Identity -- Milan Kundera Works Series

Author: Milan Kundera
Publisher:
Publication Date: 2003-02-01
Features: At the age of sixteen or seventeen, she was particularly fond of a metaphor; whether she had come up with it herself, heard it, or read it somewhere didn’t matter. She wanted to become a rose scent, a fragrance that spread everywhere, to conquer. She hoped to penetrate all the men and, through them, embrace the entire world. The scent of the spreading rose: that was the metaphor for a fling. This metaphor bloomed as she was about to come of age, like a romantic promise of gently mingling with men, an invitation to a journey through all of them. However, she was naturally not the type to frequently change partners, and this vague, lyrical dream quickly fell asleep in her peaceful and happy marriage. She could no longer tolerate the mocking gaze of the unseen observer and, upon returning home, would head straight to the closet. She saw her pile of bras and noticed something that surprised her. Of course, she had noticed it yesterday too: her scarf was not folded as she had folded it. Her excitement from yesterday had quickly made her forget this detail. But this time, she couldn’t let the traces left by this hand, which wasn’t hers, slip past her notice. Ah, it was so clear! She had read those letters! He was watching her! He was spying on her like a spy! She was filled with anger, directed at different targets: the strange man who didn’t even say sorry but kept sending her letters; at herself for being foolish enough to hide them; and at Jean-Marc, who was spying on her. She took out the pile of letters and walked toward the bathroom (something she had done many times before!). Before tearing them up and flushing them down the toilet, she read them one last time. The more she read, the more suspicious she became, finding the handwriting questionable. She examined it carefully and noticed that it was the same ink, with large characters slightly slanted to the left, yet each letter was different, as if the writer couldn’t maintain the same handwriting. This observation surprised her. She didn’t tear the letters, but instead sat at the table and read them again. She stopped at the second letter, which described her visit to the dry cleaner’s: How had it happened? She had been with Jean-Marc then, and it was he who had brought the suitcase. In the store, she remembered clearly, it was Jean-Marc who made the owner laugh. Her correspondent mentioned the owner’s laugh, but how could he have heard it? He said he had observed her from the street. But who could observe her without being noticed? No Duval, no beggar. Only one person: the one who was with her at the dry cleaner’s. The phrase “something added to your life,” which she had initially thought was a clumsy attack on Jean-Marc, was actually Jean-Marc’s narcissistic flattery.