An old friend told me this story a long time ago.  “Remember our school?” he asked me.  “Back in 8th grade, when we were fourteen?  There was a girl called Jana; remember her?  Well, I do; she's hard to forget.  Ugly as sin; probably the ugliest girl I've ever met.  There was something wrong with her medically,
some kind of a hormonal imbalance, or a skin disease, or a congenital
disfigurement, or perhaps all of these put together.  She was short and fat; her broad face was ruddy—the unhealthy red that comes from rosacea.  Her skin was lumpy and coarse, covered with pimples and strange spots and moles.  On closer inspection (and I did inspect closer, that's the whole point; but I'm getting ahead of myself) you could see that some of the larger moles sprouted hairs.

“The strange thing was, no one ever taunted or made fun of her, at least not that I remember.  I didn't find it odd at the time, even though kids can be cruel and we were no exception.  Much later, I decided it was because of her eyes.  They were huge, blue and clear like glacial lakes; they shone with an expression of almost preternatural meekness.  Have you noticed how ugliness can come in different kinds?  Hers was that of a doe mangled by a truck: horrible and pitiful at the same time.  The two extremes combined were very powerful; they forced us into decency.  Even when she wasn't around, we'd never say anything worse than 'Jana, you know…'; and the other person would shake his head, or nod, and that would be the end of it—although what was there to know except her lousy, lousy luck?

“Maybe our restraint was a reflection of her shyness.  I've never seen anyone able to efface oneself so completely.  Maybe that's why you can't remember her now.  She would sit in the corner at the very back of the class, quiet as a mouse.  She never raised her hand when teachers called on us.  Not that they'd call on her directly.  The same burden of decency must have weighed on them, too.

“Like the rest, I paid her only intermittent attention.  Hardly surprising, considering that I was—still am—easily distracted.  I was interested in things other than people then; ants, for example.  There are ant colonies that live in the cracks in the pavement and I could spend hours poking at them with a stick.  Don't laugh; it was great fun.  I'd jab at the ground right before some busy ant.  It would halt, puzzled by a great pole descended from the sky, and then change direction.  I'd use the stick to bar its new course and so on, until the ant didn't know where to go and just stood there in utter confusion.  I wouldn't always kill it in the end; sometimes I'd observe it and let it go.

“There are some kids who burn ants with magnifying glasses.  I never did that.  Too cruel, too stupid, not to mention uninteresting.  There's nothing to learn from such play.  It is neat, I suppose, to gather harmlessly diffused sunlight into a killing spot and to test in on creatures whose death inspires no pangs of conscience; but it grows old fast.

***

“Something happened eventually that made me notice Jana.  It was one of those accidental events that determine everything that happens after.  Without it, things would have turned out completely different.  It was a photograph, a picture of Jana glimpsed by chance in the hands of the Sowing Circle—that's what I called several particularly giggly girls who made an effort to befriend her.  They tried to adopt her, kind of like one adopts a stray kitten.  I don't know how they wheedled the photograph out of her.  It didn't matter.  What mattered was the content: Jana at six or seven, a perfect, skinny little blonde girl with pigtails and luminous pale skin, smiling brightly at the camera and hugging some plush-toy abomination.  It was a studio shot, and over the little girl-fairy's fair head the turquoise painted heavens blossomed with festive white clouds.

“I remember noticing how glossy and new the picture looked; it hadn't been shown to many people or taken out of the album often.  It had a strange effect on me.  Jana's gentle ugliness, while unsettling, was manageable—but the notion of a beautiful cygnet turned ugly duck?  I was smitten.  I have an excitable nature; it has been a source of many unpleasant experiences over the years, and this time was no exception.  I started out with startled curiosity and, in relatively short time, grew obsessed.  I seesawed between fascination and repulsion.  I was dying to find out what happend to her but at the same time felt that this curiosity was unhealthy, almost as if it dirtied me just to be curious about her.  At some point, my imagination suggested what I deemed a brilliant solution: an anonymous love poem.  It would be like a jab with a stick; I could be the invisible giant watching from above to see how the ant reacted.

“Our school days would be interrupted by a long break in the early afternoon, when everybody left their bags in the classroom and shuffled off to the cafeteria to get lunch.  One Friday, I waited until the room emptied out and slipped a note with the poem into Jana's bag.  My heart raced with excitement.  All I had to do was wait for her to discover the note.  Her reaction would then guide my further actions.

“As my classmates trickled back in before the bell, I settled in my chair and prepared to observe.  However, it soon became clear that spying on Jana would be harder than I thought.  I sat in the front of the class; she sat in the back.  I couldn't keep turning my head without drawing unwelcome notice.  That's why I missed the moment she came across the note.  At one point I stole a quick peek to discover her already staring intently at the familiar piece of paper.  Her normally calm gargoyle face spelled disbelief.  It was hard to tell from her complexion, but I thought she was blushing.

