A Book Bought Before Boarding

     You are crossing the ocean. Easier by plane than by swimming, but you have to suffer proximity, farts, snores, the sight of a blurred movie far away from your hard flotation device seat cushion by the rear galley, near the tail engines and the toilets.
     “Coffee?”
     “As long as it’s as black as my soul.”
     Side-look and raised eyebrows from your quiet neighbor who didn’t utter a word since take-off, not even bon appétit in front of the TV-dinner tray. The Beaujolais helped to bring color on your tray, taste in your mouth.
     “Do you have any cognac? Make it two, if you please.”
     “You’ll be quiet!”
     “Don’t you worry. As a clam can be.”
     “You mean, quiet as a lamb? ‘cause we say happy as a clam. So what will it be?”
     “Quiet as a lamb and happy as a clam.”
     “Good!”
     White teeth in the middle of a black face surrounded with black hair on top of a navy blue uniform moving to the next row, offering the same “Coffee, tea?”
     Engines roaring. Are we there yet?
     You look for your book bought before boarding, Grimm’s fairy tales. Maybe you are falling asleep and you are dreaming but you bite your lips, not because of the bitter coffee but because of the bitter sorrow in your heart. Hours from departure, you remember her silhouette going toward the exit of the concourse, leaving you to be screened at the gate. Her face was crying, “Go only if you must,” she had said over and over. “Don’t change your plans because of me. I’ll be fine.”
     You imagine she might be having lunch, ready to submerge herself into working, working and working. She’ll be fine, you think that you are lying to yourself, the cognac makes you squint your eyes really hard. What the hell is that? You forget your lie. Other images pop in your head, slide on the screen of your eyelids. I’m on an adventure! These words echo what people have told you when you announced your travel plans. “I envy you” was often used, but mostly the word “adventure.”
     You try to comfort yourself that indeed it is an adventure, but deep inside you know that what you’re doing is more of an escape. You are running away from boredom, routine, complacency. From a good workplace where you acquired seniority and pride, from the remnants of your family, from her also. She who opened your eyes. She who cracked open the shell imprisoning you. She who derailed the train of your predictable life. She who made you cry like a baby and get off like an animal. She who gave you her tiny breast to suckle and her big heart to cuddle. She who helped you pack, drove you to the airport and said, “I’ll be fine.”
     The night before, you couldn’t sleep, you made love restlessly, unable to find peace. Words were of no use, they all had been said. At the high-ceiling, they would have flown over the bed, half-smiling half-sorry. You remember that hot summer day spent in bed, one of you had mentioned that, maybe it was you, you cannot tell for sure, it could have been she who said it. It doesn’t matter on the plane going to your destiny. Yes, this could be an adventure, you’ll have to be patient, it’s a very long journey, it will be another day when you’ll reach your destination.
     “No, you can’t smoke on this flight.”
     You go to the bathroom. Then you pass through the galley, walk down the other aisle, notice there are more free seats, maybe…
     “Hi!”
     You bump into someone, your rounded eyes are mistaken for bewilderment.
     “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
     No, you don’t. Your brain went apparently blank in the boarding area.
     “The bookstore!”
     And suddenly, “Oh yes, the bookstore. I stepped on your toes.”
     There she is, a smiling skinny six-foot-tall and long curly red head.
     “Jessica's the name.”
     You mumble yours.
     “What did you say?”
     You repeat and shake the hand waiting in mid-air, a cold hand.
     “Man, you’re hot! I’m freezing in this plane. Need to go to the loo. Do you want to chat a little bit? Be right back. This is boring in here. You’re not boring, are you?”
     You don’t think so, who would? She is gone, her seat and the one next to it are invaded with her blanket, book, papers, purse, jacket, her travel bag is wide open. She must be an air-head. And you smile. You feel like her protector because you are watching over her stuff. But then, who would steal anything in a plane? There is nowhere to go.
     You have to scoot over for the stewardess passing by with her cart, same smiling black woman, quite strongly built, the type you don’t want to mess with, but maybe in other circumstances, elsewhere for sure, horizontally perhaps. What are you thinking? This is silly! No, it’s not. Listen, she asked you a question.
     “I’m not tired. No Ma’am, your coffee wasn’t too strong. I’d like another one.”
