INTERVIEW

She stared at him with her green eyes—green eyes a strange, bright, burning green, greener than a spring meadow, than fresh, young birch leaves barely awakened from their winter slumber. There was something uncanny about those eyes. Huge, bright, piercing. There was something feline about them. He thought that eyes like those of a cat glowed in the dark.

She stared—that wasn't the right word. She couldn't stare for the simple—yet so complex—reason that she couldn't see anything. Those eyes were green only on the outside; beyond them existed only darkness, dark and empty.

He wondered how she saw a world composed solely of sounds, touch, and smells.

Sees—again, the wrong word. People are accustomed to it; it's encoded in the subconscious, so simple, clear, and ordinary. We can't do without it.

It's difficult to define, only after long reflection. To see—that is, to receive stimuli with the eyes, which then travel through the optic nerve to the brain, where they are processed into an image of what we call reality. That word isn't in her vocabulary, and never has been.

She doesn't know the meaning of many words. Blue. Ultramarine. Red.

What exactly is color? How can she explain the concept of color to someone like her?

He'd just asked her if she wasn't missing something. Colors. No, she wasn't. To feel the lack of something, she would first have to know it. She would have to lose colors to be able to miss them later. She'd never had them.

He asked her if she'd tried to imagine colors. She replied yes, many times. Sometimes she thinks that what she sees in the depths of her mind might have something to do with colors. But she doesn't know for sure. Can she explain it to him? No, she can't. Just as he can't explain to her what colors are.

…Colors are a matter of light, he explains. Light falls on something, and its surface absorbs part of the beam…

She laughs. Her bright green, cat-like eyes laugh with her. It's nothing interesting! She doesn't understand what other people get so excited about. She thinks her definitions are far more interesting.

Light is warm on her cheek on a sunny day. Black reminds her of the softness of velvet and the fresh coolness of a summer night. Gray is the touch of cat fur. Silver is cold and has the metallic tang of blood. Red is fire. Or the smoothness of a rose petal, depending on the shade. Blue is the scent of air after a storm and the cool touch of water on skin. The rustle of the forest is green, the voice of an eagle owl is purple...

So this is what colors are to her? And wouldn't she like, she asks, to know true colors?

And aren't they real?

She smooths her hair with her hand, seeming to tickle her cheek. He examines it, that hair. It's shoulder-length and a bit staticky. It's practically colorless, neither dark nor light, which further highlights the eerie nature of her eyes.

She smiles at him. "Is something wrong? Why are you silent? Is something wrong? Oh no, of course I'm fine. He's just lost in thought," she says. "Can we move on to the next question?" "Yes, please."

He thinks for a moment. What exactly is he supposed to ask her now? He flips through his notes, glancing nervously at her. Those eyes of hers irritate him. Her black pupils seem to burn a hole in his forehead and reach into his brain; her gaze creeps in green rivulets beneath his skin. He's not sure if the feeling she's feeling under her gaze is unpleasant, if he'd rather she stop staring at him, or not. He decides not to ask her to stop. It would be childish to ask her to. She might be offended.

Next question…

Does she feel comfortable in a world of normal people? Would she like to be normal?

The world is made up of definitions. Seeing, colors, shadows, light…

Normality?

Imagine a world where normal people and so-called abnormal people live.

It's just like now!

No, not exactly. Let the proportions change in the world you imagine. Let there be six billion crazy people and a few thousand normal people.

She pauses for a moment, giving his imagination time.

Normality is relative, sir. For most people, normal is what is average, ordinary, generally accepted. She wouldn't want to be normal like that.

She admits he's phrased the question wrong. He'll ask again, okay?

Okay.

Wouldn't she like to see?

Of course she would! Life would be easier then, she'd become more independent. For example, she wouldn't have to ask people to help her cross the street.

Just because? And doesn't she think her life would be richer then?

She shifts in her chair, and for a moment her eyes sparkle even more than usual. "My life isn't poor at all!"—it's clear she's oversensitive on this point. Too many people pity her. She doesn't want pity, and that's why her cat-like eyes flash with anger.

He apologizes; he wouldn't even dare suggest such a thing. After all, he knows that blind people are able to "see" more with their senses than many healthy people.

Yes, exactly," he admits. God was just, at least in this case. He took her sight, but he also gave something in return.

Speaking of God...

Isn't she angry with him?

Why should she be? Because he's made her life a little more difficult than if she'd been born with a functioning optic nerve? No, he's not. Others have worse problems – an alcoholic husband, lung cancer, an unpaid mortgage, and a brood of children to support…

People are often angry at God for testing them so hard, for not sending a miracle, for instead of making life a little easier, he's making it increasingly difficult. God isn't here to make things easier for people. That's our job, not His.

Silence.

Dusk slowly falls, long shadows drift across the room. He realizes she can't see the dusk or the shadows. But he does register the change in the air's smell and temperature, the buzzing of a cloud of mosquitoes behind the open window curtain, and everything his untrained senses can't register.

It's getting darker, darker, and she sits and smiles at him. Her eyes are huge, bright, cat-like. He feels a little uneasy.

It's getting darker, more gloomy. Her green eyes sparkle.