulging!"
The plump nurse, with her dark long plait, seemed to be a good-natured person, yet I could not care about her kindness. By that time, that animalistic fear got the best of me. I was on the verge of black out.
"No, no" The doctor decided. "The crook of the arm is safer. Please, lie down."
She pointed at the operating table.
I was crying, tears streamed on my face. I was staring at the white ceiling whilst the doctor held my wrist and the nurse penetrate the crook of the arm with a needle.

It did not hurt at all. It truly took me by surprise. I was simply terrified and repelled by the thought that a needle was bored into my flesh and vein.

It was over in a few seconds.
I sighed incredulously.
"Is that always... so easy?" I asked the doctor honestly.
She smiled.
"You have good veins. Yet a blood thest is not hard. Now you should sign the service papers."
I sat down the chair again, resting my head on my knees.
"Sorry" I whispered. "I feel a bit dizzy. Just a minute."
The world seemed to be darkened. It looked like mist came upon me - black mist.
"Do you want a glass of water?" The startled nurse asked me, whilst she grabbed my arm and led me back to the operation table.
"No, thank you. I have food, fruit and sandwiches. I did not eat, one must not eat before a blood test."
"Before a blood sugar test, indeed. Yet now you should have eat something..." the doctor explained, while I climbed down the table. I felt better, though very weak.
"Is your home far from here?"
"Fifty kilometres."
They hissed.
"Is there someone to escort you?"
"I came alone." My mouth twitched, for I thought of my mother who refused to escort me.
"Eat something in the waiting room!" the doctor warned me.

I was so glad to get free at last.
I felt uncharacteristically easy, happy and comforted. The world seemed to be beautiful when doctors did not threaten me to make a pincushion of me.

Preparing for a test

Actually I was more terrified of the blood test than the illness itself. Deep down I did not expect any problem, yet one could never know for sure. I was insistent to get the test, so that to feel safe.

Nevertheless, I hated the very thought of being stabbed by a needle. It is hard to describe the terrible fear that captured me anytime a nurse cornered me with a needle. Of course, getting injections was unpleasant, not a person visited doctors and suffered injections for mere fun... but my dread was more elusive, more intense. The physical pain alone did not give cause for that fear, even if I have always been oversensitive of any kind of pain.

However, this case I had to make my moves immediately. Thus far, a HIV test was not important for me, as I did not wish to have any kind of intimate relationship which could endanger anyone.
With a pang of regret, I thought of Feri. Fortunately I did not have any particular reason to feel guilty: I was proud to recall that I insisted on using condom. Despite of the fact that I did take contraceptives, too. This latter one is the most effective way to prevent unwanted pregnancy.
I could not trust any other methods.
I never forgot about it - as unfocused I was, I took the pills without one minute delay every evening. I can be formidably rational when it comes to contraception. On other occasions, I never take any medicines, not when I feel sick or have a throbbing headache. I don't drink any alcohol, I don't smoke, I don't even drink any coffee or tea (except for green tea) - so my otherwise healthy and well groomed system simply has to deal with a little artificial interference like contraception.
And even this way, while that wrecked relationship with the suspicious person held, there was an occasion when I became terrified of unwanted consequences of sexuality. I could not tell why but I was afraid to be in trouble, and I wanted to know for sure whether everything was all right.
I will never forget the cold fear that crept upon me and suffocated me whilst I was sitting on an old red plastic chair, in the shining white waiting hall of the gyneacologist. Another patient sat next to me, reading newspaper, and on the cover I could notice the photo of Prime Minister Gyurcsány Ferenc. The picture was taken before the leak of the Head of Government's infamous speech at Balatonőszöd, before the riots and demonstrations, so he was still wearing a wide and confident smile.
I stared at his photo.
"You may grin easily, Feri" I thought sourly. "You will never be pregnant under any circumstances..."

As for other feared consequences, I never got any HIV test.
Initially I thought, rather cynically, what could doctors do anyway? (Which was not true - nowadays, there exist effective medicines which can help a great deal to decrease symptoms.)
However, if I had problems with my blood sugar indeed, which was not completely unlikely, then I needed treatment the sooner the better.
Yet first of all, I had to be tested for HIV. I simply could not let myself poke by innocent needles (my godmother - my father's sister, the mother of Mónika and Piroska - had an own home blood glucose test, and she intended to use it on me, which I naturally refused) until the afore-mentioned question was not answered properly.
So I called the gyneacologist to arrange an appointment.