     “And a double shot of cognac, I suppose? Be right back.” Her voice goes away, clearing the passage ahead of her, “Excuse me! Excuse me!”
     Loud laughs are coming from the galley, Jessica’s and the stewardess’s. You wonder what’s the matter but shrug the question away and sit in the row behind the red-hair air-head’s seat. And you burp. And then you think that maybe…
     “I’m back. Oh, sorry. I’m a mess, aren’t I? Let me put this away. It’s better to talk side by side, don’t you think? Normally I take more space but there are only two seats here. Anyway, can you help me put my bag up there? I would do it myself, but… Am I talking too much? I’m so excited. Aren’t you? I was thinking of you in the bathroom. Are you a Saniassen to wear red coveralls like these? You know, the Bagwan followers. I know a lot of Saniassen in Amsterdam. That’s where I’m from. Where are you from? No, let me guess… your accent, you must be French. My father was French, my mother's from Germany. Here, I’m done. Can you help me? I’ve cleared the seats. Just for you. Do you prefer the window or the aisle?”
     “I’m back with your coffee and cognac!”
     You get up awkwardly, undecided at first. The stewardess awaits with her smile and your drinks. You take Jessica’s bag, open the compartment above, lift the mushy thing, roll it into the space as quickly as possible and then in a split second you see the zip wide opened in front of your face. It’s too late, its contents pour on your head, shoulders and arms. In another split second you resemble a laundry line filled with shirts, shorts, socks and underwear. Definitely an air-head. But you are in control, stoic and poised.
     Jessica picks up her stuff, “How can I apologize to you?” Punctuating her motions to recover this, “I’m so sorry,” or that, “I’m so sorry.” In the end, all is well, the bag is filled, zipped and put safely away.
     The black stewardess controls her laughing; her raised eyebrows wrinkle her forehead, her eyes like dotted big white marbles. “Remember me?” She comes back from her retreat position, “Your beverages.”
     Jessica crawls to the window, sighing: “I’m so sorry!”
     “Don’t you worry, honey, I’ve seen worse on these planes. Would a nightcap make you feel any better?”
     “I’ll have the same.”
     “You’re sure? This one’s drinking a double.”
     “Sure, why not? The night is still young.”
     These simple words awake you for no reason. Or is there any? Maybe some sort of challenge to know, the daring to pick up on the innuendo? French are known to play with words, among other things. Awake, not sad to have left country and friends, not a zombie traveler wondering what the future might be. You are interested, still holding coffee and cognac in mid-air, staring at the green eyes on your right. Bright eyes lowering on you as if they were…
     “Let me help you with your tray.” She bends in front of you, her hair tickles your nose, you smell the flowery shampoo, you forget what you were thinking about. “Here you are.” Her left arm brushes you, her hand near your belt. “Be careful now, I’m not moving, I don’t want to cause any more problems.”
     You lower your arms slowly, hers follow suit. Your coffee and cognac are safe, her hand touches your thigh, the left one. “I’m sorry,” she quickly removes it, pinching her lips. Or is she biting them?
     “Et voilà, Madame!” whispers the black body cambering over you. “See, I speak French. I know merci and voulez-vous coucher avec moi. But that’s it!”
     Jessica, in the corner of your eyes, winks at her. You hold your coffee cup steady on the tray. Just in case.
     Jessica smiles, “You’re traveling for pleasure or for business?” She then struggles with the cap of the miniature cognac bottle. You help her, nonchalant as you were when under the shower of her clothes. You both laugh nervously about it.
     Jessica sips on her coffee, “You haven’t answered me yet.”
     In fast motion you review the previous months at work, you tell Jessica you are a nurse in ICU, she says it must be hard, you say not really. Then you feel the pang in your heart, the same stabbing deep inside as when you realized your life was unfulfilling, boring even, you had helped others all the time, never took care of yourself, you tell Jessica this is personal, that you needed a break, you are on a sabbatical, she says that you did the right thing, life’s too short anyway. Then, you see your most trusted friend going with you to the travel agency to buy your one-year ticket around the world, just one ticket, she was not to travel with you, you tell Jessica about your friend, she asks you what is her name, you say Chantal and swallow your saliva, she says that you must love her very much because it shows, you nod and drink your cognac, in one go. Then you remember the farewell party, the packing, last night love-sharing, the silences floating at the ceiling, and then your tears block your view.