“She finished reading and shot a quick glance around the room to see if anyone had noticed.  For a brief moment, her eyes connected with mine.  I turned away immediately feeling the shameful warmth spread across my cheeks.  I was cursing my carelessness.  Giants may be able to lurk unseen overhead but I was still an ant, albeit a curious one, and ants follow formic laws.

“The remaining hours of the school day stretched like a rubber band waiting to snap.  I kept waiting for Jana's reaction.  Presently, the last bell of the day rang out and the students started packing their books.  I saw Jana exit the classroom, her book bag over her shoulder, without so much as turning around for another look.  In a sense, it was a relief; it meant that there would be no reaction, that she didn't notice me spying after all.

“Weekend came and passed.  I was a little nervous on Monday, but the new week quietly segued into Tuesday, then Wednesday, with nothing interesting having taken place.  I watched Jana with growing puzzlement. Beyond her initial fluster, she gave no sign that the poem had affected her in any way.  I'm no Shakespeare but even the worst doggerel should have piqued her interest, or made her uneasy, or angered her.  Instead, she carried on with her usual porcine equanimity, inscrutable and impenetrable as a blank wall.

“By the end of the week, I took action.  My new poem was much more thoroughly constructed: I invoked the imagery of a lonely desert cactus, gnarled and prickly, that gets whisked away from its parched solitude into the flower pot of some charming lover of flora, who tends to it diligently, ignoring the needle pricks and the plant's indifference to care, until one day a beautiful flower sprouts forth from the cactus to reward the noble labors of his love, etc., etc.

“Wised up now, I brought a small mirror to conduct my surveillance in the least conspicuous manner.  Sitting in the classroom exactly one week after the failed first attempt, I captured in my slightly trembling hand the reflection of my duck as she found the new missive from a secret admirer.

“I knew she saw it when, while rummaging in her bag, she suddenly froze.  Without touching the note, she raised her eyes and again looked around the room.  I had concealed the mirror well and was in no danger of being discovered, so I sat calmly, facing away from her, and drank in every shade of expression on that bloated, fascinating face.

“She gingerly pulled the pages halfway out of the bag, ready to hide them should anyone show interest.  No one did.  She began to read, eyes moving back and forth, tracing the flow of lines.  At first her face was guarded, lips tightly pursed; then the lines of her mouth slackened and her eyes widened with incredulity; finally—suddenly—her faced twitched, her lips quivered, and she roughly shoved the unfinished pages back in the bag.

“She waited for a moment—trying to regain control of her voice, I gather.  Then she raised her hand: a small jerk upwards, a dip of hesitation, and a final rise to attention-capturing zenith.  The teacher stopped his explanation of physics and asked reluctantly: 'What is it?'

“ ‘Bathroom,' she whispered.

“He gave a curt nod, and under the incurious stares of the rest of the class Jana rushed out of the room and out of my mirror's sight.

“I immediately set my mind to follow her.  I should have been satisfied with the results already achieved but some tiny demon in my head was nagging for more; I could almost hear a shrill demanding little voice.  I had to know the exact degree of Jana's distress.  It's the same curiosity that makes one shout down a cavernous well—the darker, the better—and listen for echos.

“I waited for a couple of minutes before asking to go to the bathroom myself.  No one paid any attention to my exit; no one certainly had made any connection between my and Jana's actions.  I walked down an empty dark hallway, its echoing silence disturbed only by the faint murmur of classes in progress behind closed doors.  At its end, two doors faced off in a dark cul-de-sac: one for boys, the other for girls.

“I pressed my ear against the door to the girls' bathroom.  Nothing.  I shifted closer to the line where the door met the frame.  A hint of a sound came from within; it could have been sobbing.  It stopped immediately.  I strained to hear it again but everything was quiet.  What was she doing in there?

“My hand found the metal handle.  I fondled it, unsure what to do.  There wasn't much time left; I couldn't pretend to be in the bathroom too long and at any rate Jana might soon decide that she had cried enough and emerge into the hallway to find me eavesdropping.

“After some hesitation, I decided to leave.  However, as I started to let go of the handle, it jerked in my fingers; the door flew open.  Jana really was crying; I noticed wet cheeks and a face made even more ogreish than usual by the after-tears swelling.  She looked hideous.

“ ‘Shit!' I exclaimed.  'I mean, sorry.  Wrong door.'

“I turned towards the mens' room but Jana's voice snapped out like a whip: 'Stop!  Don't you dare go!'

“I froze, struck not so much by fear as by surprise.  I had never heard her voice rise above a semi-whisper before.  Did the high ceilings amplify it?

“ ‘I am sorry,' I said.  'I just made a mistake.'

“ ‘No, you didn't,' she said.  'I know you were listening.  And I know that you wrote that… that shit I found in my bag.'

“I'd never heard her curse before, either.

“ ‘I don't know what you're—'

“ ‘Oh, stop it!' she interrupted.  'Come in here.'

“She stepped aside from the bathroom entrance.

“My jaw dropped. 'What?!'

