THE POWER AND THE GLORY
I went to school on Monday. No-one dared. Maybe among themselves, but not with me. I asked Kostya to come in the evening. I don’t love you, I said. He stretched out his hand. “Don’t you dare!” He doesn’t dare touch my cheeks, scratched red raw. I can never love someone like him. Against the whole world. I am not lady Anne, I’m not Nastassia Filippovna. I am a freak. Nothing new.
On Tuesday, F. called Kostya and me to stay behind, warning a photographer would come tomorrow. B.G. had asked, the school should have our photographs. She’s speaking indifferently. “Says he wants to make a special drama stand next to the war memorial museum. For the generations to come.” She pronounced B.G.’s words with such force, as though we were already gone. The photographer came in
