The clerk’s busy checking in two young people. I’m relieved that I don’t have to tell him good-bye. I cross the lobby in a few long strides. The taxi’s parked in front of the hotel entrance. I throw my bag into the backseat and jump in. The driver, an obese fellow wearing a gigantic T-shirt, eyes me in the rearview mirror. His hair cascades down his back in long black curls. I don’t know why, but I find him ridiculous, him and his sunglasses. I say, “Airport.”
He nods, puts the car in first gear, and then, with studied nonchalance, slowly drives off. Slipping between a microbus and a delivery truck, he merges with the traffic. It’s hot for April. The recent downpours have washed the steaming streets clean. The rays of the sun ricochet off vehicles like bullets.
At a red light, the driver lights a cigarette and turns up the sound on his car radio. It’s Fairuz, singing “Habbaytak Bissayf.” Her voice catapults me through space and time. Like a meteorite, I land on the edge of the gap near my village where Kadem had me listen to some of his favorite songs. Kadem! I see myself in his house again, looking at the photograph of his first wife.
“Would you mind lowering the radio?”
The driver frowns. “It’s Fairuz.”
“Please.”
He’s irritated, probably even horrified. His fat neck trembles like a mass of gelatin. He says, “I’ll turn the radio off if you want.”
“I’d like that.”
He turns it off, offended but resigned.
I try not to think about what happened last night. Dr. Jalal’s words resound like thunder inside my skull. I shift my eyes to the crowds on the sidewalks, the shop windows, the cars passing on both sides of the cab, and everywhere I look, I see only him, with his incoherent gestures, his thick tongue, his unstoppable words. The traffic flows onto the road to the airport. I lower my window to evacuate the driver’s smoke. The wind whips my face but doesn’t cool me off. My temples are burning and my stomach’s in an uproar. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Didn’t eat anything, either. I remained shut up inside my room, counting the hours and struggling against the urge to stick my head in the toilet and puke my guts out.
The ticket counters are thronged. The public-address announcer is a woman with a nasal voice. People are kissing one another, separating, meeting, searching the crowd. It looks like everybody’s getting ready to leave Lebanon. I stand in line and wait my turn. I’m thirsty and my calves are aching. A young woman asks me to give her my passport and my tickets. She says something I don’t understand. “Do you have any bags?” Why does she want to know if I have any bags? She looks at the one I’m carrying. “Are you holding on to that?” What’s that supposed to mean? She rolls a label around one of the straps on my bag, shows me a number and a time on my boarding card, and then points me to the area where people are kissing one another before they part. I pick up my bag and head to another counter. A uniformed agent instructs me to place my bag on a conveyor belt. On the other side of a glass, a woman watches a screen. My bag disappears into a big black hole. The security agent hands me a little tray and tells me I’m to put on it all the metal objects I’m carrying. I obey. “Coins, too.”
I step through a frame. A man intercepts me, runs a wand over me, lets me go. I recover my bag, my watch, my belt, and my coins and walk to the gate indicated on my boarding card. There’s no one at the counter. I take a seat near a big picture window and watch the dance of the airplanes on the tarmac. On the runway, there’s a steady turnover of flights landing and taking off. I’m nervous. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever set foot in an airport.
I believe I must have fallen asleep.
My watch reads 5:40 P.M. All the seats around me are taken. Two ladies are busy behind the counter; the illuminated screen above their heads has been turned on. I see my flight number, the word LONDON, and the British Airways logo. On my right, an old woman pulls her cell phone out of her purse, checks to see if she has any messages, and thrusts the phone back into her purse. Two minutes later, she yanks out the phone and consults it again. She’s worried, waiting for a call that doesn’t come. Behind us, a future father beams upon his wife, whose belly swells under her maternity dress. He attends to her every need, alert to the slightest sign from her, eager to show her how deeply he’s enraptured; his joy shines in his eyes. A young European couple leans against a vending machine, their arms around each other and their golden hair covering their faces. The boy is tall, with a fluorescent orange T-shirt and ripped jeans. The girl, as blond as a bale of hay, has to rise up on her toes in order to reach her boyfriend’s lips. Their embrace is passionate, beautiful, generous. What’s that like, kissing someone on the mouth? I’ve never kissed a girl on the mouth. I don’t remember ever even holding a girl cousin’s hand or having anything resembling a romance. In Kafr Karam, I dreamed about girls from a distance, secretly, almost ashamed of my weakness. At the university, I knew by sight a girl named Nawal, a doe-eyed brunette. We greeted each other with our eyes; furtive looks were our farewells. I think each of us felt something for the other, but neither of us had the nerve to find out exactly what that was. She was in another class. We contrived to pass each other in the halls — our encounters lasted long enough for a couple of strides. A smile sufficed to make us happy; we basked in its memory throughout the ensuing lectures. After classes ended, my fantasy’s father or older brother would wait for her at the university gates and spirit her away from me until the following day. Then the war came and gave my daydreams the coup de grâce.
An announcement comes over the public-address system: The flight for London is now boarding. Nervous bustling begins all around me. Already two lines of passengers have formed, one on each side of the counter. The elderly woman on my right doesn’t stand up. For the umpteenth time, she pulls out her mobile phone and stares at it dolefully.
With a heavy heart, she places herself at the end of the line. A young woman checks her passport and hands her a piece of her ticket. She turns around one last time and then disappears into a corridor.
I’m the only one left.
The ladies behind the counter laugh as they exchange pleasantries with a gentleman. He leaves through a glass door and comes back a few minutes later. A last-minute passenger arrives on the run, amid the squealing of his wheeled suitcase. He apologizes effusively. The ladies smile upon him and show him the corridor; he hastens toward it.
With a look of annoyance, the gentleman at the counter checks his watch. One of his colleagues leans toward a microphone and makes a final call for a missing passenger. The passenger she’s talking to is me. She repeats the call a few times over the course of the next several minutes. Finally, she shrugs, puts things in order behind the counter, and runs after her two colleagues, who have preceded her into the corridor.
My airplane rolls to the middle of the tarmac. I watch it turn slowly and reach the runway.
The screen above the counter goes black.
It’s long past nightfall. Other passengers joined me in the seating area before disappearing into the corridor. Now another flight is announced, and the seats around me are occupied for the third time.
A small gentleman, highly excited, takes the seat beside me. “Are you going to Paris?” he asks.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is this the flight to Paris?”
“Yes,” someone says reassuringly.
The airbus for Paris takes off, majestic, impregnable. The great halls of the airport grow quiet and sleepy. Most of the waiting areas are empty. In one, however, there are about sixty passengers, patiently waiting in what seems like religious silence.
An airport security agent comes up to me, walkie-talkie in hand. He’s already made two or three passes through this section, apparently intrigued by my presence. He plants himself in front of me and asks me if everything’s all right.
“I missed my flight,” I say.
“I thought as much. What was your destination?”
“London.”
“There aren’t any more flights for London tonight. Show me your tickets, please…. British Airways. All the offices are closed at this hour. There’s nothing I can do for you. You’re going to have to come back tomorrow and explain what happened to the company concerned. I warn you, they’re pretty inflexible. I don’t think they’ll let you use today’s ticket tomorrow. Do you have a place to stay? You’re not allowed to spend the night here. In any case, you’re going to have to talk to the airline. I’ll show you where their office is. Come on, follow me.”