JANKO POLIC KAMOY
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forced us really, to kiss our sister. That has to be the most terrible moment
of my life. To kiss that face with no blood, no flesh, no warmth in it! Who
is that? ..
.I
am now terrifyingly cold. I barely touch her with my lips, hav–
ing first touched her with my nose. And my mother, who has made us do
this, now looks terrible, merciless and abhorrent, like she is not our moth–
er at all. And our sister isn't our sister. I could look at her like this (if they
made me) for all eternity without shedding a single tear. She is so cold that
I too feel cold. Moreover, I sincerely doubt that that thing over there had
ever been my sister, that I ever had a sister; I doubt that the thing had ever
been alive. ...Maybe I would look at "the thing there" with curiosity if it
hadn't been my sister. .. that is, if I weren't afraid that the others would see
it was curiosity and curiosity alone....
I am sullen.
How warmly, how sensually, how brotherly I mourned for my sister
yesterday, when my clean, sweet-smelling, beautiful godmother was here,
and not these dirty, crooked, yellow old crones smelling like sweaty socks.
They spoiled everything for me, even my crying; I don't feel like doing
anything, even mourning....
Mother also is ugly, skinny and wrinkled today, all blue in the face. Just
like those old crones. How different that kiss yesterday had been. I can still
see my godmother-like last night...
.I
love her and only her. No one else.
Because I no longer have a sister.
I sneaked into the drawing-room. Dark, humid, silent. Something
moved on the couch. Joso! He quickly pushed his handkerchief into his
pocket and Ieft.
Ah!
He cried when no one could see him! Him too! So he won't be able
to make fun of me; I am not a child. So Joso too loved my sister more than
I did. He forced himself not to cry in front of the others, so they would
not see him. And I forced myself to cry so they could see me.
Oh, God! Oh, God!
Am I really the only sinner? Not one tear was really for my sister.
Everyone loved her and still loves her more than I did. Because alone like
this, where no one can see me, I cannot cry. I cannot!
Oh, God! Oh, God!
I call her face to mind, but in vain! Stupid me! They were not wrong
when they said that I had no memory. I push my face into my hands, into
the armchair, into the couch, I close my eyes with my hands, with my
elbows-to no avail. .. nothing. I have forgotten my sister's face....And she
used to carry me around, comb my hair, change my clothes. When I was
ill, she would read to me....When I was little, she preached to me. She was
pretty and pink. Her eyes never smiled, she rarely smiled. When I went
