His story was growing like a snowball, releasing more and more details which little by little came together. His former wife, a leading actress plus the number of maternity homes which we had learnt from our mother plus the year of birth, the same as ours, and so on and so forth. Only one thing was confusing: his conviction that he had sons. But could it be possible that everything else, even our mother’s name, was a total match? As he said, the odds are one in a billion, no, one in a billion billion! And the aerospace engineer should have realized it like no one else, but still he couldn’t or didn’t want to see that we were his children. For us, the truth was much more obvious: this pathetic, skinny, silly, smiling man was our father.
Sometimes it seems to me that even chance events are rather predetermined. Our father had been looking for us all his life – he couldn’t stop searching, tormented by his conscience – and, of course, he found us or, to be precise, stumbled upon us by chance like a moribund person stumbles upon a gem that he is no longer in need of. True, it was too late to change anything – his age was not good for major undertakings – and his dreams had not come to pass, mired in a swamp of nightmares. But nevertheless his fate winked at life in parting. Finally, in one last effort he had come across us to make sure once again that we were too great a challenge for him, too tough a nut to crack!
He died long ago, way before his time, on the same day we were born.
He didn’t ask any questions, afraid to speak out unwittingly the major one: Are we those he has been looking for? Refusing to trust his own eyes, disregarding the evidence, he hid in his turtle shell in order not to reopen old wounds, in order to keep his mind sound. But did we have the right to blame him? Is there at least one person on earth who isn’t afraid to face the truth and is capable of diving into its very heart, accepting it wholly? Are there people who don’t lie at least to themselves?
We only saw him three times in our whole life. And every time, having caught sight of us, he rubbed his eyes as if chasing away a bad dream, and only after making sure we were real, did he approach reluctantly, keeping silent and dismally picking the floor tiles with his foot. At that moment, he felt no interest in absolutely anything he did, having lost his fire, his grip, his sense. And every time I saw him I wanted to cry, stamp my feet, run up to him and confess everything. But what is the point of doing something that is not correct? Our appearance undoubtedly hurt our family. We’ve been through it with our mother, and now our father’s time has come. Should we push our luck for a second time? Actually, it was high time to bring an end to a wearisome connection with the past and turn into ordinary observers of another human tragedy. Pretending that we are not them, we withdrew from his life. Of course, we felt sorry for the father, but it was more compassion than love.
Very strong, obnoxious feelings come into our lives through sudden insight. You might unexpectedly feel something splitting off from your heart and wandering all over your body, like a tiny stone in a boot. There’s nothing you can do about it: neither get used to it nor shake it out. I clearly saw us from the outside, like in a picture. We are not really human beings. We are a road-side sign warning people to stop and thank their lucky stars that such a fate as ours didn’t befall them, and only then keep going their way. All right, but who is going to be a benchmark for us? What road sign is going to guide our voyage? It is so good that you’re still asleep, and I can speak out and put into words every single thing on my mind.
I often think that, deep within, people agree to humiliation which steers them back on to the right path, but self-humiliation is more effective and sweeter. It just so happens that we represent the brightest example of it. With our appearance, we endlessly abase ourselves, thereby exalting people around us. Like snakes, we whisper in people’s ears with forked tongues: “Look at us, worse things happen. Look at us.” I think getting used to hard luck makes us even greater losers. A streak of troubles and mischiefs is infinite because it ruins our desire, will and aspiration to do something bigger and better. All that is left for us is boredom, a lack of faith and hopefulness.
Having realized that our shared illness is ourselves and not a mysterious force above us, I came across an even more amazing and odd thing that was actually forever present, forever obvious. Of the many great ways that exist to get cured of oneself, the most effective is to obliterate one’s mind; and there is no greater help than alcohol. I even had my own idiotic theory: we get drunk to unlock our hidden secrets to the world, and every bad thing in life comes to a natural end eventually. However, this idea isn’t a new one. But once we sober up, reality suddenly acquires its former outlines, forcing us to muffle up in a blanket again to resemble normal people, at least a little.
Vodka is a repulsive substance. The only good thing about it is the final feeling of booziness but, speaking frankly, even that can’t and shouldn’t be enjoyable! Anyway, we were drinking, dishonestly deceived and alienated from ourselves, imprisoned in a bottle like fairy tale djinns. The former synchrony of our acts completely disappeared. Sometimes simple movements, such as walking, getting up or sitting down took a great deal of time and effort as if we had to make summersaults or perform fanciful tricks. Having lost a sense of reality, we never hurried anywhere. We didn’t know how long our intoxicated oblivion would last.
I remember one night I was woken up by an urgent physical need and tried to rattle you up, but in vain; so I had nothing left to do but relieve myself while lying on the floor. It felt wet and immensely loathsome all night long. Once again, we descended into hell but lived even worse than sinners.
Compass Legs knew about our drinking habit, but didn’t see any tragedy in it. Most likely, we collected more alms in that condition, but I don’t remember for sure. And one day, perhaps being overwhelmed with “gratitude” for our work, he invited us for a drink with his friends at a lousy boozer. You were certainly on cloud nine that day. All day long you hummed something that ended with “I wish I was alone” in a low tone, jigging up and down in excitement, and what angered me the most was your total lack of remorse. Again, I saw what you really were and greatly disliked it. It just so happened that you were the reason for so much more pain and suffering than people deserve, taken out on me, hurt by misfortune. And yet I still loved you. Former Hope, strong, stout hearted, self-giving, capable of honorable actions, and present Hope, pathetic, embittered and rude. I loved “both” of you so much that I could have easily died for you if only I’d had the chance.
You kept silent. Why am I actually recounting all this? Whether it is a final attempt to talk my fears away, to muffle my cries of pain! Only the devil knows. In this smelly, rotten-through world I still crave to love without being loved back; it is the best antidote for pain and indifference. Love is what heals all wounds, not vodka. I believe – in love.
“Tell me, Faith, am I beautiful?” you asked, slowing down in front of an already closed store window. “Tell me the truth.”
And suddenly something childish and naive appeared through your veil of ignorance and rudeness. So, this is where your intimate, purely woman’s dream to be an object of admiration and desire has been hiding! With bated breath, I lovingly peered at the reflection in the window where a thin, small girl with long hair, an exact replica of myself, was snuggling to me. Suddenly my eyes got wet… because so many times I have looked at you and never realized how attractive you are. I was surprised that nobody could say it. Maybe people just can’t stand beautiful freaks – or we might be beautiful only for each other.