“ ‘I can't talk to you in the hallway.'  When I didn't move, she added menacingly:  'If you don't come in, I'll start screaming.  I'll tell them that you tried to force yourself on me.  They'll mock you until the day you graduate.  Do you want that to happen?'

“ ‘It's the girls' bathroom,' I said.

“ ‘There's no one else here.'  She grabbed my sleeve and tugged.  'Come on!'

“Her unexpected assertiveness astounded me so that I didn't put up much resistance.  She closed the door from the inside and turned towards me.

“ ‘Why did you do it?'

“ ‘Did what?' I said defensively.

“She took a sudden deep breath and screamed in my face—a shrill, piercing scream that hit me like a punch and broke into a million slivers against the glistening tiles.  I jumped back.  'Jesus!'  My voice shook.  'You're demented.'

“ ‘Why did you do it?' she demanded again, tears streaming down her now totally crimson face.  She shrieked: 'You bastard, why did you do it?'

“ ‘I just thought—'

“ ‘What?'  This fierce What hung in the air between us as I tried in vain to gather my shattered composure.

“ ‘I thought you might like it.'

“She stared—whether in anger or anguish, I couldn't tell.  Her breathing was heavy and fast, her hands clenched into nervous fists.  For a while, neither one of us spoke.

“ ‘Did you mean a word of it?' she finally asked.  Her voice was quiet again.

“ ‘I—  I don't know.'

“She closed her eyes and gave a bitter laugh.  'Of course you didn't.  How could you?'  She held her face with her hands.  'How could you like this?'

“All anger seemed to have left her, expended in a flash on that one desperate, animal scream.  Her shoulders dropped; she slouched feebly against the wall and looked away.

“ ‘I'm sorry,' I said.

“Without looking at me, she stated flatly: 'What you did was mean.  It's the meanest thing that anyone's ever done to me.'

“I felt something clawing at my chest and I said again: 'I'm sorry.'

“ ‘I thought when somebody threw a stone at you or called you a fat whore, that was the worst.  But you get used to that.  What you can't get used to is when somebody gives you hope where there can't be any and then takes it away.  That's the worst.'

“ ‘I am really, really sorry,' I repeated stupidly.  She turned to me; unable to meet her stare, I looked to the side.

“She whispered something I didn't understand.  I looked up and saw her eyes fixed steadily on mine.

“ ‘What?' I asked uncertainly.

“ ‘Kiss me,' she said.  'Please.'

“ ‘No!'  The word flew of my mouth even before I realized what I was saying.

“That face, that demonic pockmarked face of a gargoyle grew contorted with a spasm of anguish and tears of shame and hatred spurted out of her eyes.

“ ‘Please,' she said.  She pulled with fumbling fingers at the top button on her shirt.  'I could give you what you want.'

“ ‘Please don't do this,' I said.

“ ‘I am ugly,' she said.  'I'm repulsive, I'm a witch.  I am nothing, less than nothing—but I can give you something you'd want.'  At that she undid her shirt completely and opened it, and I—the damned fool; the miserable, wretched, loathsome dog—I stood there and looked at what she offered, and for a moment was tempted to take it.

“ ‘Put your hands on me,' she said, and came up to me, and tried to hold me.

“With a sound that originated somewhere in the recesses of my constricted throat and whose tone or pitch I couldn't quite control, I pushed her away.  I tore madly at the door as she fell on the floor behind me.  She cried in pain and that cry might as well have been a drill boring through my insides.

“I remember very little of what happened next: the dash down hallways and stairs, the wanderings around warm afternoon streets, the bus ride home.  At one point I was leaning against a tree in an alley, watching leaves tremble in oblique sunlight and marveling that the world still looked peaceful; there were even chirping birds.  Shame burned inside me, shame burned through me—and shame burned out the memories of the rest of that day, or of the days that followed.  Believe it or not, I can't even recall any trepidation before returning to school on Monday and having to face Jana again.  As it happens, whatever fears I had were unfounded; she never came to class and we soon found out that she had transferred to a place on the opposite end of town.  No one discovered what transpired between us, even though I left my books and all my belongings in class as I fled.  Anton, a good friend and my desk-mate, picked them up and gave them back to me the next day.  His jokes about my leaving for the bathroom never to return suggested he thought I fell victim to monstrous diarrhea.  I didn't contradict him.

“There's nothing more to tell, except maybe to mention that recently I heard about Jana again.  She lives about fifteen minutes away from here and works for some research institute, hidden away behind a desk in a far corner where no one can see her face.  No one could tell me much about her because, apparently, there isn't much to tell.  She isn't married or romantically involved.  She doesn't seem to have any friends.  She certainly has no children.  I imagine her spending her nights all by herself at home, silent.  I cannot guess what thoughts might fill her passing time then.  I doubt anybody ever thinks about her, except for me—for I think about her always, despite the intervening years and events, despite getting married, having children, advancing in the world.  Mostly I think about whether she still remembers me.  Sometimes I think about how nice it would be to forget her.  Then I remember that in a way, she had never existed, so in the end there is no one for me to be remembered by or to forget.”

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