“He’s becoming aware that she feels a sort of affection for him, or something. It embarrasses him, and he also quite likes it in a way, even though he doesn’t feel any affection for her. […] It’s like she hardly exists.”

This internal monologue reveals the foundation of the young István’s relationship with his older neighbor. The arrangement, in which he helps with her shopping in exchange for food and sexual attentions, exemplifies the theme of The Transactional Nature of Human Relationships. His detached observation that she “hardly exists” strips her of identity beyond her function in his life, underscoring the lack of genuine emotion and the self-serving calculation at the arrangement’s core.

“It’s hard to say what his intention was when he did that, when he pushed the man and he fell down the stairs and hit his head on the metal handrail and then lay on the concrete floor of the half-landing, next to his wife’s plants, and didn’t get up.”

Reflecting on the fatal scuffle with his lover’s husband, István questions his own memory and motives. Only the rushed syntax of the run-on sentence hints at his unprocessed distress, and the repetition of the phrase “It’s hard to say what his intention was” introduces a moral and psychological ambiguity that haunts him throughout the novel. This passage captures the moment when his adolescent romantic desperation erupts into catastrophic violence, sowing doubt as to whether the death was purely accidental.

“‘What do you mean, someone like me?’ ‘You know what I mean,’ Ödön said. And it’s true that István had made a sort of name for himself in the institution. […] He had an aptitude for fighting, he discovered.”

This exchange occurs when Ödön, an acquaintance from the young offenders’ institution, hires István for protection purposes, foreshadowing István’s later forays into similar work. Ödön’s vague but understood phrasing (“someone like you”) confirms that István’s identity is now defined by his capacity for violence. The passage establishes that the protagonist’s “aptitude for fighting” has been formalized into a marketable skill, and it is clear that he will go on rely upon this stereotypical manifestation of masculinity as a defense against powerlessness.

“‘I wasn’t totally honest with you.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I am sort of seeing someone. I’m sorry.’”

In a hotel room after a day trip, Noémi rejects István’s amorous advances, revealing that she is involved with an older, successful English manager. This abrupt confession marks another significant romantic failure for István, reinforcing a pattern of powerlessness that drives his major life decisions. The stark, minimalist dialogue, set against the backdrop of a transient hotel room, amplifies his isolation and precipitates his choice to escape his circumstances by joining the army.

“He realizes that the things that are so important to him—the things that happened, and that he saw there, the things that left him feeling that nothing would ever be the same again—they just aren’t important here. […] So it makes you feel slightly insane or something, to have those things inside you, when they seem to have no reality here.”

The quote articulates the psychological dislocation that István feels when he returns to Hungary at the end of his military service and realizes that no one around him will understand or appreciate what he has survived. As a returning soldier, his traumatic experiences are incomprehensible and irrelevant in the civilian world. This disconnect between his internal reality and his external environment fosters a sense of being utterly alone in a world that is not fully real.

“Ten years ago he and this doctor were the same, István thinks. They were the same. And now the doctor’s a doctor and he’s…whatever he is. From the same starting point, this enormous space has opened up between them, is how it feels.”

In the hospital for a self-inflicted injury, István recognizes the doctor as a former schoolmate, and his silent shame prompts this moment of intense self-scrutiny. The repetition of “They were the same” emphasizes his shock at their divergent life paths, crystallizing his sense of failure and stalled progress. This internal monologue directly addresses The Illusion of Social Mobility by revealing the vast, seemingly unbridgeable gap that has formed between two individuals from the same origin.

“This isn’t the kind of life he imagined having when he moved here. […] Sharing a small house with half a dozen other people. Listening to the trains passing outside the window all night. Working fifty hours a week and still not having any money left at the end of the month, and with no prospect of anything except more of the same.”

This passage conveys the bleak reality of István’s initial years in London, contrasting his expectations with his actual circumstances. The catalogue of mundane hardships—crowded living, constant noise, and financial futility—establishes a sense of entrapment and disillusionment. This state of desperation provides the crucial motivation for his acceptance of Mervyn’s patronage, making it clear that his subsequent ascent through society’s upper ranks is little more than a headlong escape from his humbler origins.

“‘I’m saying I’ll lend you the money, that’s all. […] Don’t worry about that,’ Mervyn says again. ‘I’ll get my money back. And then some.’”

