Cockpit

by Jerzy Kosiński

  Walking through the city now, I am inspired by that same sense of vaulting. Whom shall I draw out of the anonymous crowd of faces surrounding me? I can enter their worlds unobserved and unchecked. Each person is a wheel to follow, and at any moment my manner, my language, my being, like the stick I used as a boy, will drive the wheel where I urge it to go.

  As a result of the circumstances under which I left the Service, I cannot join any professional, social or political group. Yet, to live alone, depending on no one, and to keep up no lasting associations, is like living in a cell; and I have never lost my desire to be as free as I was as a child, almost flying, drawn on by my wheel.

  Now, I have devised a new kind of wheel game, which provides the human associations my current lifestyle prohibits. Confronted with hundreds of anonymous faces, hundreds of human wheels, I choose one and let it take me where it will. I pick a life and enter it, unobserved: none of my pseudo-family members ever know how I gain access to their lives.

  As soon as I arrived in the city after leaving the Service, I applied for part-time work in the few printing shops left in the city that still specialized in hand-engraved letterheads and invitations. Most of them had been in business so long that the founders had retired, leaving the firms to inexperienced or careless younger men. The plants were severely understaffed, and I was offered jobs at all the places to which I’d applied. I finally chose to work at the most respected of these establishments.

  Since the plant was months behind in filling orders, my offer to work overtime was eagerly accepted. Shortly after the shop closed each night, I was left alone. I would spend hours looking through files stuffed with letterhead samples for individual, business and government stationery. I selected the pieces I could use for each of my other identities and took them home with me. I also collected invitations to weddings, bar mitzvahs, parties and diplomatic receptions, as well as business announcements, certificates, calling cards and medical prescription blanks.

  Some of the documents I needed had to be specially designed and printed. I decided that this would be easiest to do at the shop farthest behind in filling orders. I chose a place with a reputation for bad management and went to see its owner. I told him I had taken a day job but needed more cash to pay debts. I would be willing to work nights for less than the minimum wage. He hired me immediately.

  I had been at the shop about two weeks when I became aware that I was being followed by a man who seemed to be working alone. At first, I considered leaving the city, but then decided to eliminate the threat instead.

  One evening, I arrived at the shop with the distinct feeling that he was going to close in. I let myself into the store, locked the doors and headed for the room equipped with the powerful quartz lights that are used in photochemical treatment of large plates. As the briefest exposure to quartz light results in permanent blindness, it was imperative for the shops’ employees to wear special protective goggles and keep the door tightly sealed. I put on my goggles and sat in the darkened room near the light switch.

  When I heard footsteps at the door, I faked a suppressed sneeze. I knew that everything depended on whether the man had noticed the danger sign posted outside the room.

  The door opened. I turned on the switch and light tore through the room like an explosion. Protected by my goggles, I could see the man held a cocked gun. Then the light must have pierced his eyes. He howled, dropped his gun and covered his face with his hands.

  The man was a fool. His dependence on a mechanical weapon made him ignore, and destroy, his natural weapons, his eyes. I, on the other hand, cultivate those self-protective devices. I hook my feet around the legs of chairs to prevent their being pulled out from under me. Entering a building, I always check to see if anyone is following me. In a theater, I sit down only after everyone is already seated, and I prefer to ride an elevator alone.

  I am always amazed by how many people never learn to protect themselves, especially those who have much contact with the public, for instance, salespeople. As I walk through stores, I see saleswomen with legs misshapen by decades of standing on their feet, and salesmen clutching their backs when they bend down to pick out merchandise from a lower drawer. I look at their faded faces. I study their tired eyes and the permanent squint caused by years of exposure to fluorescent lighting, as they complacently take out and put back merchandise for the ten-thousandth time. Theirs is the resignation of people who know only how to endure. They are servants who never expect any reward or help from the people they serve.

  I often single out an older salesperson who seems particularly in need of an anonymous benefactor. Once I entered the luggage department of a large store and described a certain kind of suitcase to a middle-aged saleswoman. She accompanied me from shelf to shelf, showing me every item. I finally settled on one of the largest and most expensive pieces, but decided that another color would be more attractive. The woman was not certain that they carried it, but asked me to wait while she went to the stockroom to check. She returned with the suitcase, commenting on my good fortune, because it was the only piece of its kind remaining. I examined it and told her it wasn’t quite what I’d pictured.

  I suddenly pretended to change my mind; instead of a suitcase, I said, I would consider a large attaché case. She patiently pushed aside all the suitcases I’d been looking at and escorted me to the attaché cases. I showed initial interest in two or three, but ended by complaining that none of them had the type of lock I was looking for. Once again, she went to the stockroom and brought back several cases, each with a different type of lock. I found a flaw in all of them.

  Losing interest once more, I moved toward the shaving kits. They came in an even greater variety than the luggage, but she did not seem to mind my looking over as many of them as I wanted. After inspecting at least a dozen, I could not make up my mind if I really needed one. I reflected for a moment, then said I wanted to think it over before buying anything. Disappointed and obviously tired, she must have assumed I would never come back, but still she remained courteous and friendly.

