parents had adopted Goran, he of the haunted eyes
and heavy Count Dracula accent. Although he was only one year older than me,
Goran's forehead was already etched with wrinkles. His cheeks, hollowed. His
eyebrows grew as wild and tangled as the forested slopes of the Carpathian
Mountains, so matted and bristling that if you looked too closely among the
hairs you'd expect to see marauding packs of wolves, ruined castles, and
stooped Gypsy women gathering firewood. Even at the age of fourteen, Goran's eyes,
his voice pitched deep as a foghorn, it all gave the impression that he'd
witnessed his entire extended family tortured to death as slave labor in the
salt mines of some remote gulag, bloodhounds baying after them across ice
floes, and leather whips cracking at their backs.
Ah... Goran. No Heathcliff nor Rhett Butler was ever so swarthy nor
rudely fashioned. He seemed to exist in his own permanent isolation, insulated
by some terrible history of hardship and deprivation, and I envied him that. I
did so, so long to be tortured.
Next to Goran, even adult men sounded silly and chatty and
insignificant. Even my father. Especially my father.
Lying in bed, alone in a Swiss residence hall built to house three
hundred girls, in temperatures barely warm enough to prevent the pipes from
freezing, I pictured Goran, the way blue veins branched under the transparent
skin of his temples. How his hair grew so thick it wouldn't comb down, the
stand-up kind of hair you'd cultivate while studying Marxist philosophy over tiny
cups of bitter espresso in smoke-filled coffeehouses, awaiting your perfect
opportunity to lob a burning dynamite stick into the open touring car of some
Austrian archduke and ignite a world war.
My mom and dad were doubtless introducing poor Goran to the assembled
media outlets represented at Park City, Utah; or Cannes; or the Venice Film
Festival, while I was hiding out beneath six blankets surviving on hoarded Fig
Newtons and Vichy water— avec gaz.
No, it's not fair, but I was clearly getting the better part of the
arrangement.
My family assumed I was aboard a yacht, among giggling friends. My mom
and dad assumed I had friends. The
school assumed me to be with my parents and Goran. For two glorious weeks all I
had to do was read the Brontes, evade the occasional security guards, and
wander about— naked.
In all my thirteen years I'd never even slept in the nude. Of course,
my parents paraded unclothed constantly, exposing themselves around the house
and on the more exclusive beaches of the French Riviera and the Maldives, but I
perennially felt too flat in some places, too fat in some, too skinny in
others, simultaneously gawky and plump, too old and too young. It was clearly
in violation of the school's rules of deportment, but alone one night, I pulled
off my nightgown and slipped into bed, naked.
My mother had never hesitated to suggest I attend this or that weekend
retreat focusing on genital awareness and mastering control of one's own
pleasure centers, the usual assortment of celebrity mothers and daughters
idling in a remote grotto, squatting over hand mirrors and marveling at the
infinite pink moods of the cervix, but their sort of workshopped ...
empowerment seemed so clinical. It wasn't a frank, honest workshopping of my
sexuality that I wanted. It was Goran I wanted, someone ruddy and moody.
Pirates and tightly laced bodices. Masked highwaymen and kidnapped wenches.
The second night I slept alone, I awoke needing to pee. The toilets
were down the hall, shared by all the girls on each floor, but I was almost
certainly alone in the residence building. So, despite the sacrosanct rules, I
peered out of my room, naked and barefooted, checking the dark hallway for a
patrolling guard. I ran the cold steps to the bathroom and did my business, all
in the dim moonlight filtering through the windows, my breath steaming in the
cold air. The third night, I visited the bathroom, again naked, but strolled
and heavy Count Dracula accent. Although he was only one year older than me,
Goran's forehead was already etched with wrinkles. His cheeks, hollowed. His
eyebrows grew as wild and tangled as the forested slopes of the Carpathian
Mountains, so matted and bristling that if you looked too closely among the
hairs you'd expect to see marauding packs of wolves, ruined castles, and
stooped Gypsy women gathering firewood. Even at the age of fourteen, Goran's eyes,
his voice pitched deep as a foghorn, it all gave the impression that he'd
witnessed his entire extended family tortured to death as slave labor in the
salt mines of some remote gulag, bloodhounds baying after them across ice
floes, and leather whips cracking at their backs.
Ah... Goran. No Heathcliff nor Rhett Butler was ever so swarthy nor
rudely fashioned. He seemed to exist in his own permanent isolation, insulated
by some terrible history of hardship and deprivation, and I envied him that. I
did so, so long to be tortured.
Next to Goran, even adult men sounded silly and chatty and
insignificant. Even my father. Especially my father.
Lying in bed, alone in a Swiss residence hall built to house three
hundred girls, in temperatures barely warm enough to prevent the pipes from
freezing, I pictured Goran, the way blue veins branched under the transparent
skin of his temples. How his hair grew so thick it wouldn't comb down, the
stand-up kind of hair you'd cultivate while studying Marxist philosophy over tiny
cups of bitter espresso in smoke-filled coffeehouses, awaiting your perfect
opportunity to lob a burning dynamite stick into the open touring car of some
Austrian archduke and ignite a world war.
My mom and dad were doubtless introducing poor Goran to the assembled
media outlets represented at Park City, Utah; or Cannes; or the Venice Film
Festival, while I was hiding out beneath six blankets surviving on hoarded Fig
Newtons and Vichy water— avec gaz.
No, it's not fair, but I was clearly getting the better part of the
arrangement.
My family assumed I was aboard a yacht, among giggling friends. My mom
and dad assumed I had friends. The
school assumed me to be with my parents and Goran. For two glorious weeks all I
had to do was read the Brontes, evade the occasional security guards, and
wander about— naked.
In all my thirteen years I'd never even slept in the nude. Of course,
my parents paraded unclothed constantly, exposing themselves around the house
and on the more exclusive beaches of the French Riviera and the Maldives, but I
perennially felt too flat in some places, too fat in some, too skinny in
others, simultaneously gawky and plump, too old and too young. It was clearly
in violation of the school's rules of deportment, but alone one night, I pulled
off my nightgown and slipped into bed, naked.
My mother had never hesitated to suggest I attend this or that weekend
retreat focusing on genital awareness and mastering control of one's own
pleasure centers, the usual assortment of celebrity mothers and daughters
idling in a remote grotto, squatting over hand mirrors and marveling at the
infinite pink moods of the cervix, but their sort of workshopped ...
empowerment seemed so clinical. It wasn't a frank, honest workshopping of my
sexuality that I wanted. It was Goran I wanted, someone ruddy and moody.
Pirates and tightly laced bodices. Masked highwaymen and kidnapped wenches.
The second night I slept alone, I awoke needing to pee. The toilets
were down the hall, shared by all the girls on each floor, but I was almost
certainly alone in the residence building. So, despite the sacrosanct rules, I
peered out of my room, naked and barefooted, checking the dark hallway for a
patrolling guard. I ran the cold steps to the bathroom and did my business, all
in the dim moonlight filtering through the windows, my breath steaming in the
cold air. The third night, I visited the bathroom, again naked, but strolled
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