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Sofia Andrukhovych
clothes which flows down in
smooth folds holds a wooden
crutch—the only thing that
touches the ground.
Thorn hides the child under
the spread, slowly walks
around it, lovingly caressing
and patting—and again pulls
off the covering.
The child continues hanging
in the air. But no, this is not
a child: the same clothes and
turban, the same dark painted
eyes. The shape and features
of the face, its expression
and bearing—everything is
quite similar, but a grownup
woman is now onstage: the
clothing stretches over her
bosoms, you can see tired skin
around her eyes, bitterness
in the corners of her mouth.
The
woman
disappears
under the spread, and in a
minute she reappears anew.
Now it is an older lady with
deep wrinkles and sallow
skin. The drooping eyelids
almost fully cover the faded
eyes; colorless lips bend
down in a bow shape. She
sits motionlessly, without
any visible effort, holding on
to the crutch with her dried-
up hand. If you look carefully
you can still see in her the
marvelous girl that had
played the sitar.
The sight is unbearably
sad. The abandoned sitar
continues
humming,
as
if it says: you pass, and I
remain. Its tune mixes with
an uncomfortable coarse
sound. It seems that it
bothers Monsieur Thorn as
well: his face no longer calm,
he looks at the old woman
questioningly. He slowly
comes to her, stretches out
his arms, readying himself
to cover her with the silk.
The old woman wheezes;
coughing convulsively, her
gray lips spray foamy saliva.