The Face of Another (13 page)

It was then it happened. A strange impulse possessed me. Was it jealousy? Perhaps it was. Something prickly, like a pokeweed seed, swelled within me to the size of a hedgehog. Then suddenly the basis of facial expression—that errant child of mine—of which I had lost all trace, was standing by my side. It was unexpectedly sudden. So sudden that I could not grasp just how quickly it had happened. But I do not think I was so very surprised. I felt it illogical not to have realized sooner that this was the only solution.

But before anything else, I shall tell you the conclusion. My mask would be the fourth type according to Boulan’s system of classification, that is, the “aggressive, extroverted type”—a sharp face centering around the nose; in terms of Jungian psychology, a strong face, showing ability to act.

I had the feeling of being duped; it was too simple. But on consideration, there was nothing particularly unexplainable. Even with the transformation of a chrysalis, the pupa makes preparation in its own way. Suddenly the face had been forcibly shifted from what I myself would choose to what would be chosen for me; yet I could do nothing but continue looking at you intently, just as, in the dark, one sees only darkness whether one keeps his eyes open or shut, looks right or left. My pride was hurt. I was humiliated, irritated, and
impatient that at this point I should have to search for you, but though I was weary of thinking about all this, I could not take my eyes from you for a single instant.

I wanted to get close to you, and at the same time to stay away from you. I wanted to know you, and at the same time I resisted that knowing. I wanted to look at you and at the same time felt ashamed to look. My state of suspension was such that the crevice between us grew deeper and deeper, and holding the broken glass together with my two hands, I barely preserved its form.

And I realized it very well. To say that you were a victim bound and chained to me, who fundamentally had no power over you, was a pack of lies I had made up for my own purposes. You faced this fate unflinchingly of your own volition. Wasn’t the brilliance of your smile more effectively used on yourself? If you felt like it you could desert me at any time. I wondered if I could make you understand just how dreadful that would be. Although you had a thousand expressions, I did not even have a single one. When I thought of the living flesh and organs under your dress, having their own temperature, their own elasticity, I seriously thought that the end of my agony would never come if I did not run a spike through your body—though it would mean your death—and make you a specimen in a biologist’s collecting box.

Thus both the desire to restore the roadway between us and vengeful craving to destroy you fiercely contended within me. At length I could not distinguish between them, and drawing the bow on you became a common, everyday thing; then suddenly in my heart was graven the face of a hunter.

A hunter’s face could not possibly be “introverted and harmonious.” With such a face I would end up at best as a friend to little birds, or failing that, bait for wild animals. In this light, my solution, far from sudden, might rather be called inevitable. I was dazzled perhaps by the double aspect
of the mask—was it the negation of my real face or actually a new face?—and I had been obliged to take an unavoidably circuitous road because I had forgotten the essential point that even this daze was a form of action.

In mathematics there are “imaginary numbers,” strange numbers which, when squared, become minus. They have points of similarity with masks, for putting one mask over another would be the same as not putting on any at all.

O
NCE
I had decided on the type, the rest was simple. I had already accumulated sixty-eight modeling pictures, and it so happened that more than half of them belonged to the “protruding-center” type. Everything was ready—almost too ready.

I decided to start work at once. I had no special model, but I nevertheless tried to sketch a face, as from some invisible picture, groping my way along from the inside for the expression that might appeal to you. First I applied a spongy resin to the part of the antimony cast with the scar webs and smoothed it down. Over that, I placed layers of a thin plastic tape instead of clay along the Langer lines to provide directional control. From a half year of practice my fingers were as versed in the details of the face as a watchmaker’s are in finding the bend of a mainspring. I took the area around my wrist as my standard for skin color and used a greater quantity of
titanous oxide to whiten the temples and the point of the chin, adding cadmium red to give a blush to the cheeks. Moreover, I deliberately used conspicuous color blotches as I drew near to the surface and went so far as to apply some grey spots especially around the nostrils, thus contriving to produce a naturalness consonant with my age. Last of all, I applied liquid resin to the transparent layer, that is, the thin fluorescent membrane to which I had transferred the skin surface I had bought and which had a ratio of refraction close to that of ceratin. When I applied compressed steam to it for a very short time, it contracted and set in a perfect fit. Since I had not yet put in the wrinkles, it was too smooth, but one had the feeling of something living, as if it had been a moment ago stripped from a living person. (I had spent a good twenty-two or twenty-three days to bring the mask this far.)

The next problem was the treatment of the edging of the skin. Around the forehead I could devise something with my hair (fortunately it was plentiful and also somewhat curly). Around the eyes I decided to make a number of small wrinkles and to hide the edge by darkening the skin pigmentation and wearing sunglasses. As for the lips, I would insert the flange up underneath and attach it to the gums. I could manage the nostrils by attaching two rather stiff tubes and inserting them into my nose. But the jaw line was a little troublesome. There was only one way. I should have to conceal it with a beard.

