Selected Cronicas

IRRESISTIBLE INCARNATION

Sometimes when I see someone whom I have never seen before, and I observe that person at length, I begin to identify with her and take steps to get to know that person. And this intrusion into another person’s life, no matter who she may be, never ends in self-accusation. Once I have identified with the other woman, I understand her motives and forgive her. Needless to say, I have to be careful not to be drawn into some dangerous or glamorous existence which might dissuade me from reverting to being myself.

One day on a plane… Oh, dear God, I implored, I beg of You, anything but that; I have no desire to be a missionary!

But it was hopeless. I knew that after having to spend three hours in her presence, I would become a missionary myself for several days. The missionary’s austerity and polite gestures had already taken possession of me. And it is always with a certain curiosity, a sense of wonder and weariness that I finally succumb to the life I am about to experience for several days. There is also some apprehension from a practical point of view: I am much too preoccupied with my work and leisure to be able to cope with the additional burden of some strange new existence whose evangelical zeal is already weighing upon me. In the plane itself I noticed that I had already started imitating the solemn movements of the lay missionary: then I began to understand her patience, that self-effacing gait, her feet scarcely touching the ground, as if to tread more firmly would disturb the other passengers. I, too, had turned pale, my lips unpainted, my expression meek, and wearing the unmistakable head-dress of a lay missionary.

When the plane touches down, I thought to myself, I shall probably wear that expression of suffering-overcome-by-the-peace-of-having-a-mission. And on my face will be imprinted the sweetness of moral hope. Because I have suddenly become extremely moral. Yet when I boarded the plane I was so wholesomely amoral. I was, no, I am! I cried out in protest against the missionary’s prejudices. It was useless: all my energy was being sapped so that I might become delicate. I pretended to be reading a magazine, while she read her Bible.

We were about to make a short landing. The air-steward distributed boiled sweets. And the missionary blushed the moment the young steward approached.

Back on the ground, I was a missionary waiting in a windy airport. I kept a firm grip on the long skirt of that imaginary habit for fear of that threatening wind. I understand, I thought, oh I understand so well how lost she must be feeling during these hours when she is not fulfilling her mission. Like the little missionary, I, too, disapproved of those short skirts worn by the other women passengers, which could only be tempting to men. And when I did not understand, it was with the same purified fanaticism of this pale woman who blushed the moment the young air-steward returned to announce the plane was ready to leave.

I knew that it would be some time before I could hope to regain my own identity. Which perhaps was never really mine apart from the moment I was born, only to be followed by one reincarnation after the other. But no: I am a person. And when my own ghost takes possession of me, the encounter is one of such bliss and rejoicing that in a manner of speaking we weep on each other’s shoulder. Then, wiping away our tears of joy, my ghost fully embodies itself with me and we go out into the world with our head held high.

Once, on another trip, I came across a prostitute reeking of cheap perfume who smoked with her eyes half-closed while staring at a male passenger who was soon hypnotized. I began imitating her to see what would happen. I lit a cigarette and with half-closed eyes began staring at the only man nearby. But the fat man I had chosen in my efforts to identify with the prostitute, was far too engrossed in the New York Times. Besides, my perfume was much too discreet. A complete fiasco.