Faces
By Dora Ilieva
()
About this ebook
A city is created by its inhabitants – people who laugh and cry, love and hate, struggle, fail or succeed. Their fates combine in one huge beating heart – the heart of the city. This short story collection takes the readers into the heart of the city of Toronto and makes them part of its innermost feelings and dreams.
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Faces - Dora Ilieva
FACES
Dora Ilieva
Text copyright © 2015 Dora Ilieva
ISBN-13: 978-1514344989
ISBN-10: 151434498X
Contents
No table of contents entries found.
ALONE
They met at Royal York subway station as it was arranged in advance. He arrived first because he was in a hurry and wanted to get it over with. She came half an hour later all flustered, dragging their little daughter by the hand.
I see your punctuality hasn’t improved,
he remarked sarcastically.
She stared at him like a mad tigress.
Don’t you talk to me about punctuality. If you had to get up at six every morning to take Nelly to the day care, then rush to work, then rush back to the day care, you wouldn’t be very punctual either.
Why don’t you ask your mother to help you?
he asked in a conciliatory voice.
She helps when she can,
his ex-wife responded in a cutting voice. Today she couldn’t. She went to Peterborough. And I am meeting Joanne, so here you are – the backpack, her snow pants if you decide to take her out and … that’s it. Goodbye.
The situation is unravelling way too fast,
he thought. Aloud he said:
Look, Sylvia, can you maybe keep Nelly this week as well? Then I will take care of her two weekends in a row.
His voice was gentle and pleading, but Sylvia refused to listen.
I can’t,
she said tersely. I have plans for the weekend. And I’m meeting Joanne. I told you already.
I have plans too!
What do you mean you have plans too? Nelly, be a good girl! Take Bunny to that bench by the recycling bin and rock him to sleep. Mommy and Daddy need to talk.
The little girl took the bunny that her mother handed her and went to the bench as told. Her mother turned to her ex-husband.
Please, don’t make things more difficult, Sean. It’s your turn to look after her and that’s it. You can’t make plans for the weekend when you know you have to take care of your daughter!
Sean felt his patience evaporate. His voice was ugly when he spoke.
You have to take her this weekend, do you understand or is this too complicated for you?
Sylvia shrugged.
Don’t be rude. You can’t bully me into that. You know very well that I won’t take her! I had her last weekend and I couldn’t do anything! My weekend was ruined.
So what? You could always get your mother to babysit. I know you don’t pay her when she does it. Me, I have to hire a babysitter and I just don’t have the time tonight. I have to go out with the guys. I haven’t been able to do it in months, so I don’t give a shit whose turn it is to care for her.
Now look, Sean, be reasonable. The judge said you have to care of her every second weekend. She’s with me the entire week and on half of the weekends. I need some time to myself.
Then you shouldn’t have gotten pregnant. You should’ve been more diligent with the fucking pills!
Now don’t you start that or I’ll get really angry. She’s as much your daughter as she’s mine and it IS YOUR TURN to take her. Here’s her stuff!
She pushed a backpack in her ex-husband’s hands.
Everything that you will need is inside.
He dropped the backpack on the ground as if it had burned his fingers.
What the fuck are you doing? I told you I’m going out with the guys this weekend. I don’t have money for a fucking babysitter! And I …
he made a momentary pause, then continued forcefully: … I will need the place to be empty tonight.
You will need the place to be empty? Why? To bring in your whore? Now that’s a nice reason not to want to take care of your daughter! But you know what – it’s your turn and I can prove it in court, so pick up the fucking backpack and don’t make a scene.
With these words the young mother turned around and started down the stairs towards the waiting train.
Wait, Sylvia. I can’t take her! What are you doing, you bitch? I am not taking her, do you understand? Get your mother to babysit! Come back! Do you think you can play me like that? Well, just watch! I said I can’t take her and I’m leaving!
He turned towards the exit and started walking. Just before she disappeared behind the corner, Sylvia cast a glance at her ex and saw him approach the exit.
Bastard,
she hissed through her clenched teeth. He thinks he can play me like this? Well, he’s mistaken! Tonight he and his whore will have to take care of Nelly.
She heard the whistle and jumped into the train. The doors closed catching the end of her coat.
