“How were you not yourself? And why?”
At that point it seemed I had no choice but to tell him about my depressing meeting with my acting professor. So I gave him a summarized version of it (including Aaron’s weird request). But in doing so, I had to relive in my mind the painful, unabridged version of that meeting, which was:
After telling me I should switch career goals, and that neither my body nor my face were that impressive, and after I had an urge to smoke but was stopped by the No Smoking sign behind his desk, Aaron Smith said, “If your acting were exceptional you could be a character actress, but it isn’t. The reason I’m telling you this is that I feel you could be very successful at something else. You’re motivated and persistent, and you have so much potential, but I just don’t think you’re going to make it as an actress. I’m sure you’ll be able to get little acting jobs, here and there, but they’ll be mediocre. Your career will be mediocre and unsatisfying and, ultimately, disappointing to you. You will be moderately happy, at best. I’ve seen people like you, and they all end up the same way.”
I reached inside my bag for a cigarette, but was again stopped midway by the sight of the No Smoking sign.
“I think you should drop my class,” he said. “If you want to finish the semester, that’s fine. But in any case, I strongly urge you not to take it again next semester, because I can’t bear to see you wasting your time in this field, which will have no rewards for you. You are a strong woman, Anna. I’ve observed you now, over the months, and I’ve noticed the power you hold over people. In a way it’s surprising that you don’t hold this same power on the stage or in front of the camera, but you don’t. And it’s precisely this strength of yours that works against you in acting. As I’ve been telling you for months, your identity is too strong for you to be able to become someone else convincingly. You are too much yourself. I think you are caged within yourself. You are incapable of being affected, much less of becoming someone else. You are genuine and true to a fault.”
He really loved to hear himself talk, it seemed. As for me, I think I was in some sort of denial of the pain I was in.
“Now, not to seem insensitive,” Aaron said, “but there is a pressing matter that I would like to discuss with you.” (Here it came, the request.) “One of the students in the class has an ugly name. It’s Esmeralda. I was wondering if you would mind if I told her to change her name to yours, for career purposes. I feel she has great promise. I think she’s the next Meryl Streep. Or a mixture of Meryl Streep, Glenn Close, Jodie Foster, and/or Michelle Pfeiffer.”
I took a cigarette out of my bag and lit it.
Aaron continued: “Your name would be an amazing screen name for an actress, so if you decide to follow my advice and change careers, would you mind it if a very promising actress wore your name?”
After taking a few drags, I took the cigarette out of my mouth, and a long string of mucus hung between my upper lip and the filter. I looked at it with puzzlement, and touched my face. My cheeks were wet.
Aaron continued: “You do understand that names are not copyrighted property, and she could take it if she wanted to, but I thought as a courtesy I would ask you first, before I suggest the idea to her.”
I was carefully wiping my face with my sleeve.
“Come now, no need for tears,” he said. “To be frank, Esmeralda will succeed no matter what name she has, because remember, as Shakespeare said, ‘A rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet.’ But then again, Gertrude Stein was also right when she said ‘A rose is a rose is a rose.’ That word certainly is beautiful and pleasant to repeat. So is Anna Graham. An anagram is the actor of words.”
And that was the end of my meeting with Aaron.
Damon’s first reaction was: “He thinks you should give up acting because you are yourself too much? What utter nonsense! How amusing. I hope you’re not telling me you listened to a word of it.”
“He’s well respected.”
Damon thoughtfully peeled wax from the candlestick and kneaded it between his fingers. “Influence. You have allowed yourself to be influenced. All good things have the capacity to be influenced. Evil things and dead things do not. But influence is strange and complex. One must know which kind to accept.”
He played with the wax as he continued speaking of influence.
When the check arrived, he paid it. He asked if I wanted to go to the park by the river for a few minutes. I agreed.
When we got up from the table, I noticed again the fluid manner in which he moved. As we left the restaurant I couldn’t resist asking him if he did any sports.
“No,” he replied. “I stretch, but I’m not sure that counts.”
The air outside was cold. This was a perfect opportunity for me to pierce the mystery of his transparent clothes.
I shivered and said, “It’s so cold out. How come you wear clothes made of such thin material?”
He didn’t answer immediately, so I looked at him, and he replied softly, without looking at me, “It is punishing.”
We walked to the river, and stood at the railing, looking down at the water in silence.
He spoke first. “The greatest actor is right here in front of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Water. You should study it. You might learn a lot about your craft.”
“How is water the greatest actor?”
“If you observe it and search through it, you’ll see.”
“Okay, I’ll do that, but in the meantime you could also just tell me?”
His eyelids fluttered wearily, and he said, “It has the capacity, through influence, for pronounced reversible change, without ever ceasing to be itself.”
For some reason, this reminded me of my previous curiosity. “Can you tell me, now, what kind of scientist you are?”
“A meteorologist.”
“As in the weather?”
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s too personal.”
How personal could anything involving the weather be? I was annoyed. So then I asked him why my act of saving him had disturbed him so much.
He answered, “It revived my past. In addition, it destroyed a convenient lie I had erected for myself during the last few years.”
“What kind of lie?”
He hesitated. “The kind that allowed me to hate myself less than I should.”
“What was the lie?”
“A simple process, really, merely consisting in readjusting my view of the entire human race, lowering my opinion of it until it reached my shameful level, and thereby increased my sense of belonging, decreased my sense of guilt, and enabled me to spread my contempt over us all, instead of just over myself as I deserved.”
He turned away and slowly started walking along the river. I walked at his side.
After a while, he said, “I was on the verge of calling you, countless times this week, before you called. But I was afraid of contacting you, afraid of knowing you, afraid of who you might or might not be. Also, I was afraid of the risk, and I still am, for you and for myself. Part of me wants to have no part of you.”
I didn’t know what to say. I could have said, “I see,” or something of the sort, but I didn’t say it because I didn’t see. And even though I didn’t see, I was still okay, basking in a cloud of confusion, not unpleasant confusion. But then, he said something clear, something that woke me like a cold shower.
“Did you enjoy yourself this evening?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Good. Our dinner was just a small sample of my gratitude. All that matters to me now is to find a worthwhile way of paying you back for saving me. That’s all I care about, all I want. Nothing else. We should arrange to see each other again. Once I know you a little better, I’ll know how to thank you most meaningfully and usefully. For starters, of course, I could give you money. But aside from that, I want to bestow on you a favor, any favor, that is worthy of the one you bestowed on me. Though that may be impossible, because your act is a tough one to follow.”