     “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. If you want, I can cuddle with you. Aren’t you tired with all these emotions? Come here, I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”
     You don’t need a bedtime story, you can’t count the number of times she said ‘I’m sorry’ anymore, and you tell her. She blinks several times. You continue:
     “Can I ask you a personal question?”
     “Try me.”
     “Are you a virgin? I mean, a Virgo?”
     “No, I’m a Pisces, born February 29.”
     “You are shitting me?”
     You check each other’s ID and laugh because you are both seven years old. Well, times four, but nonetheless, what a coincidence, you could be twins it wouldn’t be any more surprising.
     “No wonder I felt attracted to you.”
     “Or is it because I stepped on your toes and you’re a masochist?”
     “No, I really did. I thought you were kind of cute.”
     “Sorry, but I can’t lie.”
     “You don’t find me cute?”
     “No, I mean that I didn’t think of anything then. I was lost in my memories, not quite there.”
     “Well, now that you’re here, what do you think?”
     “I think I’d rather cuddle first. I really need it.”
     “Lift the armrest and turn around.”
     You do so, and lay your back on her chest, your head against her jaw. She wraps you with her arms, hands crossed over your chest. The roar of the engines turns into a distant purr. You close your eyes.
     “Once upon a time…”
     Back home as a child, your mother told you bedtime stories, always the same, “Once Upon a Time, your Uncle Joe went to America. We didn’t think he’d ever come back for good…” Her voice rings again in the convolutions of your brain, singing a duet with Jessica’s voice telling you her bedtime story.
     You don’t like the words Fairy Tales because they remind you of Uncle Joe, everyone called him Aunty behind his back (in a manner of speaking), he was indeed different and his mannerism was the laughing stock of the family. But he made it all right in the world, didn’t he? And better than his laughing family. “Do you remember when Aunty won the lottery? He passed out, that poor thing!” your mother – his sister – said one day. Now, Uncle Joe lives in Miami or Mexico or both, who knows? And you wonder why he left his home. Well, for sure the weather is nicer in the tropics than in the Midwest, and they don’t mind his demeanor as much as the local cowboys might have. At least, that’s what you think, because Uncle Joe left his country so long ago and you never visited him. Twenty years ago, he went to the El Dorado. Came back once or twice, you were so little you remember only what was said about him, and about the trip your parents took one year, bringing him the luck to win the lottery. That’s what he said when he recovered from the shock two days later. Your mother attended to him, worrying sick that he wouldn’t survive. But your father was right – he was always right – he said something really to the point that made your mother uneasy, and he was sworn to never repeat it again. She said it had something to do with Greeks, a magic word that made Uncle Joe wake up and ask “Where?” The fever of his body had moved to his head, he made quick plans, your parents helped him to pack, “but not before we went to celebrate in Las Vegas,” your mother added with round eyes. They had returned home with tons of stories, and a slightly envious feeling at Aunty’s luck and sudden rejuvenation. “He was another man! But still my brother.” The next year, your Dad got a new car for Christmas and a thank-you note for everything. The laughing stock had turned into a mysterious rich powerful image for the family. Some wondered, though, why they didn’t get a new car too. Years passed, you grew up listening to the same bedtime story, not a fairy tale. You tried to imagine what it was like over there. And today you bought a book before boarding for the same destination. You’re not gonna turn out like your Uncle Joe, are you?
     Once upon a time… Chantal’s voice takes the relay. You’ll go to America like many, in search of the El Dorado where so many are said to have made a fortune and a better life for themselves. But you are not a political escapist, you are not a religious persecuted minority, you are not a run-away convict, you are not a greedy adventurer, you are not a disillusioned poet, you are not on bad terms with anyone, you are not that short of money or hope. Oh, I know, the grass looks always greener, but it is such a pitiful cliché and you are not that dull of a decision-maker.
     Once upon a time… you think for yourself that at home things were pretty much laid out for you. Like in a cocoon, in a womb, everything tailored for you, the tracks of your life drawn in advance. And so, after a while, you felt directed, or stuck. Boredom came to your mind, routine coated your days, complacency was your diagnosis. You had to do something before suffocating, but what? how? where? when? You already knew the why. Did you, really? Thinking of it in Jessica’s arms on that plane going west, you are not quite sure. But there is no possible escape right now, you have to stay put, at least till landing. And then what?
