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Sofia Andrukhovych
To dispel an illusion it is
enough simply to be attentive
and honestly recognize that
you see exactly what you see.
Adela shakes her head
negatively. She wants to
believe in miracles, the
eternal child. Petro squints
his eyes cunningly, gives me
a conspiratorial grin.
When silence again envelops
the hall, Thorn nods just
barely, waits for a few more
slow moments, and then,
having opened with agile
fingers the trunk, starts
taking out of it some bright-
colored rags, embroidered
long shirts, wide pantaloons
with cockades and frills,
tulles, lace, and shawls with
colorful appliqués, elegant
leather shoes with tips
curling upward. Without
haste, he demonstrates all of
this to the public, one piece
after another, from all sides,
and places then in a pile on
the floor. Then he turns the
trunk upside down, shakes
it, and asks the audience to
confirm that not a single
item is hiding in its mahogany
bosom. Except perhaps a few
spools of rope.
Thorn takes a bundle of straw
from the pagoda and starts
stuffing with it one item
of clothing after another,
tamping it down thoroughly.
Soon next to him stands a
female dummy tightly held
together by ropes—a face
made of sackcloth, a high
turban
pinned
together
with a brooch, long clothes
flowing down to the floor.
Chevalier
starts
making
another dummy, stuffing an
undershirt with straw with
familiar movements, like a
butcher stuffing a pork gut
with a mixture of kasha and
blood. The second dummy is
a man in dark baggy trousers