The moment I began writing about the Iranian lady the other day, the very moment I had put down the first word, another lady’s face also came to my mind and, with it, the need to write about her also. I brushed that need away until Mrs At read the story. When she finished reading it, she looked up at me and asked, “what about Mary’s mum? You said she also shocked you like that, remember?” Then that need to talk about her as well, became a must and so, here I am, writing about another woman whose face had also trashed my brain but for an altogether different reason. Mrs At. knows about Mary’s mum not because they had met but because her daughter used to come to our house often, after school, particularly during the breaks when I held rehearsals with my young theatre group. “Theatre Tricks.”

During those days, our house –quarter acre plus, if you don’t mind!- was jam full with students and the barbie would be going full bore, rain, hail or sunshine. Mary was also in my English class. Year 11. Beautiful, very beautiful kid but an unbearable prima donna, in class and out. She certainly was a great actress and had taken the role of Blanche in Streetcar, with everyone’s happy approval. I used to always run two casts who’d play on alternate nights, plus a few understudies and a whole bunch of directors and assistant directors, make up artists, hair dressers, floor managers, you name it –we had it. I wanted to occupy as many kids as possible –but that’s another story.

Mary was certainly intelligent. Stunning memory, learnt her lines within a couple of days and she was as sharp as a tack. But she was an absolute bugger of a kid to keep attentive in class. She was a thespian through and through. Exasperating. Couldn’t sit still. She’d walk around the class, taking over the lesson –a teacher’s nightmare. Midway through term one I caught up with her in the yard one day and asked her to tell her father to make an appointment to see me. “Nah. He won’t see you sir.” “Why not, Mary?” “Coz he’s a bastard and he’s left us.” “Oh, sorry to hear that, Mary. Well, tell mum then please, mate because we need to do something here…” “I know, sir, I told you I’m trying.” “Still, it won’t do any harm if we all sat together and had a little chat.” “She won’t come either, sir.” “Why not?” “Coz…” “Mary?” “She won’t come, I’m telling you. She…” “What?” “Nothing, Mr T. She just won’t come.” She looked into the distance, into her mind’s eye, for a moment and then said, “bastard left us three years ago.” “I’m sorry to hear that, Mary. Is mum still very upset about it?” “I guess so but that’s not why she won’t come, Mr T. You could call her though. She’ll talk on the phone with you. She’s always on the phone.” “Mary I need us to sit together and talk.” “She won’t come, sir. Have you worked out who’s playing Stan, yet?” “Mary… OK, let me have your phone number.” “Helen (my daughter) has it.”

So, the parent-teacher night came and I was looking forward to meeting Mary’s mum. Mary had told me during the day that she had convinced her mum to come. But parent followed parent until the last parent came and went and the room was empty of parents. The other two teachers got up and left. Mary’s mum was nowhere to be seen. Eventually I, too gave up and began to gather my books. That’s when I heard the footsteps. Mary came in first, stepping quietly, lest anyone would hear her. “Mr T, mum’s here. Are we too late?” “No, no, Mary. Where is she?” Mary walked out of the room and a minute later she walked back in with her mother. At first I thought the woman was mad. She was wearing sunglasses for goodness’ sake! In the middle of the night, in a dark classroom. Tall, slender, long shiny black hair like Mary’s. Another actress, I thought. That’s where Mary got her diva complex from. They both walked gingerly to my desk and sat opposite me. Mum leaned as far back as the chair and protocol would allow her; but I could sense it was a fearful gesture. She was hiding something and it was obvious that what she was hiding was behind those large dark sun glasses. I had to see what it was and I must have made this need obvious to her; and to Mary, so Mary explained nonchalantly. “Mum had a stroke three years ago, Mister T and her face is gone a bit funny. That’s why she’s wearing the goggles.” That was when the bolt hit me. Stunned. Couldn’t utter anything coherent. I could see the distortion now quite clearly. I understood her dread. The whole right side of her face had become a grotesque mass of shrivelled flesh. I could barely distinguish her eye from her cheek. I mumbled. Suddenly, my little problem with Mary had become a shocking reminder of the pettiness of it.

I didn’t want to bother this woman with my petty whines about her daughter. But I had to tell her something –after all I had insisted on her making this enormous sacrifice for me- but what? What was so important that I couldn’t have sort it out by myself, or with just a phone call? But whatever went on in my blurred brain it wasn’t utterable. I left it to Mary. She took over the conversation. She was great at it. A born actress. I had no idea what went on during that conversation. I remember little of it. None of it really. Only that I was still shocked well after they had left the room. During the school break we had the usual rehearsals and the usual Op Shop hunting, looking for costumes and props. During one of those days Mary told me quietly, “she’ll be right, Mr T. the docs reckon her face will get back to usual in a couple of years.” Streetcar was a brilliant success, thanks to Mary –as well as my daughter and a whole lot of other kids and parents. I haven’t seen Mary or her mum ever again but I’d love to know how they’re both going.

The thing that circles around my mind is the idea that one can be stunned with beauty without the “falling in love” bit just as one can be stunned by ugliness without the “falling in hatred” bit. I hadn’t “fallen in love” with the Iranian woman just as I hadn’t hated Mary’s mum. Is this “stunned” bit then, an emotional or an intellectual experience?