Girl on a Plane (19 page)

Noon on Saturday, she said. Tomorrow. So why did Jamal say we had
time?
That seems like no time at all to me.

And the words arrive from nowhere.
The sands of time are running out.
They make me think of the egg timer on the kitchen counter: two glass bulbs, one above the other, in a wooden frame. Turn it upside down, and the pink sand in the top runs into the bottom in a thin, straight line. Fine sand falling through space.

Until time runs out and the glass is empty.

Rosemary and Celia deliver each of us a small cup of water. I sip it very slowly, feel the silveriness of it slide across my dry tongue and down my blotting-paper throat. I imagine it rolling lightly, like mercury, into my stomach. All too soon my little cup is empty, but at least the water softens my headache for a while.

And the afternoon slips by. No news comes. No one seems to be
doing
anything, well except the deadline, which is rushing toward us like a runaway train. I feel increasingly restless. I pace up and down the plane, past Rosemary, fussing over the fretful baby, sitting on his mother's knee, past the Newtons, arguing about who forgot to bring spare batteries for the radio, past Maria, still looking fragile, past Celia, smoking with Alan, her hair wonderfully disheveled.

Everyone seems to be smoking. The air is thick with it. The ashtrays are overflowing. Everything stinks of stale smoke—​the upholstery, our clothes, our hair. I've even seen the twins taking a surreptitious puff.

As I walk past Jim, he offers me a cigarette. “Well,” he grins, “if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.” And so I do. What the hell? Nothing matters anymore.

I draw the smoke in. And I can't explain how incredibly satisfying it is right now to do something that's bad for you, that tastes so revolting, something
different,
something self-inflicted.

“Keeps the old appetite at bay too, as well as the nerves,” Jim says. When he smiles I notice that his eyes disappear completely.

“Thanks,” I say. And then my stomach rumbles. It sounds cavernous. “Oh, dear, sorry.”
How embarrassing.
I smile apologetically. “Bit hungry.”

“Och, we're all rumbling like underground trains,” he says kindly.

I change the subject. “I've been wondering,” I say. “You know I helped Rosemary collect the untouched food and drinks on the first day; well, there was more stuff in there that was only half-eaten. So why, since we're all so desperately hungry, don't we eat it now?”

“Ah! If only,” he says. “But imagine what it looks like in this heat, two days later? I wouldn't like to open those carts up again. The smell will be terrible, and it'll all be covered in mold and full of bacteria. Shame, eh?”

“Big shame. We should have eaten it then.”

“We should indeed.”

I stub my cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray, thank him again, and drift back to my seat. My mouth feels disgusting, but it did before I smoked, anyway, and, as Jim says, it's taken the edge off my hunger for a moment.

I sit disconsolately, doing nothing for a while, then see Jamal coming down the aisle, on his way to the back for his next shift.

He stops by my seat. “Hi.” He looks hopeful, then unsure. “You all right?”

I shrug, look away, lean against the window. I want him to see how fed up I am, that it's all his fault.

He hesitates, then, refusing to be affected by my behavior, perches on the end armrest. “So, are you going crazy yet?” He smiles.

“Yes, I am,” I say. “And it's not funny.”

But, weirdly, it's then that I understand what he was talking about earlier. And it occurs to me for the first time that he is risking his life by being here, that, even if we're freed, he may very well be killed. Maybe he's feeling as scared as I am.

I turn to him, feeling more like conversing. “What did you think when my buckle caught on your belt?”

He raises dark eyebrows and says, mock severely, “I thought you were serious trouble.” Then his face turns solemn. “But I saw how you dealt with fear,” he says. “I know you are strong.”

I shake my head. “You don't know me at all, Jamal. But what about you? Are you strong?”

“Yes. And I have a good heart, like yours.”

“Do you?” I look disbelieving.

“You see only the gun,” he says. “The hand grenades . . . When you are dispossessed of everything else, your body is all you have left to fight with.” He looks at me. “But of course you cannot see who I really am. How can you?”

