‘Come here, I say!’ Fearfully I approached him like a student about to be punished.
I’d never been so close to his naked body; I didn’t like it. At first I wanted to believe it was for this reason that I could not approach him, but I knew I was afraid of the pustule. He knew it as well. Yet, wanting to conceal my fear I brought my head near and muttered something, my eyes fixed upon that swelling, that inflammation, with the air of a doctor. ‘You’re afraid, aren’t you?’ Hoja said at last. Trying to prove that I was not, I brought my head even closer. ‘You’re afraid it’s a plague bubo.’ I pretended not to have heard, and was about to say an insect had bitten him, probably the same strange insect that bit me too once, somewhere, but the creature’s name still did not come to mind. ‘Touch it, will you!’ said Hoja. ‘Without touching it how will you know? Touch me!’
When he saw I wouldn’t, he brightened up. He stretched out the fingers with which he’d touched the swelling towards my face. When he saw me start back with revulsion he laughed out loud, made fun of me for being afraid of a simple insect bite, but this merriment did not last long. ‘I’m afraid to die,’ he said suddenly. It was as if he were speaking of something else; he was more angry than ashamed; it was the anger of someone who felt betrayed. ‘Don’t you have a pustule like this? Are you sure? Take off your shirt, now!’ At his insistence I pulled off my shirt like a child who hates to be washed. The room was hot, the window was shut, but a cool breeze blew in from somewhere; perhaps it was the coldness of the mirror that made my flesh creep, I don’t know. Ashamed of how I must look, I stepped outside of the mirror’s frame. Now I saw Hoja’s face reflected obliquely as he brought his head near my torso in the mirror; he’d bent that huge head everyone said resembled mine straight towards my body. He’s doing this to poison my spirit, I thought all of a sudden; but I’d never done that to him, on the contrary, all these years I’d taken pride in being his teacher. Absurd as it was, for a moment I believed that bearded head, grotesque in the shadows of the lamplight, intended to suck my blood! Apparently I’d been much affected by those horror stories I’d loved to listen to as a child. While thinking this I felt his fingers on my abdomen; I wanted to run away, wanted to hit him over the head with something. ‘You don’t have one,’ he said. He went behind me and examined my armpits, my neck, the backs of my ears. ‘There are none here either, it seems the insect has not bitten you.’
Putting his hands on my shoulders he came forward and stood next to me. He acted like a dear old friend who had shared my deepest secrets. Squeezing the nape of my neck from both sides with his fingers, he pulled me towards him. ‘Come, let us look in the mirror together.’ I looked, and under the raw light of the lamp saw once more how much we resembled one another. I recalled how I’d been overwhelmed by this when I’d first seen him as I waited at Sadik Pasha’s door. At that time I had seen someone I must be; and now I thought he too must be someone like me. The two of us were one person! This now seemed to me an obvious truth. It was as if I were bound fast, my hands tied, unable to budge. I made a movement to save myself, as if to verify that I was myself. I quickly ran my hands through my hair. But he imitated my gesture and did it perfectly, without disturbing the symmetry of the mirror image at all. He also imitated my look, the attitude of my head, he mimicked my terror I could not endure to see in the mirror but from which, transfixed by fear, I could not tear my eyes away; then he was gleeful like a child who teases a friend by mimicking his words and movements. He shouted that we would die together! What nonsense, I thought. But I was also afraid. It was the most terrifying of all the nights I spent with
I’d never been so close to his naked body; I didn’t like it. At first I wanted to believe it was for this reason that I could not approach him, but I knew I was afraid of the pustule. He knew it as well. Yet, wanting to conceal my fear I brought my head near and muttered something, my eyes fixed upon that swelling, that inflammation, with the air of a doctor. ‘You’re afraid, aren’t you?’ Hoja said at last. Trying to prove that I was not, I brought my head even closer. ‘You’re afraid it’s a plague bubo.’ I pretended not to have heard, and was about to say an insect had bitten him, probably the same strange insect that bit me too once, somewhere, but the creature’s name still did not come to mind. ‘Touch it, will you!’ said Hoja. ‘Without touching it how will you know? Touch me!’
When he saw I wouldn’t, he brightened up. He stretched out the fingers with which he’d touched the swelling towards my face. When he saw me start back with revulsion he laughed out loud, made fun of me for being afraid of a simple insect bite, but this merriment did not last long. ‘I’m afraid to die,’ he said suddenly. It was as if he were speaking of something else; he was more angry than ashamed; it was the anger of someone who felt betrayed. ‘Don’t you have a pustule like this? Are you sure? Take off your shirt, now!’ At his insistence I pulled off my shirt like a child who hates to be washed. The room was hot, the window was shut, but a cool breeze blew in from somewhere; perhaps it was the coldness of the mirror that made my flesh creep, I don’t know. Ashamed of how I must look, I stepped outside of the mirror’s frame. Now I saw Hoja’s face reflected obliquely as he brought his head near my torso in the mirror; he’d bent that huge head everyone said resembled mine straight towards my body. He’s doing this to poison my spirit, I thought all of a sudden; but I’d never done that to him, on the contrary, all these years I’d taken pride in being his teacher. Absurd as it was, for a moment I believed that bearded head, grotesque in the shadows of the lamplight, intended to suck my blood! Apparently I’d been much affected by those horror stories I’d loved to listen to as a child. While thinking this I felt his fingers on my abdomen; I wanted to run away, wanted to hit him over the head with something. ‘You don’t have one,’ he said. He went behind me and examined my armpits, my neck, the backs of my ears. ‘There are none here either, it seems the insect has not bitten you.’
Putting his hands on my shoulders he came forward and stood next to me. He acted like a dear old friend who had shared my deepest secrets. Squeezing the nape of my neck from both sides with his fingers, he pulled me towards him. ‘Come, let us look in the mirror together.’ I looked, and under the raw light of the lamp saw once more how much we resembled one another. I recalled how I’d been overwhelmed by this when I’d first seen him as I waited at Sadik Pasha’s door. At that time I had seen someone I must be; and now I thought he too must be someone like me. The two of us were one person! This now seemed to me an obvious truth. It was as if I were bound fast, my hands tied, unable to budge. I made a movement to save myself, as if to verify that I was myself. I quickly ran my hands through my hair. But he imitated my gesture and did it perfectly, without disturbing the symmetry of the mirror image at all. He also imitated my look, the attitude of my head, he mimicked my terror I could not endure to see in the mirror but from which, transfixed by fear, I could not tear my eyes away; then he was gleeful like a child who teases a friend by mimicking his words and movements. He shouted that we would die together! What nonsense, I thought. But I was also afraid. It was the most terrifying of all the nights I spent with
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