     Oh, you have been around the block before, it’s not your first journey to foreign lands. You lived in Africa, you stayed in Asia… yes but. I know, you had a return ticket in your pocket, a job to go back to the very next day, gifts for friends, stories to tell. You didn’t get rid of your apartment, your dog, and your car. You did not have a farewell party. In those occasions, you took a vacation. This is not a vacation, you’re not even sure that you are going to use your return ticket, you wonder only about what’s next. No, about why you left behind your family possessions, seniority, social security and retirement benefits.
     “You are mad!” had said your always-right father when you went to Africa. Back then his argument was “you don’t even know what they eat there!” To which you replied “I’ll tell you when I’ll come back.”
     This time, he might think about you turning out like your Uncle Joe, not about you winning the lottery. Or necessarily, not even about you becoming like Uncle Joe. No, he’d fear he wouldn’t see you again, you’d never return and he’d die without seeing you. Yes, you already said not see you again twice, is it that important to you? Obviously not, you are simply fighting that chimerical excuse to cover up the insidious why still echoing on the quiet. You muted your little inner voice in the airport parking lot, you shut down your grieving feelings at the boarding gate, you’ve turned into a catatonic passenger at the mercy of yet another confined area, and a watchful crew dedicated to make you enjoy what’s paid for.
     Once upon a time… you remember Chantal, your best girlfriend. You wonder why the English must specify the gender of a friend. The grammarian in you says it’s because there is no gender to words in English. The sophist in you laughs at the male and female qualifiers used for even humans, in your tongue and many others they refer to animals. The dreamer in you fantasizes about all sorts of things you experienced with your friend. Grammarian, sophist and dreamer voices meddling in all sorts of chit-chat to keep you busy and from hearing that persistent inner little voice of yours asking the same question over and over again. And you agree that you have it all, you shouldn’t burn bridges.
     But your ego is not that strong, you can still go back without shame. “I missed you so much” is the password that opens all doors, “I love you” also is very powerful. When true, otherwise it is only a set of predictable words put in the mouth to make it sound as if the feelings of the speaker were more important than the risk of losing face because of a failure. You know all of that. You also remember your cognac. You drink it in one go.
     Maybe you are dreaming in your original and dedicated seat, maybe you’re indeed in Jessica’s arms. Maybe you are not even in that plane, you are still in Chantal’s bedroom staring at the silence floating above you, still sweating after the long embrace of gender-specific body parts. Chantal’s hair tickling your ear – or is it Jessica’s? Chantal’s hand caressing your nipples – or is it Jessica’s? Chantal’s breast pressing on you – or is it Jessica’s? Chantal or Jessica, her bedroom or the plane, you do not hear the engine, your heart beats very loud, chanting every so often why-why, why-why. You know you will have to get up and face the situation, not sure which, where, when, how or even why, you are drifting away.
     Once upon a time… you turn around in a reptilian motion, you caress the hand, the wrist, the elbow, the arm, the shoulder, the neck, the earlobe, the cheek, the lips. Those lips are so responsive, so hungry. You don’t care about anything else but for that kiss to never finish. Your throat is moaning, your eyes are crying, your heart is pounding, your breath heaving, your belly aching, your groins swelling, your legs stiffening. If you are not in Chantal’s bedroom, you must be in Jessica’s arms. Or having a wet dream. You can’t think straight, your neck is crooked, your body twisted in this famous embrace immortalized by Rodin in 1886. You have begun to die again, about to be reborn anew, willing to give up, although you know very well it’s impossible because you are not the kind to give up. But you did. Haven't you already given up your stuff, your future and maybe your soul? Aren’t you giving up your body right now? Oh yes, you are giving in, you are at the mercy of its sensations, jolting at every single touch on it; those fingertips are like bees on your skin, prickling bees everywhere, you have given up everything, one more time, in a woman’s arms, legs and lips; in your Bermuda triangle pours the Sea of Sargasso, you are trapped in treacherous tentacles, twirling around in mid-air, you exude kelp from every pore, you don’t cry for help, you purr and dive deeper in a tropical ocean of sensations, breathless, amorphous like a pebble at the end of its bouncing course on the water, deeper in the womb, closer to birth, you feel squeezed out, juices flow around you, you want to stay inside looking for the source of the spring.
     Once upon a time…