“Well . . . it's not
that
easy.”

“It's impossible to see properly in this place,” he mutters, as if talking to himself. And it's true. Everything's a muddle in here. Out of control. I think of Maria, about what happened to her.

“Jamal, where's the other guy, the thin one with black hair?”

“Oh.” He looks down, embarrassed.

“We haven't seen him today,” I insist.

“No.”

“No one's talking to us about it, but something happened last night with him and one of the girls from first class.”

“Yes.”

“She was incredibly upset.”

“Yes.”

I wait. He looks away, then back at me. “He's not allowed on the plane anymore,” he says.

“Well, yes, I noticed,” I say impatiently. “So what happened?”

He pauses, then takes a breath. “He touched her.” I feel the shock of the words, the idea of it.

“He touched and frightened her,” he adds, and I'm quieted.

“He's been disciplined,” he continues. But I don't want to know any more.

“My friend, the tall guy,” he carries on, “he's spoken to your captain—​and to the girl.” He shakes his head angrily. “He was so stupid.”

Suddenly I feel a wave of exhaustion. I stare at Jamal's arm, lying along the top of the seats, at his khaki shirt cuff, the gold face and black strap of his watch.
This day might be my last. His last.

My throat constricts; tears rise. I mustn't blink, or they'll fall and he'll see. I really want to ask him something, though, but no words come for a moment.

Jamal waits, watching my face.

I take a deep breath.

“If we
are
released tomorrow, what will happen to you? I mean . . . afterward?” I ask. “Aren't you scared?”

“Yes, I am. Of course I am. But some of us aren't.”

“Like who?”

“My tall friend.”

“We call him the Giant.”

He smiles. “He is—​a giant among men. I've known him since I was little. His light went out long before he came here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he doesn't fear death. He has lost too much already: his wife, his girls, his son. He says he doesn't want to stay anymore. He says dying for the cause is all he can do now, so that others might one day go home.” He leans forward and looks at me. “Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I think so.” I'm aware of the rise and fall of his chest.

“Is it the first time you've had to face death?” he asks.

I nod.

“Don't be too afraid. In the end it will make you stronger.”

Easy enough to say,
I think, but I let it go.

“What will you do,” I ask, “when this is over? If . . .”

“If I survive?”

“Yes.”

“Until I can return to my homeland, my dream is to go to university, maybe in Beirut, in Lebanon. I have sent my brother to our aunt there. She writes often, begging me to come too.”

“Well, then you must. How can you
not
get away from all this?” But, of course, it isn't a case of just jumping on a bus. “You should go,” I say. “I know someone at school who lives there . . .” I stop, realizing that what I'm saying is going nowhere.

“Are you on your way back to school in England?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Then you are lucky. You can learn about the world and, afterward, go out into it.”

“So can you.”

He shrugs. “Maybe one day.” He looks away, then back. “Your parents are in Bahrain?”

“I don't know. They were due to fly home today. If we're released, I hope they'll be waiting for me.”

He frowns. “They will never abandon you, Anna.”

“No.” Suddenly I feel the weight of his words. As I try to control my emotions, he waits quietly, looking down the aisle, his black boot resting against the chair fabric.

“Come, Anna, no more sad thoughts,” he says eventually. “Instead I must thank you for letting me practice my English. I love to hear it; it reminds me always of my mother.”

When he goes, I feel calmer for having spoken with him, as though a little of my fear has been smoothed and folded away, as though, just for a while, I've been somewhere else.

Through my little window, I watch the sun sink and the desert burn gold and, as the sand loses its heat, sheets of gossamer-thin clouds unfurl high up.

And night falls on our third day.

It's our last night, the last night before the deadline tomorrow. What can anyone say? What can anyone do? We can only carry on. I'm stuck in a cycle of sudden and awful remembering, followed by anxiety, fear, exhaustion, and forgetting.

I wish I could stop thinking, unhook myself from my mind.

