The Face of Another (4 page)

“Well, you see … there was an explosion of liquid oxygen during an experiment I was performing. Perhaps because I was always accustomed to using liquid nitrogen—anyway, I was careless.…”

“Are they keloid scars?”

“On the whole face. I apparently have a predisposition to keloids. The doctor who diagnosed it fumbled and only irritated the scars, and there was a relapse; he just gave it up.”

“But it appears to be all right around the lips.”

Meanwhile I took off my sunglasses. “My eyes are intact too, thanks to my glasses. Perhaps it was fortunate I had to wear them for my myopia.…”

“That was lucky!” he exclaimed, as if it were he who was scarred. And then he added eagerly, “At least, you have your eyes and lips. If you couldn’t move them, it would be really bad. Camouflage would be worthless, no matter how much form you constructed.…”

K appeared enthusiastic about his work. He stared intently into my face, and in his mind he already seemed to be drawing a rough sketch. I suddenly changed the subject so as not to disappoint him.

“I read your article. It must have been last year, in the summer as I recall.…”

“That’s right. It was last year.”

“And you know, I was amazed. I hadn’t dreamed anything so elaborate could be done.”

K picked up a shriveled finger with apparent satisfaction, and as he gently let it fall on his palm said: “You’ve got to have perseverance in this work, you know. Don’t you think these fingerprints are quite the same as the real thing? They are so much so, actually, that the police department asked to register them.”

“Do you use plaster of Paris for making the mold?”

“No, I use a silicon paste. Because plaster of Paris always skips the details. Look, see how clearly even the cuticle of the nail comes out.”

I gingerly picked it up with the tips of my fingers; it had the soft feel of a living thing, and while I realized it was a fabrication, I had the weird sensation that it could infect me with—well, with death.

“It’s something of a profane feeling, isn’t it?”

“I expect a human body is.…” K triumphantly took up another finger and stood it vertically on the surface of the table, with the cut edge down. A dead man seemed to be thrusting his finger upward through the boards of the table. “The trick is to deliberately make them slightly dirty like this.
If you went along with the patients’ ideas to prettify them, you would get something very strange. For example, this is a middle finger, so on the back side of the first joint, I tried applying this brownish spot. It looks a little like a tobacco stain, doesn’t it.”

“Do you put it on with a brush or something?”

“Not at all.…” For the first time, K laughed out loud. “If you painted it on, it would come right off, wouldn’t it? I build up different color elements from underneath. For example, for the nail, acetic acid vinyl … at the joints, the shadows of wrinkles … in places along the veins, a faint bluish green.”

“Isn’t this simply handicraft? Probably anyone could do it.”

“That’s true,” he said, jiggling his leg. “But such stuff as this is elementary compared to work on the face. Whatever you say, it’s the face that’s hardest. First of all, there’s the expression. As soon as you put on a bump or a wrinkle, even no more than a tenth of a millimeter, it takes on a profound meaning.”

“But you can’t make it move at all, I suppose, can you?”

“That’s expecting too much.” K spread his legs and directly faced me. “I’ve put all my efforts into making the outside of the face; I haven’t come to movement. Of course, you can partially make up for this deficiency by choosing an area where there’s little motion. But there’s another problem—ventilation. In your case, I wouldn’t know until I looked, but judging from what I see, you are perspiring even through the bandage. The sweat glands must still be alive. Because with the sweat glands alive, you can’t cover the whole face with something that allows no ventilation. It’s not only physiologically bad, but it would be so stifling I doubt you could stand it even half a day. It’s best to be moderate about this kind of thing. An extreme change would be as laughable as an old man’s fitting himself up with baby teeth. Any modification
that doesn’t call attention to itself is by far the most effective.… Can you take off the bandage yourself?”

“I can … but.…” Musing how best to tell him I was not a patient, as K seemed to think, I said: “To tell the truth, I’m in something of a fix, since I haven’t completely made up my mind. I suppose there’s no particular need at this point to be so fussy about my facial injury, to the extent of making such stopgap substitutes as these.”

“Indeed there is!” K spoke emphatically, as if to encourage me. “Injuries to the body, especially the face, are not treated simply as problems of form. We should rather speak of them as belonging in the province of mental hygiene. Otherwise, who would willingly devote his efforts to cosmetic work? As a doctor, I have my pride. I should never be satisfied to be only a craftsman making imitations.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Do you, really?” he asked. “You’re the one who said my work was only on the level of handicraft.”

“I didn’t particularly mean it that way.”

“Don’t worry about it … please,” K rejoined with the generosity of an understanding schoolmaster. “When it comes right down to it, you’re not the only one who vacillates. No, it’s common enough to feel resistance to having one’s face manufactured. Perhaps, since modern times.… Even now, primitive men make false faces as a matter of course.… I’m unfortunately not enough of a specialist to understand why attitudes have changed. But there’s statistical proof. For example, if you consider exterior wounds, facial injuries are about one and a half times as numerous as injuries to the four extremities. And yet the number of people who request treatment for the loss of a limb or even a finger is eighty percent higher. There’s clearly some taboo about the face. On this point even doctors are in agreement. There are only a few
opinionated men who treat my work as that of a high-class, money-grubbing beautician.”

“But it isn’t particularly strange to respect content more than appearance, is it?”

“Do you mean respecting contents that have no container? I have no faith in that. As far as I’m concerned I firmly believe that man’s soul is housed in his skin.”

