In the airplane, there was Marina Carrère d’Encausse. Also, King Charles III of England was there without Camilla. Arnal was there too. 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 else to do but wait. We don’t always feel like reading, looking at our smartphones, or reflecting on the deep meaning of life.
So, we look at people.
The heads of strangers are like unexplored lands. In those moments when I feel, as they say, bored, I must admit that they intrigue me. Each one keeps its mystery and appears to me as a mask behind which there is nothing.
It is tempting for me to create an identity for them by looking for common points with others I know in their features.
It’s not very smart, I admit, but sometimes, it amuses me.
Of course, it doesn’t work with everyone. The variety of faces is endless, and most of them don’t mean anything to me. But it is rare, however, that I don’t find, in the crowd, some resemblance to certain individuals.
Thus, among the people taking their seats in the airplane, this parade of faces of all ages, long, wide, round, fresh, or weary, I suddenly had the surprise of recognizing Marina Carrère d’Encausse and, right next to her, King Charles.
What were they doing together?
Certainly, they weren’t exact look-alikes of these celebrities. But, by imagining a secret medical appointment or a love affair worthy of Paris Match, I ended up finding that they looked exactly alike.
On the other hand, for Arnal, I hesitated. I really thought it was him.
Arnal, not everyone knows him. We crossed paths back in elementary 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 prominent cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes, it could very well be him. I even thought to myself: “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. Pen in hand, he was reading a file and underlining passages. His profile was not unknown to me. He reminded me of someone.
But no matter how much I racked my brains, I couldn’t figure out who he resembled.
That wasn’t the case with another passenger whose face I could see a part of when he turned his head. Depending on his position, he reminded me of Patrick Sébastien, the former TV host turned pornographic comedian, or Daniel Herrero, the former rugby player turned philosopher writer.
He was laughing to himself while looking around. I expected at any moment to hear him crack a crude joke or a witty comment about leather balls.
My neighbor, on the other hand, kept his mystery.
I tried to look at him more closely, but I didn’t dare too much. He was always focused on his work and didn’t seem like the kind of person you could talk to about anything and everything, for the duration of a flight, without knowing each other.
I couldn’t see myself asking him:
“Can you remind me of someone but I don’t know who.”
So, I searched on my own in my brain.
I reviewed, unsuccessfully, a number of movies. And I quickly came to the conclusion that I was on the wrong track.
No, this guy rather reminds me of someone I’ve seen recently in the flesh.
I was in the midst of my silent and yet troubled investigations when I heard him swear. He said a swear word that only applied to himself.
I risked a glance.
The fingers of his right hand were stained with blue ink. While he was writing, his pen had leaked. It took him a while to notice, because he was so absorbed in his work.
“Ah, the intellectuals,” I thought to myself, and I immediately found who he looked like.
He was the spitting image 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 Le Monde.
Meanwhile, my neighbor wiped his fingers on the white sheets of his file. He was definitely doing everything to attract my attention.
Upon arrival, reality set things straight.
Marina Carrère d’Encausse had disappeared.
I could confirm by listening that Arnal spoke English well, but on the other hand, King Charles had a strong Catalan accent.
Patrick Sébastien and Daniel Herrero had abandoned 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. Stablinski? Stravinsky?
I’ll find it eventually.
By mixing the true and the false, I wonder if I’m losing my way.
I should beware.
I will end up meeting myself one day.