  A week later, I returned to the luggage department and went over to her. She remembered me and asked if I could wait a moment until she finished with the customers she was helping. I said I would, resisting the advances of several other salespeople. When she was ready to assist me, I asked to see, one more time, everything I’d liked. I again appeared unable to decide and pretended to be on the verge of leaving.

  I started across the floor, paused and went back to her. I said I had decided to buy the suitcase she had brought from the stockroom, as well as the attaché case with two combination locks. I told her I trusted her judgment, and that, if she claimed they were the best available, I would believe her. I paid in cash, and while my luggage was being wrapped I thanked her for her gracious service and asked for her name so I could recommend her to my friends. She was beaming as I said goodbye to her.

  On the following day, using letterhead stationery from one of the country’s better-known industrial conglomerates, I wrote to the president of the store where the woman was employed. I complimented his organization on its unusually courteous and efficient service, and cited the saleswoman as an outstanding example of the store’s high caliber. In closing, I again praised the store and the saleswoman, saying that, if some of my executives were as good an advertisement for my company as she was for his store, I would be more than happy.

  Many times I’ve worked my way into other lives through real estate firms, insurance or employment agencies, collection services, marketing research firms, publishing houses, newspaper or magazine offices. I pretend to be suffering from a nervous disorder that has gravely impaired my speech and left my limbs unsteady. I force on the manager a crudely typed card stating I am illiterate and impoverished, and am willing to clean offices at lunch time for a third of the standard rate. With a badly shaking hand, I point out a sentence which states that I do not mind being locked in the office when the staff is out to lunch or even overnight
. The manager agrees to try me out. I do an excellent cleaning job, while perusing all the correspondence, memos and miscellaneous papers in the office.

  Not long ago, I was cleaning a real estate office when I came across a letter of complaint from a tenant. The woman, who lived alone, demanded assistance in protecting herself from an alcoholic neighbor. She claimed that every night he pounded on her door yelling that her poodle’s barking disturbed his sleep; actually he was trying to force her out of her apartment so a friend of his could move in.

  The woman was so afraid of her neighbor that, whenever she had to walk the dog or take her garbage to the incinerator, she called a woman friend in the building to stand guard while she ran across the hall or to the elevator. Every morning, she sneaked out to go to the beauty shop where she worked only after making sure that her neighbor had left his apartment. Terrified that he would attack her in the corridor, she began leaving work early to get home before he did, and went out only late at night to walk her dog. She closed by saying that her neighbor was ruining her life.

  I called the woman, introducing myself as a former acquaintance of the bully next door. I told her I had run into him at a bar, and, when he was drunk, he had mentioned her by name, swearing he would put an end to her poodle’s whining by killing the animal. I said I knew that her neighbor appeared to be capable of violence and urged her to keep out of his way.

  The woman assured me how much she appreciated my saving her dog’s life. She said she could not afford a lawyer and complained that the landlord refused to do anything to help her.

  I next telephoned the man, whose name and number I had copied down from the woman’s letter. I introduced myself as a friendly citizen who had struck up a casual acquaintance in the park with a middle-aged lady walking her poodle. I cautioned him that, without any encouragement from me, the woman had mentioned him by name and described him as an incurable degenerate who picked up male and female whores every night, got drunk, took drugs and then pounded on her door, though he was too cowardly to confront her during the day. I suggested that, if this woman continued to spread rumors about him, his reputation would suffer and her lurid stories might even get back to his employers. He thanked me profusely and said he would buy me a drink any time I was in the neighborhood.

  A week later, I called the woman again. As soon as she recognized my voice, she burst into tears, telling me that the morning after I called, her neighbor had angrily accosted her in the corridor and made a horrible scene. Thanks to my warning, he had not gotten the chance to harm her dog. She said she was becoming unhinged by living next door to such a monster, and, thanks to my intercession, had decided to move for the sake of her sanity. She told me I was the only man who had ever assisted her so chivalrously, and invited me to dinner.

  But perhaps the most successful forays I have made into other people’s lives have depended on the mail system. I often notice full mail pouches lying open and unprotected near the drab green street mailboxes or in the lobbies of office buildings. Since there is no one guarding them, and no chains secure them to the boxes, anyone can reach in and snatch a bundle of mail or even make off with the whole bag. I look upon these mail pouches as grab bags full of fascinating secrets.

  Recently I befriended an older mailman whom I accompanied on his rounds. During one lunch hour, as I sat next to him, I noticed the chain attached to the master mailbox key hanging out of his pocket. Pulling gently, I extracted the key, made an impression of it in the wax block I held hidden in my hand and replaced it without his knowing. Within a week, I had my own duplicate key.

  One morning, wearing a mailman’s uniform rented from a theatrical supply store, I casually strolled up to a mailbox, took an empty collection bag from the large pile accumulating underneath and walked away.