At the exit, her ex-husband cast a last glance towards the platform. He couldn’t see the train, but he heard the whistle.
Bitch,
he thought angrily. She thinks she can make me change my mind by pretending she’s leaving Nelly. I know you’re hiding at the platform! Bitch!
he yelled.
Several tired commuters cast offended glances at the visibly angry young man. An elderly woman looked as if she was going to talk to him, but though better of it and hurried towards the waiting bus instead. Nelly’s father left the subway station and started walking decisively up the street.
After a while rush hour was over and fewer people were going up and down the stairs. A conscientious gentleman saw the pink backpack lying by the railing and pointed it out to the ticket seller.
I suppose somebody forgot it,
he said, but you never know. Maybe you should call the police. One can’t be too careful these days.
The ticket seller nodded apathetically and continued working on the crossword puzzle he had in front of him. When he finished it, he got out, picked up the backpack and seeing that it contained only clothes, threw it into a bin that was marked Lost and Found
.
It was late at night when the cleaning crew arrived and started sweeping the floor of the subway station with diligence. In a corner, hidden behind the blue recycling containers, they found a little girl, no more than three years old, clutching a stuffed bunny. The tears had left dark traces on her face. She was sleeping and in her sleep she was whispering Mommy.
ANOTHER DAY
It felt like velvet under his nimble fingers. Soft and abundant, shiny and resilient it resisted and caressed his hands until it finally yielded to his skilful touch. Snip –snip sang the scissors enjoying the feeling of carefully cutting the beautiful brown mane, shaping it in a stylish short cut. With a sigh Silvio put the scissors away and took the electric razor. He did not believe in using it very often. It was too invasive and impersonal, but there were spots around the ears and especially on the neck that just could not be done in any other way. He finished quickly and took the thick powdered brush to make sure that the newly shaved spots were properly powdered and any small bothersome hairs that might have stuck around the collar or behind the ears were brushed away.
The next step was one that Silvio considered extremely important, although most of his colleagues and even some of his customers thought it was quite unnecessary, inappropriate even in a barbershop. He took a round hair brush and the hair dryer and began to style the newly cropped hair. The slight, almost imperceptible widening of his young customer’s eyes told him that once again the round hair brush and the styling were being considered part of the domain of ladies’ hair styling. Silvio smiled to the bewildered teenager and said:
You know boys’ hair is just as important as girls’. No, it’s more important because girls can do whatever they like to theirs. They can have it long, or cut it short or shave it. They can dye it, straighten it or curl it. Men don’t have so many options. Don’t worry, you won’t look like girl. Your hair is very nice.
And he held the mirror behind his customer’s head, so he could see the back. The boy nodded nervously.
It looks good. Thank you.
It looks fantastic, son,
beamed an elderly gentleman who was waiting his turn. Silvio knows what he is doing. He’s been doing this job for twenty years now. His father was a barber too and so was his grandfather. Italian men know how to take care of their hair. I come to the city once a month to have a haircut and it is always Silvio that I go to. There is nobody else like him. He has golden hands.
Silvio smiled as he brushed some invisible hairs off the neck of his customer and removed the black cape that protected his clothes. The boy rose slowly, still looking at himself in the mirror. He decided that he liked what he saw, turned around and went to the cash register.
In the meantime the elderly gentleman was already sitting in the vacated chair looking critically at his sparse greyish hair.
Cut it like always,
he said. I’ve promised my wife a younger husband tonight.
Silvio approached the new job with his customary care. A balding customer was no trifling matter. In cases like this the razor was strictly forbidden. Every single hair mattered. It had to be measured against the rest of them, cut carefully and placed in a precise spot.
Take a little more from the sides. Yeah, just about half an inch. That’s perfect. There’s a barber in the village, but I don’t trust him. He uses the razor too much. I told my friend Don: Silvio’s the guy who cut my hair before I retired and he will be the one I’ll visit once a month as long as I am able to drive to the city. But Don’s a simple guy, you know. He doesn’t care much about his hair. A number one is what he always gets. He says he doesn’t have to touch his hair for three months after that.
Silvio had finished cutting his customer’s hair. He brushed off the hairs, applied some sweet smelling gel to his customer’s scalp and massaged it energetically. Then knowing how much his customer appreciated