I, who am I?

Like every morning I shave in front of the mirror. I see a man, still young, with just a little beard. The hair is curly, the skin too light for my features. In that face I see the face of my father and of my mother. I am the synthesis, the fruit, the perfect statistical average. Fifty-fifty, like everyone else. From one my poor digestion, from the other circulatory problems. From one my hands, from the other my moles.

I have never known either my father nor my mother. I’ve heard stories. I have read things. I’ve seen pictures.

My Father. Dark, tall, strong, gapped teeth, eyes resentful of poverty. In overalls, in front of the opened hood of a bus. He came from Nubia, Upper Egypt. Moved as a child. Never went to school.
My mother. Petite, blonde, ethereal, long neck, skinny arms. Wanted to be a dancer. Her mother was a Russian who had studied ballet, with some talent, but not enough to succeed.
So my mother was studying and studying. She had the opportunity and the duty to redeem the rest of the family. She went to school in the morning, trained at home all afternoon and in the evening went to class with the old, severe, legendary Madame Miskovska on the other side of town. She had to walk a couple of miles, then take the tram, and finally a bus. After the lesson, bus again, then tram. At midnight. Sitting on the deserted tram she continued to practice, flexing her legs, arching her arms in front of the black window glass.

One night the bus driver turned down a side street, pulled up and walked toward her. There was nobody else in the car. He asked her for a kiss, stroked her long neck. She tried to escape but the man grasped her arms, tore her clothes, raped her, beat her savagely, threw her off the bus and walked to the bus warehouse.
She had two broken ribs, black eyes, split lips. No one saw her, no one gave her a hand and she had to drag herself every inch of the way along those endless avenues.
She was taken to the hospital, stayed six weeks. When they discovered that she was pregnant she wanted to keep the baby. She cried for hours, terrified that they could force her to have an abortion. But her mother had agreed with her and signed so that the child would live. When he was born, the offender had not yet been found by the police. They had identified him immediately, but he was gone, perhaps abroad.

That child was me. That man was my father. He had not escaped abroad, but had been hidden by friends. Remained quiet, silent. Invisible. But my father was not a man capable of staying invisible for a long time. One morning he climbed over the gate of my mother’s house and she found him in front of her, still in her pajamas as she was making coffee. She tried to run away and even managed to grab a knife. But he was strong. He was furious. Punching, kicking, butting, he reduced her to a bleeding piece of meat laying on the floor, able to breathe for a few hours. Then he fled and nobody ever found him.

So, every morning when I shave in the mirror, knowing that the blood of both flows in my veins, that this belly button, this nose, these knees come a bit from one and a bit from the other, I try to not think; I try to simply slide the razor on the cheeks, chin. But these cheeks, the chin… I, who am I?