I planted each strand, carefully observing the angle and direction, using only the thinner hair from my head and planting some fifty to sixty filaments per square inch. The labor was time-consuming—I spent another twenty days on the beard alone—but even more, I was plagued by a psychological resistance to the device. Fifty years ago beards were all too common, but now they are unusual. When I hear the word
“beard” the first thing I think of, unfortunately, is the policeman in his police-box in front of the station.

Of course, it doesn’t follow that all bearded men are bullies or heroes. There’s the fortuneteller’s beard, the Lenin cut, or again the European aristocrat’s. And then there’s the Castro beard and what is apparently the latest style—the beards sported by youngsters posing as artists, but just what that is called I don’t know. Even though I would inevitably appear eccentric with my beard and dark glasses, there was no other way; but at least I could try to devise something that would not create too bad an impression.

The result is what you are already familiar with, and there is no need to describe it again. I myself was in no position to judge the mask, nor did I have specific ideas for improving it. I suppose I should have been satisfied with what I had. Indeed, I could not avoid some little regret, but.…

No, TO SAY
regret is off-handed, for I realized that it implies a profound concern for outward appearance. My feeling was still something vague, unformulated, but it hurt like a swelling on the tongue each time I opened my mouth, like an unpleasant premonition, warning against heedless chatter.

That evening, when I finished planting the last hair of the beard, the tweezers had left black blood-blisters on the
ball of my thumb. A pain that made me clammy with perspiration turned into tiny embers that smoldered flickeringly in the depths of my eyes. The whole surface of my eyes had clouded over like dirty windowpanes with a soft, honey-like secretion, that kept oozing out no matter how much I wiped it away. As I stood up to go to the lavatory and wash my face, I was suddenly aware that day had already come. And the instant I involuntarily averted my face from the brilliance of the morning light spilling over the window ledge, piercing to the core of my head, shame suddenly overcame me.

I recalled a dream of a day when summer had come to an end and autumn had just begun. It was a dream like some old silent movie that began with a most peaceful scene, in which my father, back from his work, was taking off his shoes in the vestibule and I—I was perhaps not quite ten—was at his side absently watching him. But suddenly the peace was broken. Another father came back from work. This one, curiously enough, was identical to the first; the only thing different was the hat he wore on his head. In contrast to the straw hat that my first father was wearing, the second wore a creased soft felt. When the father with the soft hat saw the one with the straw hat, he looked clearly contemptuous and gave an exaggerated shudder in rebuke for such evident bad form. Whereupon the one in the straw hat smiled mournfully in quite unbecoming confusion and left as if he were furtively escaping, the shoe he had removed dangling in his hand. The child that I was looked heartbrokenly after the retreating figure of my straw-hat father … when suddenly the film broken with a snap. But for some reason, the painful memory of the incident lingered on.

It might be called a child’s feeling about the change of seasons … but I wonder whether it would be possible after several decades for the memory of such an insignificant incident to remain so vivid. I can’t believe it. The two hats I saw
were surely something quite different. Something, for example, like symbols for the unforgivable lies that exist in human relationships. Yes, I can say only one thing for sure: the trust I had had in my father up to then was completely betrayed by the exchange of hats. Perhaps, since then, I have continued to suffer shame in my father’s place.

But this time the positions were inverted. It was my turn to have to excuse myself. Looking into a mirror, I stared at the inflamed scar webs, whipping up my desire for the mask. Yet, it was not I who should feel ashamed. If there was anyone who should suffer, was it not rather the world that had buried me alive, that made no attempt to recognize a man’s personality without the passport of the face?

With a renewed feeling of defiance, I went back to the mask. I was struck by the insolent look of the bearded face with its prominent nose. I thought the weirdness came perhaps from seeing only separate parts, and I tried hanging it flat against the wall, stepping back several paces and peering at it through my hand held like a spyglass. Yet I was not overjoyed at having finished, and a feeling not unlike sorrow that I might gradually be taken over by this other face came to me.

Perhaps my depression was owing to fatigue. I told myself that for encouragement. It wasn’t only the mask; wasn’t it always like this when one finished a big job? Only those not responsible for the results can experience the pleasure of having finished a piece of work. Perhaps prejudice about faces functions in the subconscious too. No matter how much I fight against considering the face sacred, the root of the evil may exist in the depths of the subconscious. It is much the same as people who don’t believe in ghosts but are afraid of the dark.

I decided then to make myself go on with the work, whatever the price. Anyway, I had up my mind to try on the mask
for a final check. First I undid the protuberance under the ear, then when I had loosened the part under the jaw, unfastened the lips, and extracted the nostril tubes, I was able to strip the mask completely from the cast. It had become a soft, gelatinous membrane, like a wet plastic bag. Then, reversing the order I had just followed, I carefully placed it over my face. There seemed to be no technical fault, and it clung to me like a well-fitting shirt; the lump in my throat descended with a gulp into my stomach.

I peered into the mirror. A man I did not know looked coolly back at me. Indeed, not the slightest detail would make one think it was me. The color, the luster, the feeling were all successful—a perfect disguise. Yet, what in heaven’s name was this emptiness? Perhaps it was the fault of the mirror—the lighting seemed somewhat unnatural—at once I opened the shutters and let in the daylight.