  Now, every few weeks, I drive around the town in my uniform until I spot a mailbox that suits my purpose. I double-park my rented sedan next to it, then check the time of the next collection. If I see there are at least two hours until the pickup, I unlock the box, gather up the mail, throw it in the pouch and drive off with it.

  After parking my car in the garage, I pack the bag inside a large suitcase that I keep in the trunk and lug it upstairs to my apartment.

  Anxious to see what I have won, I immediately spread the haul on the floor. I weed out fourth-class mail, packages, sweepstakes and contest entries. First-class and air-mail letters are what primarily interest me.

  I slit each envelope down the side fold, slide the letter out and read it carefully.

  Many of the letters are like pages torn at random from novels: they reveal a lot, but never enough. I feel cheated and disappointed. Often I endow the writers with voices, with gestures and facial expressions.

  When I finish reading, I slide the letter back into its envelope and reseal it with transparent tape. A day or two later, I drop all the letters into a mailbox, assured that, in this era of automatic letter openers and outrageous mail delays, no one will notice his envelopes have been tampered with.

  If I come across a particularly interesting letter, or if I want to know more about the writer or the person to whom the letter was written, I simply copy it before remailing.

  Until now, in every mail collection, I find at least one letter that might enrich someone’s life with an offer of a job, money, love. Intercepting such letters excites me because I feel I have found a magic passport to another’s life, as well as control over that life.

  From one letter I learned that a naturalized American citizen had been arrested when the airliner on which he was traveling made an unscheduled stop in his native country. He had fled twenty-five years earlier with no intention of returning. Now, the local authorities had charged him with illegally crossing the border, and had imprisoned him.

  The man’s naturalized citizenship was not recognized by his captors, who considered him a fugitive and an enemy of the State. They would almost certainly sentence him to a long term. The more I read the letter, the more enraged I became.

  The letter gave the man’s name and local address. Pretending I was a housing official making a routine check of the premises, I visited the family at their crowded three-room apartment in a middle-income housing project.

  Four children, ranging in age from five to nine, followed me around as I examined windows and door frames, walls and ceilings. The children introduced me to their cat and kept showing me their toys. I also talked to their bedridden grandmother, who was obviously very ill and spoke English with difficulty.

  When I asked the woman about her husband, she began to tell her story. She said that her husband and three of his business associates had been sent abroad to attend a four-day international congress of specialists in their field.

  The husband’s colleagues had reported that, during the airplane’s stopover, the passengers had been asked to show their passports, and then proceed to the airport’s transit lounge. Moments after entering the lounge, her husband was accosted by two plainclothes agents, who asked him to follow them outside. When the man refused, claiming the transit lounge was international territory, one of them knocked him out. Then the agents dragged him from the lounge in front of the stunned passengers.

  His wife showed me the letter she had received from the State Department in response to her plea that the U.S. government intervene on her husband’s behalf. The State Department officially informed her that the question of original citizenship was a matter solely between her husband and the foreign government that claimed him, and politely regretted that the American government could not influence the other government or assist her husband in any way. Her husband’s employer had also written to her, arguing that since the man had been aware of the danger inherent in his status before he made the trip, he alone was responsible.

  During the two months her husband had been in prison, she had sought aid from the Red Cross, Amnesty International and even The International League for the Rights of Man. She had written petitions to members of American P.
E.N. as well as to dozens of senators and congressmen. All had tried to help, but, since her husband was still awaiting trial, no American counsel was allowed to see him. He was permitted to receive letters but was prohibited from writing them. Recently, she learned that the State Prosecutor would probably bring additional charges against her husband, even though the initial accusation was already enough to earn him years of hard labor.

  The wife told me that she had been born in this country and such things made no sense to her. Even though he had grown up elsewhere, her husband had been forced to serve in the military and to pay taxes in the United States. It was absurd that he should now be claimed by a country he had not seen or wished to see for twenty-five years.

  She had become the sole support of her family, working for a brokerage firm during the day and moonlighting as a cashier in a twenty-four-hour delicatessen. She cried when she told me that she had been forced to keep her oldest child at home to look after the younger children and the ailing mother-in-law. I told her not to lose hope, and promised to talk to a relative of mine who specialized in international law.

  During the next few days, I hung around the consulate, the UN mission and the tourist bureau of the country that had imprisoned her husband. I began following the country’s diplomats and their wives, checking the buildings where they lived and the garages that serviced their cars. I bribed several of the employees of the real estate offices that managed the properties the diplomats owned and rented, and several of them gave me useful information. I even became friendly with a nurse in the office of the doctor who treated the UN ambassador and managed to get acquainted with his wife’s hairdresser.

  Finally, I went to the UN mission, presenting myself as an investor who wished to discuss with the ambassador a matter relating to real estate. When I was ushered into his chambers, he greeted me cordially, and asked me to sit down. I did; then I mentioned that I had come to plead for the release of the arrested man. He immediately attempted to terminate our meeting. Getting up to leave I asked if the custom-made sports car parked outside belonged to him.