Once, almost twenty years ago, as I was coming back to Italy from my first trip to the United States, something strange happened to me on the plane. I had a seat in the last row, where there are only two side seats, and when boarding was over, the seat next to mine was still vacant; I was already savoring the thought of a comfortable trip by myself when I saw a steward coming up the aisle, pushing a wheelchair carrying a paraplegic woman. The seat that I thought was free was assigned to none other than her, and the steward asked me to give up my place, by the window, because obviously she wouldn’t be able to get up to let me pass if I had to go, let’s say, to the bathroom. It wasn’t as though I could say no, and so the paralyzed woman was deposited heavily in my window seat, and I moved to the one next to it. She was American, more or less the same age as I am today—which back then made her seem old to me—and her legs dangled grimly during the transfer from the wheelchair to the seat: this is all that I know about her, because for the entire trip I avoided letting our gazes even cross, and when it was just plain impossible, I managed to make sure that our visual contact would last only as long as strictly necessary: a moment or two. If you really must, you could say that I ignored her. And in short order we took off, we ate, I got up to go to the bathroom. We watched the movie. Every now and then a stewardess came by and asked the woman whether she needed anything, but the woman never did, until everyone on the plane fell asleep and the stewardess stopped coming by. I tried again and again to find a position that would allow me to sleep, but it was difficult, because the woman was monopolizing the armrest we shared; until, I don’t know how, by turning my back on her and propping myself up on the other armrest I was able to nod off. I slept for about an hour, and I could have slept some more, but at a certain point the woman woke me up. She did so delicately, patting me lightly on the shoulder, the same way my mother used to every morning back then. And, just like my mother, the woman was standing up. She had to go to the toilet. I stood up to let her pass—“Thank you,” she said—and I observed her taking the ten steps needed to reach the bathroom: she walked perfectly, like a normal person. I looked around the penumbra of this belly of a whale, but no one had noticed: everyone else was curled up asleep, and there wasn’t even the shadow of a stewardess. The woman stayed in the bathroom for quite a while, then she came out, took ten steps to reach her seat, I stood up again to let her pass, and she sat down. “Thank you,” she repeated. Then she rested her head against the pillow and closed her eyes immediately. After that I was unable to find the position in which I had fallen asleep, so I didn’t sleep anymore; she, on the other hand, slept like a rock until the lights were turned on for breakfast and the stewardesses started coming and going again, asking her whether she wanted anything. The woman ate her whole breakfast, had two servings of coffee, then started reading a book for the rest of the flight. During our landing her hands gripped the armrests tightly, because she must have been a little frightened. Now I could look at her as much as I wanted, because she was the one avoiding my gaze; and I did: I looked at her constantly, but I didn’t look at anything specific about her. In fact, as I was saying, I wouldn’t be able to tell whether she was a blonde or a brunette, pretty or ugly; I was simply trying to make her feel the full brunt of my eyes pressing down on her, I wanted to make her feel embarrassed—but even if I succeeded, she gave no sign of it. Then, when the plane stopped at the terminal, they asked us to remain seated over the loudspeaker. Immediately afterward a steward (another one, not the same one) arrived with the wheelchair, and the transfer of the woman was repeated in reverse. When the steward lifted her, I looked carefully at her legs: they really did seem limp and lifeless, with no muscle tone—the legs of a marionette; and when he started steering her down the aisle, walking backward, she was no longer able to avoid my gaze and was forced to smile at me and wave her hand.
Well, Eleonora Simoncini: what I wanted to tell you is that in front of you I felt the same way that woman must have felt in front of me.