Between imaginary doubles and anonymous passengers, a reflection on our gaze
On the plane, there was Marina Carrère d’Encausse. There was also the king Charles III of England without Camilla. There was Arnal. And then, was it Patrick Sébastien or Daniel Herrero ? I couldn’t decide.
We pass the time as best we can when we are alone and have nothing to do but wait. We don’t always want to read, look at our smartphone or think about the deeper meaning of life.
So we look at people.
The heads of strangers are like unexplored lands. In these moments when I feel, as they say, unemployed, I must admit that they intrigue me. Each one keeps its mystery and appears to me like a mask behind which there is nothing.
Also, it is tempting for me to create an identity for him by looking for similarities in his features with others I know.
It’s not very clever, I admit, but sometimes it amuses me.
Of course, this doesn’t work for everyone. The variety of faces is endless and most of them mean nothing to me. But it is rare, however, that in the pile, I do not find a family resemblance in some.
So, among the people taking their seats on the plane, this parade of faces of all ages, long, wide, round, fresh or faded, I suddenly had the surprise of recognizing Marina Carrère d’Encausse and, right next to her, the king Charles.
What were they doing together?
Certainly, they were not exact look-alikes of these celebrities. But, by dint of imagining a secret medical appointment or a romance worthy of Paris MatchI came to find that they resembled them like two drops of water.
On the other hand, for Arnal, I hesitated. I really thought it was really him.
Not everyone knows Arnal. We once rubbed shoulders on the benches of primary school. He became a magician. He performed in the biggest circuses under an exotic name: Azagara.
I haven’t seen him in years.
This face with its high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes could well be him. I even think I thought: he hasn’t changed too much.
But I realized I was on the wrong track a little later when he started flipping through the Herald Tribune.
The plane had been flying for a while when I discreetly glanced at my neighbor. With a pen in his hand, he was reading a file and underlining passages. His profile was not unfamiliar to me. He reminded me of someone.
But no matter how much I racked my brain, I couldn’t find who he could look like.
This was not the case for this other passenger, of whom I could see part of his face when he turned his head. According to his position, he reminded me Patrick Sébastienthe ex-TV host turned comic pornographer or Daniel Herreroex-rugby player turned philosophical writer.
He was laughing to himself in his corner, looking around him. I expected at any moment to hear him throw out a very greasy joke or a winged word in praise of the leather egg.
My neighbor, on the other hand, kept his mystery.
I tried to get a better look at him, but I didn’t really dare. He was always focused on his work and did not seem to me to be the type of individual with whom you could talk about everything and nothing, during a flight, without knowing each other.
I couldn’t see myself asking him:
“You remind me of someone but I don’t know who. HAS”
So, I searched alone in my corner of my brain.
I have reviewed, without success, a number of films. And I quickly came to the conclusion that I was not on the right track.
No, this guy actually reminds me of someone I recently saw in the flesh.
I was at this point in my silent but nonetheless stubborn investigations when I heard him swear. He had said a bad word that was only addressed to himself.
I risked a glance
The fingers of his right hand were stained with blue ink. While he was writing, his pen leaked. It had taken him a while to realize it, he was so absorbed in his work.
Ah, the intellectualsI said to myself, and immediately I found who he looked like.
He was the double of a historian who worked at the Rivesaltes Camp Memorial.
What’s his name again? A Polish or Russian name.
I tried to think of something else while pretending to read The World.
Meanwhile, my neighbor was wiping his fingers on the white sheets of his file. He was definitely doing everything to attract my attention.
On arrival, reality put things back on track.
Marina Carrère d’Encausse had disappeared.
I was able to verify by listening that Arnal spoke English well, but that the king Charles On the other hand, he had a strong Catalan accent.
Patrick Sébastien et Daniel Herrero had deserted the now relaxed face of a man who seemed very happy to have his feet on the ground.
Only the historian continued to resemble the historian.
And for good reason: it was him.
It was obvious to me now.
I had his name on the tip of my tongue. Stablinsky? Stravinsky?
I’ll find it eventually.
By mixing the true and the false, I wonder if I’m not losing my bearings.
I should be wary.
I’m going to end up meeting myself one day.
