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GREEN CONTINENT
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The Tu-22 hunkers over the tarmac, wings drooping to the ground and undercarriage bulging over implausibly tiny wheels. It had lumbered through the Berlin blockade, if not the last world war. Blue Aeroflot livery stripes its flank. Instead of supply drops behind Western lines, it is ferrying emigrants and at least one temporary escapee to the Free World. We cross the tarmac in a straggling herd, heads ducked against a gritty breeze.
Inside the cabin, beneath a fluorescent tube the other passengers arrange and rearrange belongings in the overhead luggage hold, shuck off runners, hitch lurex tracksuits above ankles. I count rows to 27A, my window seat. A squad of young athletes – too short to be basketballers, swimmers perhaps – fill 26, relaxed amid the hubbub. They drape arms over each other’s headrests. Yellow NO SMOKING and FASTEN SEATBELTS signs flash above each row, prompting one or two grudging clicks, goading others to light up, fouling the space with tobacco odours.
Tu-22 shifts forward, rumbles along the runway. Its wheels leave the ground. What am I supposed to feel at this moment, other than mild surprise at my own absence of feeling? Again I check that the parcel is inside the pocket of my carry bag stowed under my feet. I experiment with the pop-up plastic tray, set at an angle to tip food into my lap unless I hold the plate. To ease pressure on my eardrums, I suck the last of the sweets my mother pressed into my hand. The contents of my stomach liquefy in sympathy. As the wing dips into a banked turn I see hangar roofs, dun on silver, the airport tower parapet. Fields and forests wheel on their axes.
The interior dims. I switch on the overhead light, rummage through the sleeve behind the next seat and pull out a laminated flight map. We are flying over Ryazan, veering east to Tajikistan, bisecting India’s northern rump, nicking Nepal, across the Bay of Bengal to our fuel stop at Singapore. Against my body clock, into the insomniac depths of morning. My stomach thinks it’s five in the afternoon and my brain’s too tired to convince it otherwise. Lacking concentration to read, I stop myself from checking my watch more than once an hour.
Following the perfunctory safety demonstration at take-off, the Aeroflot stewards stay inside the kitchenettes dividing the aisles crossways. Thirsty as I am, I resolve to limit myself to one mineral water in case of a rush on toilets. The drink steward meets my order with a stony glare, thereafter averting his eyes every time he passes. When the water finally arrives it is tepid, without fizz. Dinner is a single chicken wing swimming in stock, soggy lettuce and a stodgy lump of bread. I am grateful for my defective meal tray. It focuses my concentration on not spilling my food since seconds won’t be forthcoming.
Somewhere I read that on trans-hemispheric flights Western airlines screen anodyne films, starring the likes of Robert Redford and Liza Minelli, concluding in long, sloppy embraces and sunset backdrops. Kindness wedded to logic – movies back to back not only impart a fictitious structure to refracted time but also revive in fatigued minds the anticipation of an end, however insipid and fanciful. Illusion within illusions constitutes a reality of sorts.
My feet have swollen in my shoes. I remove them and lever my seat into dozing position.
Singapore registers as a rising gorge of food in my throat, a tickle of lettuce. The plane twists in crosscurrents. Houses shimmy around the rim of my porthole, tussocky swamps mark out a tarmac. Passengers begin removing their sweaters, limbering up as though preparing for a race. Which in a sense they are. New Russians fly here specially to buy TVs and other electronic portables still in erratic supply back home. KEEP SEATBELTS FASTENED cues a collective unlatching of overhead luggage holds. The disembarking Singaporeans remain compliantly still. For folk unused to it, freedom is oxygen – at a certain concentration you overdose.
Tropical air billows through the concertinaed walkway. Entering the transit lounge is like walking into a fridge. My feet, back in their shoes, are numb to the ankles and my jacket traps insufficient body heat. I affect an insouciant hands-in-pockets slouch. The guards manning the inspection booths show scant interest in the succession of maroon USSR external passports. I sit down on a plump vinyl armchair beside a Japanese couple sharing a slim can of mango juice and a newspaper with vertical calligraphic print-lines. I ogle the airport interior, its sparkling arcades and cornucopia of duty-free merchandise – Egyptian bangles encrusted with scarabs and lotus flowers, lavender tubes of bath oil, Chivas Regal whisky in velvet pouches. Despite the air-conditioning, in the humidity I am now sweating through to my jacket.
A new cabin crew – almond-skinned Singaporeans and larger blondish Australians – smile as we file back into the plane. We ascend over lush headlands rimming aqua sea. White yachts skim between harbour moorings. The crew distributes two Declaration Forms – one for Immigration, the other for Customs. Stowing them in my wallet for safekeeping, I order a glass of mineral water with ice, a refill, flex my feet, wriggle out off my shoes and tilt my seat back.
Crimson plateau. Sanskrit ridges petering out. The sun, a wrinkled orange, dissipates cloudbanks. I doze off again. Snapping seatbelts wake me for good. Descent unveils a rumpled, piebald expanse. Houses, their roofs corrugated, zoom in at collision speed. The plane lunges and I glimpse a sliver of cobalt ocean, a thin, ringed tower that reminds me of Moscow’s Ostankino, a skyscraper staircase, Sydney’s coat-hanger bridge. I brace upright, fold away the tray, swallow my one-but-last sweet. One, two, three-four bounces. The plane skids towards the airport proper and drifts to a halt.
I sit until the aisle and exits clear. My desk globe depicted Sydney’s environs as verdant hinterland. In real life it is khaki stubble. Away from the ocean mirages shimmer round a bulwark of blue hills.
Ventilated air blows along the corridor. My hands perspire. Wiping them on my jacket I follow the athletes through Immigration Clearance to Baggage Collection. Grey kitbags tumble onto a revolving console. My suitcase, the last to emerge, rolls onto its popped latch. I load it on an abandoned trolley and head for Customs where parallel queues form along green and red lines. Then I remember I have not filled out my Customs declaration. Resting it on my suitcase I scrawl No to each question, signature and date at the bottom and steer towards the green exit.
A customs officer chews gum, looks up from behind his booth. ‘Passport?’
He squints at my photograph, glances up, trying to match image to flesh. Frowns slightly. ‘Anything to declare?’
I present my forms. The officer scans Immigration, pauses halfway down Customs, stops looking bored.
‘Sure about that? Just step back a second while we take a look.’ Another blue uniform materialises at my elbow, unzips my bag. Their movements take on choreographic precision.
‘Routine inspection. Nothing to hide, nothing to fear.’ Spearmint scents the words.
Oh God, my bladder. ‘Toilet,’ I say, half under my breath, pronouncing it too-a-let in the Russian way.
‘Sorry?’
‘Please, toilet.’
The officer’s stare hardens. ‘Right, but we’ll be watching.’
The other officer escorts me to a bathroom with large square mirrors opposite open cubicles.
‘Stay standing. Do the business with your right hand, raise your left. Don’t bother flushing afterwards.’
I undo my fly, trying to keep my movements steady and economical. The urge subsides. I freeze over the bowl. The officer crosses his ankles, curses under his breath. Finally a dark yellow stream splashes the porcelain.
When we return the contents of my suitcase are scattered all over the counter. The first officer is opening the parcel, wielding scissors like forceps. He plucks out some greenbacks, my father’s ring. ‘I didn’t see anything about this on your form.’