made jokes and laughed moreduring the move than our dad had done during our entire childhood. And he was a father too, we found out. There were fathers like him in the world also.
December 28
Itâs the Feast of the Holy Innocents today. Outside, itâs thawing and suddenly the snow has no resonance or sparkle. All afternoon, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror looking at my face. Looking into it. I was searching for something in it, I donât know what. Perhaps a bit of life, an ounce of longing somewhere in the depth of my eyes. But my face was indecipherable. It expressed everything and nothing. Most of the time it was ugly, but for brief moments it was beautiful. It never ceased to be invasive; painfully, embarrassingly invasive. Like someone who comes to bother you. A stranger at once mysteriously intriguing and revolting. I just stood there, unable to step away from the mirror.
Many artists have been known to paint their own portraits; some become obsessed with it. I can understand why. Theyâre trying to fix on the canvas the one face that always eludes us more than any other. Perhaps our own face isnât really available to us because it eludes us. On the contrary, it turns away from itself and toward others. Way back in the past, when no mirrors existed except for the occasional shaky reflection in a body of water, it was the people surrounding you who became your mirror. They reflected your face back to you, responded to it. I sometimes wonder if people were different back then. Youâre so alone in front of themirror, alone with your own perplexing face. Perhaps our faces want to tell us that the person who lives unseen has lost his face. That our faces are there for others, it is a language, perhaps even everyoneâs primary language.
Iâve probably lost my face. Thatâs what life has done to me; it has driven me deeper into loneliness. My face has become unreadable, not only to myself but also to everyone who sees me. It has become an extinct language. I thought of Kosti there in front of the mirror. I wondered if heâd be able to give me my face back.
My years with the boy made me think a lot about this, about faces. His great loneliness was hidden precisely because he was missing his own face; he couldnât reach anyone through it, couldnât reach outside himself and was forced to remain inside his own darkness. Like being born without a body, I sometimes thought. A diabolic impossibility. And I, the mother, who finally couldnât endure his loneliness.
I had a terrible dream last night. I dreamt there was a war. My apartment was on fire and I stood on the street outside with a group of other people and together we saw the fire rising against the night sky and enveloping the entire neighborhood in worrying clouds of thick, brown smoke. Soon after this I found myself on a military airfield. It was early dawn. Muddy roads passed between big, depressing sheet-metal hangars. I was filled with an incredible anguish. Groups of soldiers passed me by and harsh voices gave orders all around me, commands, deadly words. Suddenly, Kostiâs father came up to me. He was dressed as an officer and he gave me a small piece of paper.
âGo to hangar G,â he said sternly. âYouâre going to the front.â
Hangar G, the front. My legs felt weak and I stood there, confused, with my little piece of paper. I didnât know in which direction to go. Then I found myself in a dilapidated locker room, where grim guardsdressed me in a uniform and hung weapons, ammunition, and a pack on my back. They pushed me out to a giant hall where soldiers were lined up, and I understood that Iâd come to hangar G. I was placed in the first row of soldiers, among those whoâd be the first to leave. Iâd never felt such intense fear before. When I looked around, I spotted Kostiâs father and right behind him stood Kosti, in civilian clothes. They both looked
December 28
Itâs the Feast of the Holy Innocents today. Outside, itâs thawing and suddenly the snow has no resonance or sparkle. All afternoon, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror looking at my face. Looking into it. I was searching for something in it, I donât know what. Perhaps a bit of life, an ounce of longing somewhere in the depth of my eyes. But my face was indecipherable. It expressed everything and nothing. Most of the time it was ugly, but for brief moments it was beautiful. It never ceased to be invasive; painfully, embarrassingly invasive. Like someone who comes to bother you. A stranger at once mysteriously intriguing and revolting. I just stood there, unable to step away from the mirror.
Many artists have been known to paint their own portraits; some become obsessed with it. I can understand why. Theyâre trying to fix on the canvas the one face that always eludes us more than any other. Perhaps our own face isnât really available to us because it eludes us. On the contrary, it turns away from itself and toward others. Way back in the past, when no mirrors existed except for the occasional shaky reflection in a body of water, it was the people surrounding you who became your mirror. They reflected your face back to you, responded to it. I sometimes wonder if people were different back then. Youâre so alone in front of themirror, alone with your own perplexing face. Perhaps our faces want to tell us that the person who lives unseen has lost his face. That our faces are there for others, it is a language, perhaps even everyoneâs primary language.
Iâve probably lost my face. Thatâs what life has done to me; it has driven me deeper into loneliness. My face has become unreadable, not only to myself but also to everyone who sees me. It has become an extinct language. I thought of Kosti there in front of the mirror. I wondered if heâd be able to give me my face back.
My years with the boy made me think a lot about this, about faces. His great loneliness was hidden precisely because he was missing his own face; he couldnât reach anyone through it, couldnât reach outside himself and was forced to remain inside his own darkness. Like being born without a body, I sometimes thought. A diabolic impossibility. And I, the mother, who finally couldnât endure his loneliness.
I had a terrible dream last night. I dreamt there was a war. My apartment was on fire and I stood on the street outside with a group of other people and together we saw the fire rising against the night sky and enveloping the entire neighborhood in worrying clouds of thick, brown smoke. Soon after this I found myself on a military airfield. It was early dawn. Muddy roads passed between big, depressing sheet-metal hangars. I was filled with an incredible anguish. Groups of soldiers passed me by and harsh voices gave orders all around me, commands, deadly words. Suddenly, Kostiâs father came up to me. He was dressed as an officer and he gave me a small piece of paper.
âGo to hangar G,â he said sternly. âYouâre going to the front.â
Hangar G, the front. My legs felt weak and I stood there, confused, with my little piece of paper. I didnât know in which direction to go. Then I found myself in a dilapidated locker room, where grim guardsdressed me in a uniform and hung weapons, ammunition, and a pack on my back. They pushed me out to a giant hall where soldiers were lined up, and I understood that Iâd come to hangar G. I was placed in the first row of soldiers, among those whoâd be the first to leave. Iâd never felt such intense fear before. When I looked around, I spotted Kostiâs father and right behind him stood Kosti, in civilian clothes. They both looked
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