When István hesitates to accept a loan for a training course, Mervyn reassures him with this starkly honest statement. The dialogue strips Mervyn’s offer of any pretense of altruism, defining it explicitly as a business investment from which he expects to receive a profit. This moment is a clear illustration of the transactional nature of human relationships, for the exchange characterizes István’s potential as a commodity in which Mervyn is speculating.

“‘I want you to wear that suit every day for a week. […] You need to feel comfortable in it,’ Mervyn says. ‘More important, you need to look like you feel comfortable in it.’”

During István’s “polishing,” Mervyn uses the suit to initiate his transformation. The command to inhabit the suit until it feels natural underscores the idea that class identity is a performance that must be rehearsed and mastered. Mervyn’s comment also draws a distinction between actually feeling comfortable and merely appearing to be so, and his coaching reveals the superficiality that lies at the core of István’s strategic shift in identity, foreshadowing the fact that everything built upon this false pretense—his marriage, his family, and his future career as a developer—will likewise be illusory.

“He doesn’t use the main door. There’s another door at the side. There’s even a discreet sign, with an image of a pointing hand, and the words TRADESMEN’S ENTRANCE. He lets himself in there and walks up the service stairs to his small apartment at the top.”

This description of István’s entry into the Nyman home establishes his subordinate social and professional status, acting as a symbol of class division. Even though his position is far more rarified than it has ever been, István is still physically separated from his upper-class employers, who live within the same building. This architectural detail underscores the illusion of social mobility and implies that István’s access to this opulent world is strictly conditional and compartmentalized. This grim reality will also define the clandestine nature of his affair with Helen.

“Sometimes they entertain in the Cheyne Walk garden and from the windows of his apartment István is able to look down over the slates and see part of the lawn […]. People wander down that far sometimes […] and when they do he is able to see them.”

Here, István’s physical position—looking down from his attic apartment—symbolizes his social position as an outsider looking in on the world of the elite. This act of watching embodies the recurring motif of observation and surveillance, simultaneously highlighting his detachment and illustrating the performative nature of the social interactions he witnesses. His elevated perspective reinforces the vast social and emotional distance between him and the people he serves.

“While it seems undeniable to her that she may not have found her husband as attractive if he had been anything other than very wealthy, she nevertheless did find him attractive, and she did think that she was in love with him. It was not, in other words, that she found him unattractive and was only interested in the money. It was never as simple as that.”

In this passage of indirect discourse relaying Helen’s thoughts, the narrative dissects the complex relationship between wealth, desire, and affection. Helen’s intricate rationalization demonstrates the finer nuances of the transactional nature of human relationships, for she clearly believes that a partner’s financial status is an integral component of what makes her husband attractive. With this formulation, she seeks to excuse herself for pursuing Karl for his money, and the hedging tone of the prose mirrors Helen’s attempt to navigate the morally ambiguous reality of her current life.

“‘I don’t think he loves her,’ Thomas says. […] ‘I think he just married her for her money.’”

This dialogue, spoken by Helen’s son Thomas to a family friend, explicitly frames the novel’s central conflict and articulates the primary accusation against István. Thomas’s blunt assessment reduces István’s relationship with Helen to a purely financial transaction, dismissing any possibility of genuine affection. This moment crystallizes the external perception of István’s social ascent, highlighting the likelihood that many members of London’s elite also view his success as a calculated and exploitative performance.

“‘And you?’ she says. ‘Will he look after you?’”

When István’s mother learns that the Nyman fortune belongs entirely to Thomas, she delivers this pointed question about Thomas’s intentions, articulating the key threat to István’s lavish lifestyle in London. The simple, pragmatic inquiry cuts through the luxurious façade of István’s daily life and exposes his financial vulnerability. This direct confrontation functions as critical foreshadowing, underscoring the illusion of social mobility in István’s current circumstances, as he is dependent upon the hypothetical future goodwill of a deeply resentful stepson.

“And whose achievement is that, he thinks, turning off the light and slipping quietly out of the room, if not his own?”

Following a moment of paternal tenderness with his son, Jacob, István frames his son’s limitless future as a personal victory, but it is telling that even this self-congratulatory thought is framed as a question rather than a statement. Ultimately, as the course of the novel shows, none of István’s achievements in life are “his own,” and the author therefore imbues this passage with a sense of irony, given that István still depends upon others for all that he has become.

“He said you exemplify a primitive form of masculinity. He said he was surprised that I ever found that attractive.”