Instead David, Tim, and I play Scrabble. We sip our water ration and eat another scrap of unleavened bread. David is intensely irritated by everything: by the Giant pacing up and down, by dropping his Scrabble tiles, by the annoying jiggle of the hurricane lamps. In the end, we're all irritated by each other. Like the bundles of dynamite, our fuses are short.

I try pretending nothing significant is happening. I push dangerous thoughts to one side, and when I fail, I have to stand up, leave the others, walk away, recover, return, sit back down again.

In the middle of all this, Mrs. Green finds two batteries in the bottom of her wash bag that fit the Newtons' radio.

Everyone crowds around in time for Big Ben. The radio buzzes, crackles into life. The newscaster's voice is crisp:

“The Palestinian guerrilla spokesman said tonight that unless there is a last-minute reprieve and the British government frees Leila Khaled, the guerrilla held in London, the airliner and the hostages will be blown up tomorrow morning.”

There's an awful silence. I feel like I'm drowning.

The mother of the baby turns away and starts to cry. Mrs. Green takes her daughter in her arms and hugs her. The little girl moans and wriggles free. Mr. Newton snaps the radio off. “Bloody government!” he cries. He's beside himself. “Christ! What are they thinking? No doubt those bloody bastards are sitting in Downing Street, sipping a nice glass of port before bed. Don't worry about us!” He slams his hand down on the seat in front of him. “We'll just sit here in this metal bloody time bomb, trussed up with explosives.” His face is purple with rage.

The captain puts a hand on his shoulder. “Now, Tom, that's no way to speak.” Mr. Newton shrugs him off, but the captain keeps going. “I'm sure there's a great deal of activity going on behind the scenes,” he says to the rest of us. “That's what we have to believe. It's an incredibly tense time, but we all really must stay calm and weather it.”

Mr. Newton attempts to stand up. “Well, let's see what our captors have to say, shall we? Let's talk to
them,
shall we?”

The captain bars his way. “I don't think that's a good idea, Tom. No point causing trouble at this stage. And no point upsetting everyone else.”

Jim steps up. “Come along now, everybody.” He puts his arms out and starts herding people away from the Newtons' seats. “Let's not get carried away. No point in panicking.”

Rosemary joins him and guides the blond sisters back up the aisle. “We need to stay calm,” she says to them, “and try to get some sleep.” She puts a hand out as she passes by and touches me on the shoulder. “OK?”

I nod, but I'm beyond misery; my last hope has been shattered. A deep dread settles in my stomach. Another day of negotiations has ended with no release for us.

David collapses into the seat opposite me, looking like he's been punched in the stomach. He glances across at me, his face drawn. “The only thing that can save us now is a miracle.” He wipes his forehead and his face with his hands. “Unless you think that good-luck badge of yours can do it.”

I turn hopelessly away.

The dynamite charges are in place. We're locked in. Eventually the hurricane lamps are turned low, and the night feels suddenly longer, colder, and more hostile than ever.

I try to sleep, but, like everyone else, I just lie waiting for morning.

I think about Marni, how she's not afraid to ignore silly rules. I see her hair, her scarf, the man's wristwatch halfway up her arm. I remember how Dad's jokes misfire, how he dries my hair with a towel, how once he taught us army hand signals on a deserted beach. And I think of the boys. Oh, the boys—​I love them all so much that it hurts. And I think how lucky I've been to know them, to spend my short life with them.

The void around me grows and expands, and my tears pour out into the dark.

Eventually I sleep fitfully, restlessly. At intervals throughout the night, my eyes jerk open, my heart races, thumping in my ears. And for a split second, I don't know where I am, what I'm so terrified of.

Then I sit upright—​and remember.

I pull up the blind, stare out the window. When we were small and upset, Marni would take us to look out at the night, at the moon and the stars. And there is the moon's sheen, and there are the stars, calm and bright in the black firmament. But where's Marni? I need her so much.