“Metaphorically speaking, of course.…”

“It’s no metaphor …,” he continued soothingly, but in a conclusive tone. “Man’s soul is in his skin. I believe that to the letter. During the war when I was in the Army as a doctor, I learned that through intense experience. It was routine on the battlefield for men to have their arms and legs shot off and their faces smashed to pieces. But what do you think the wounded appreciated most? It wasn’t their lives, nor even the recovery of their faculties; what concerned men more than anything else was whether or not their looks would be the same as before. At first, I too would laugh them down. Because on the battlefield any value outside of bodily health and the number of stars on your insignia did not signify. However, one time I came across a soldier who didn’t seem to be badly hurt, outside of a horribly disfigured face; but just when he was on the point of leaving the hospital, he committed suicide. He had been in a state of shock. Since then, I have come to observe with the greatest care the appearance of soldiers who have been wounded. And, ultimately, I have come to one conclusion. And it’s a distressing one: serious exterior injuries, especially to the face, leave definite mental trauma.”

“Well.… I suppose there are such cases. But, as long as there’s not exactly any basis in theory for the idea, I should not think of it as a general law no matter how many instances there were.” Suddenly an intolerable anger welled up in me. I had not come to talk about myself.

“Actually, I myself don’t feel so keenly about it yet,” I went on. “I beg your pardon. I’m terribly sorry I’ve been wasting your valuable time when I’m so undecided.”

“Please, just a minute.” He chuckled confidently. “Perhaps I have imposed on you, but I’m quite certain of what I’m saying. If you let things go as they are, most assuredly you’ll spend your whole life in bandages. The very fact of your wearing them at present is proof you think them infinitely better than what’s underneath. Well, for the present the face you had before you were hurt is still more or less living in the memories of the people around you. But time doesn’t wait. Gradually that memory will grow faint. People who never saw your original face will come to know you. In the end, you will be sentenced for nonpayment on the promissory note of your bandage. Although you’re alive, you’ll be consigned to oblivion.”

“You’re exaggerating! What do you mean by that?”

“You can see any number among the injured who have lost the use of their arms and legs. Even blind men and deaf mutes are not so extraordinary. But where have you ever seen a man without a face? You probably haven’t. Do you think they have all evaporated into thin air?”

“I don’t know. I’m not interested in other people.”

Inadvertently, my voice had become strident. It was like being severely lectured and forced to buy a lock after one has gone to the police station to report a theft. But K had not given up.

“I’m sorry, but apparently you don’t really understand. The face, in the final analysis, is the expression. The expression—how shall I put it?—well, the expression is something like an equation by which we show our relationship with others. It’s a roadway between oneself and others. If it’s blocked by a landslide, even those who have been at pains to travel it will
think you are now some uninhabited, dilapidated house and perhaps pass by.”

“That’s quite all right. There’s no need for them to force themselves to stop in.”

“In short, you mean you’re going your own way, don’t you?”

“Is that wrong?”

“It’s an established theory in infant psychology that the human animal can validate his ego only through the eyes of others. Have you ever seen the expressions of imbeciles or schizophrenics? If the roadway is left blocked too long, one ultimately quite forgets there is one.”

To avoid being cornered, I tried to strike back at random.

“Yes, indeed. So let’s suppose that expression is precisely what you say. Isn’t it all rather contradictory, though? How in the world will you restore expression with your way of doing things, which is to put a makeshift cover over only a certain part of the face?”

“Don’t worry. If you’re concerned, please leave that to me. That’s my specialty. At least, I have confidence that I can offer you something better than your bandages. Well, now, shall we take them off? I’d like you to let me take a few pictures, and with them as a basis, we’ll make a graduated selection, by a process of elimination, of the elements necessary for the restoration of expression. We’ll pick some stable places with little mobility and.…”

“I beg your pardon, but.…” I wanted only to get away. I forgot all about keeping up appearances and began to entreat and implore him. “Rather than that, I wonder if you wouldn’t just sell me that one finger.”

As I anticipated, K was struck dumb with amazement, and rubbing his wrist along his thigh, said: “A finger.… This one, do you mean?”

“If you won’t sell a finger, an ear or anything else will do very well.”

“But.… It’s a question of the keloid scars on your face, I thought.”

“I’m sorry. If it’s impossible, I’ll get along without it, but.…”

“I don’t understand. It’s not particularly that I can’t sell you a finger, but … but, even that is surprisingly expensive. Anyhow, for each one, I have to make an antimony cast, you see. The cost of materials alone comes to about fifty dollars. And that’s a low estimate.…”

“Fine.”

“I really don’t understand … what you’re thinking of.”

He didn’t have to understand. The whole exchange between us seemed to be proceeding on two quite divergent rails. I took out my wallet and, as I counted out the money, I repeated my earnest apologies.

I left, holding the artificial finger in my pocket like a dangerous weapon. The shadows and light of evening were extremely distinct, but seemed more artificial than the finger. When some young boys who were playing catch in a narrow lane saw me, they changed color and pressed away from me against the fence. Their faces looked as though they were dangling by their ears on clothespins. If I took off the bandage and showed them the real thing, they’d be a lot more surprised! I was seized with an impulse to rip off my bandages in earnest and to jump into the midst of this landscape that seemed like pasted bits of paper. But without a face, it was impossible for me to take a single step away from my bandages. The picture of brandishing the fake finger in my pocket with all my might and ripping that landscape to pieces floated into my mind. I was no more affected by K’s disagreeable remark about being buried alive than by the filling of a molar. Well, look, if I could cover my face with an imitation completely indistinguishable from the real thing, however fake the landscape might be, it couldn’t make me an outcast.

T
HAT
evening, I stood the artificial finger on the table like a candle and spent a sleepless night endlessly pondering one aspect and then another of the “fake” which appeared more genuine than the real thing.