I only signed my name three times.
Paris, 1937. The wrong door backstage at my theatre opened into the Bibliothèque nationale. Benjamin asked me to write “He Fa” on a request slip. Carbon paper lay underneath. The first signature seemed faint, so I traced it twice more. The sheets arched. Three palm-sized versions of me rolled off the desk. One even adjusted its glasses.
“The original stays,” it said.
I said I was the original. The paper men exchanged looks and decided I was too large: plainly an inferior enlargement. They climbed my sleeve and dragged me towards the book press at the corner of the desk. I appealed to Benjamin. He moved his index cards to safety before grabbing my other hand.
“Don’t sign again,” he said.
Too late. I had just written a certificate certifying that He Fa was indeed He Fa. Two more of me stood up and joined the authentication committee. All five approved a resolution: flatten the large one.
I called it an outrage. They called it preservation. One measured my shoulders with a ruler. Another produced a lunch voucher, copied from somewhere, and announced that execution would follow lunch. While they argued over whether lunch vouchers could be copied, I pulled my hand free.
Benjamin asked me to arrange the paper men in order of appearance. I said they had formed a committee and probably no longer accepted cataloguing. Applause came from under the desk. The thinnest had been elected chair.
Remembering that I worked in theatre, I balanced my red ticket stub between two pencils and folded scrap paper into a little stage with wings. I announced that tonight’s performance was for originals only. Copies were forbidden on stage.
All five He Fas charged up, none willing to be second. They crowded the apron, competing to introduce themselves in my voice. I opened the paper curtain. Benjamin folded the wings together. With a snap, the entire theatre became a thin booklet.
The performance continued inside. One of me forgot its lines; another immediately declared it unfit to represent He Fa. We weighted the cover with a cup. The voices grew quieter.
I was about to thank Benjamin when I noticed my ticket was missing. The thinnest copy had slipped through the spine and was crawling into the door’s keyhole, red stub tucked under its arm. I rushed after it. It turned and asked, “Got a ticket?”
I had none. Once inside, it locked the door.