In this scene, Helen relays her son Thomas’s insult to István, providing a crucial insight into the source of their conflict. The quote acts as an assault on István’s core identity, which has been linked to his tendency to wield his traditional masculinity as a defense against powerlessness. Thomas’s words are a psychological attack that foreshadows István’s violent, physical reaction when he is later provoked in public, thereby proving Thomas’s assessment correct.

“Thomas screams, ‘Don’t touch me!’ […] ‘I want them to hear.’ ‘To hear what?’ ‘How you’ve been stealing from me.’”

During a high-end art viewing, Thomas publicly accuses Helen and István of theft, triggering István’s downfall. The scene weaponizes the motif of observation and surveillance, turning the elite crowd into witnesses who scrutinize István and condemn him as an imposter in their world. Thomas’s accusation strips away the performance of legitimacy that István has cultivated, recasting his entire success story as a criminal enterprise and exposing the transactional nature of his relationship with Helen.

“‘So where does this leave us?’ he asks. Roddy sighs. ‘Honestly?’ he says. ‘I think we’re finished.’”

The morning after István’s assault on Thomas, his lawyer delivers a blunt assessment of the damage. Roddy’s terse dialogue punctuates the catastrophic consequences of István’s actions, marking the definitive end of his business ventures and social ascent. The mundane setting of a Formica-tabled café, where István sits in his “stale Tom Ford suit” (269), symbolically contrasts with the opulent world he has just lost, visually emphasizing his fall from grace.

“‘I want him to stand up for himself,’ István says. ‘Don’t you?’”

In this argument with Helen over their son, Jacob, being bullied, István reveals his rigid adherence to the principles of masculinity as a defense against powerlessness, for with this question, he projects his regrets over his own past failure to “stand up for himself” onto the current conflict that Jacob is experiencing with a bully at school. However, István’s life strategy of physical confrontation is a poor solution for his young son. The conflict highlights the inadequacy of István’s worldview when it comes to navigating complex emotional realities, and he is ill-equipped to offer a solution beyond a fight for dominance.

“While they’re actually doing it, it feels like a sort of escape. There’s an oblivion there, and something satisfyingly like violence as well. It seems to give him something that violence would also give him, something physical and destructive, something that he seems to need.”

In the middle of his brief but cruel affair with his housekeeper, the fundamental flaws of István’s psychological state are laid bare. This passage makes it clear that he explicitly links sexual release with violence, as both become outlets for his grief and self-loathing. The adverb “satisfyingly” reveals a darker aspect of his character, given that he finds a form of psychological relief in physically abusing a woman. This conflation explores a particularly ruinous angle of the theme of masculinity as a defense against powerlessness, for István instinctively reverts to destructive physical impulses to cope with his emotional devastation.

“And still he sits there, not leaving, and not doing anything to help him either, just staring out through the windshield at the silent mews, with its single streetlamp throwing shadowy light onto the cobbles and the fallen leaves and the parked luxury cars.”

Having followed his stepson, Thomas, to an unknown house, István watches through a window as Thomas overdoses on heroin. This moment of paralysis captures István’s fundamental moral ambiguity, for he is caught between the potential for revenge and the impulse to save a life. The detailed description of the “silent mews” contrasts with the life-or-death struggle happening indoors, and the scene also inverts the motif of observation and surveillance, given that István is now a participant whose failure to act could have fatal consequences.

“There’s something odd about him, they seem to feel, something that doesn’t quite fit.”

After returning to Hungary, István interviews for a low-level security job. This observation articulates the failure of his social transformation, demonstrating that after years among the elite, he cannot fully assimilate back into his original class. The vague phrasing—“something odd,” “doesn’t quite fit”—highlights the subtle, indelible nature of class identity that lingers after the external symbols of wealth are gone. The moment addresses the illusion of social mobility, revealing his journey as a performance that has prevented him from belonging anywhere.

“He’s also suddenly very aware of the fact that Helen is dead, or his perception of the fact that she’s dead changes. There’s a deep immovable sadness that wasn’t there before.”

Years after Helen’s death, István finds old photographs of her and masturbates to them. The narrative juxtaposes this solitary, physical act with his sudden emotional realization, demonstrating a complex interplay of grief, memory, and desire. As his “perception” changes, it becomes clear that the act of sexual release provides the catalyst for breaking through his long-held emotional numbness and forcing him to experience a more visceral understanding of his loss. This psychological insight is delivered in plain, direct prose, emphasizing the stark finality of death in contrast to the fleeting nature of physical pleasure.