Unpleasant suspicions

Milán, as much of a bastard he was, had the enchanting manners of an intelligent gentleman. I must admit I treasured every word of his letter. I have always been fond of exquisitely chosen words.
A beautifully written letter was enough to win my heart and could be considered a promise.

Not as though I could had believed any of his promises, I reminded myself acerbically. How could I be still that gullible? I forced myself to remain sober.
He just told something to comfort me, he did not mean it.
Certainly he was just lying. He tended to, Vanda told that, too. I wished I could had asked her about him and what had she meant when she'd called him a bastard, a threat for me.
However, I often let my thoughts drift back to him. I did not need that much to fall for a man. Not much happened with Feri, either, and I remembered him lovingly.

On the other hand, my failed career did not stop bother me. The constant worries about a dim and not too promising future undermined my mental stability. By then, that slight nauseated feeling hardly ever ceased.
I supposed it was because of my anxiety disorders.
My mother had some other suspicions though.
"That idiotic diet of yours made you sick" she said darkly. "I bet your blood sugar is not all right..."

I shuddered.
It made sense. Such a drastic slimming diet could harm one's health badly. I could make anyone feel sick only by telling exactly what had I done in my teens to be slimmer.
I had had some methods which could make Stephen King himself proud. Although the master of horror has had the most intriguing ideas about human body, even he could not suspect that one could thrust her finger into her throat so deeply that she could actually touch the first cartilage of the gorge with her fingertip. (I did not bear it for a long time though. Bulimia had been only two weeks of my life. Just like with sexuality - I was more willing to starve myself one thousand times whilst once have enough of fun only to make myself vomit afterward).
By then, I was afraid it had taken its toll.

This case, I had to go for a control as soon as possible. I was terrified by the very thought - a blood sugar test meant a poke by a needle, which was a dreadful alternative for me. I could not tell why, but I have always had a phobiac terror of any injection needles.

Besides, first of all, considering that once I had had a relationship, a f*, an intercourse with a more than risky case, I had to go for a HIV test.
I dare say I was more than unwilling.

His letter

I started to read more than eagerly.

Dear Mina,
I beg your pardon for sending a much belated reply. I did not intend to be rude; arranging new copyrights and negotiating with a printing house and with bookshellers kept me occupied. So please forgive me. Naturally you may visit me anytime you wish. I will be glad to hear about you.
Yours,
Milán

My heart was still running, this time with a pleasant zeal. As much as I despised myself for my weakness, a wide (very wide) smile spread upon my face.

I felt some embarrassed, wary bliss. Not exactly that innocent, unsuspicious, overwhelming rush of happiness like I used to feel when I was nineteen; this was more hesitating, tentative, yet more experienced and precious.

I was glad that I had not slept with him. I vowed to myself that I would not ever. A letter, written in almost indifferent tone, seems to be not that much in comparison with other things lovers usually tend to do.
However, I dare say such a letter from a man I respect and desire means a lot.
Actually it means a great deal more than being fucked, rubbed, and ground by a man for one hundred minute - the latter only cause physical pain and leave bleakness in the soul. And I'm still talking about normal intercourse, not the one butterflies call "extra". I'd never do that latter one. Normal ways can be hurtful enough if the lady is unwilling and full of defiance. Inner muscles can tense rather rough to keep an unwelcomed guest outside, and it is not easy to break through them or force a man's way through them - occasionally they are strong enough to bleed a man's tool.

I sighed. All the things that were good for me, that I found arousing, had a lot to do with pain, violence, and humiliation. Besides, the notions of a "romantic relationship" in my mind were connected with possessing and emptiness. On the other hand, I felt a heart-warming and tender emotion towards Milán. I simply could not put the two things together.

How fine

My heart leapt as I opened the letter as quickly as I could. In a split second I was almost shaking with overexcitement.
Would he scold me for being that impatient to meet him? For being clingy?
This case, I would be utterly ashamed. Perhaps he just laughed at me.
He could not take me seriously. How could he? He was talented, successful, rich - I was nowhere near that. These thoughts just flashed through my mind until the message appeared on the screen.