Girl on a Plane (21 page)

When the road becomes tarmac, we travel faster between the roadblocks. I sit back, close my eyes, and welcome the warm wind on my face. It ripples through my hair, cools my neck. The rhythm begins to lull me, and I doze. But soon I sense the minibus slowing down again and open my eyes to see that we've reached the outskirts of the city. Crowds of people are going about their business. There are bike bells and car horns and stifling exhaust fumes. When I smell food cooking, my stomach clenches. I salivate and am consumed by hot, sick waves of hunger. I look longingly at the bunches of bananas hanging from stalls, the crates of oranges, the mounds of carrots. A woman on a veranda drinks mint tea from a glass.

We pass a butcher's shop, a man unloading sacks of flour from a truck, a boy selling cold water from an ice chest fixed to the front of his bicycle.
Moya barrida!
he shouts, waving at me. “Cold water.”
Moya barrida!
Can't we stop and buy some? But perhaps we're nearly there.

I'll drink water soon enough,
I tell myself. As much as I want.

We're stationary in a busy road approaching the InterContinental Hotel. And suddenly I'm aware that there's no sign of the PFLP Jeeps that accompanied us. Somewhere along the road, they must have quietly melted away. Up ahead I can see a huge crowd of people. When they spot our minibuses, they start running toward us, dodging through the traffic—​reporters with cameras on their shoulders, trailing loops of wire, some with notebooks, some carrying reels of film, others with earphones, boom microphones. And my heart sinks. I don't want to fight my way through them, to have to be filmed and answer questions. I just want to get inside the hotel and find David and Tim again.

One of the reporters outside the InterContinental Hotel runs up to our minibus window and jogs alongside. “How did they treat you?” he shouts, his yellow tie flying over one shoulder. But the minibus lurches forward, accelerates away, and the man disappears behind us.

When we slow down in the traffic, he catches up again. “Were they violent?” he shouts, his brown hair flopping. There's sweat on his top lip. “Did they torture you? Was anyone abused?” There's a shocked silence inside the minibus before it edges forward again.

Suddenly a huge, gray boom microphone is thrust in through my window, forcing my head against the back of my seat, pushing into my face. As the man keeps pace, it jiggles up and down. The stale smell of it is sickening.

“Say something! Say something!” the man shouts at me.

His colleague comes alongside, his TV camera whirring.

Fury stirs in my blood: “LEAVE US ALONE!” I yell.

The stinking microphone retreats. I slam my window shut and lock it. There's nervous laughter and a smattering of applause from behind. Someone pats me on the back. But all I can feel are my eyes filling, hot tears falling, pouring down.

The driver parks outside the hotel, drags on the hand brake, and comes around to open the side door. I pull off the scarf tying back my hair and use it to wipe my face dry.

Then I step out into the scrum.

Picking up my case, I try to run the gauntlet through the shouting, jostling crowd of reporters waiting on the steps of the hotel. The noise is overwhelming, and I hardly have the strength to batter my way through. Eventually someone grabs my arm and pulls me out of the crowd. The doors swing shut behind me, and I'm inside, standing in the foyer in a melee of passengers, crew, and uniformed staff, who are herding everyone around to the right. I can't see David and Tim anywhere, just our aircrew, being siphoned off to the left.

Behind me there's a shout as a bunch of reporters surge past the hotel doormen. The reception and security staff dash to head them off. There are scuffles and swearing. Eventually the front doors are slammed closed and locked; the reporters outside bang continuously on the glass.

I glimpse several men in a doorway wearing suits and holding clipboards. As I pass one, he asks my name and ticks me off his list. I'm ushered into a large air-conditioned room, the walls hung with old oil paintings in ornate gold frames. There is a large arrangement of flowers in a vase on the table, big, curved white lilies with pointed leaves looking calm and dignified.

I search for David and Tim, determined to find them. I try to squeeze through the crowd in front, but my case is too bulky, so I drop it. I can pick it up later. But then a burly official in a navy uniform, still panting slightly from his exertions with the reporters, motions for me to stay put. He stands so close that I'm enveloped in his musky after-shave.

There are so many people in the room, all looking disheveled, crumpled, traumatized. Babies cry, white-faced women clutch at one another in relief, couples huddle together for comfort. The air is electric with anxiety.

Two American women stand in front of me, swapping stories.

“Well, right at the very beginning,” says one of them, “I saw her scrabbling in her purse and holding out a wad of dollars to this young hijacker, like he was a highwayman or something. He just looked at her, really dignified, and said, ‘We are not robbers, madam. We are fighting for our freedom.' ”

“No!” The other woman looks at her, thrilled.

They're interrupted by a man standing on the raised dais at the far end of the long room. He's wearing a slick-looking gray suit and a tie and keeps clearing his throat. Though I strain to hear, I can only make out the occasional word. Who is he? The ambassador? A diplomat?

And then I think,
What does it matter?

I'm so weary and empty that I slump down on the floor and lean against the back wall of the room. The official looks down at me in surprise. I stare pointedly away. I'm tired of being told what to do.

Up on the wall to my left is a clock with gilt ornaments around its wide, cracked enamel face. Its two black hands point to 4:35. I take off my watch, set the time, and wind it again.

Staring into the crowd of legs in front of me, I recognize Mrs. Newton's flat brown sandals, the backs of Maria's knees, and Susan's cloth doll, hanging down, looking dejected. There's a flash of maroon blazer but no sign of Tim's lace-ups or David's flip-flops. Mr. Newton breaks free from the crowd, blows his nose loudly, and examines the contents.

I look away in disgust and spot Sarah and her baby standing almost directly in front of me. Sarah kisses him on the cheek and jiggles him up and down. His little bare legs dangle and kick, and I have a sudden urge to hold one of those fat little feet, with their perfect, tiny nails.

The noise in the room drops a notch as a woman's voice filters in overhead. It is higher pitched and seems a bit easier to make out than the man's.

“. . . group of diplomats' wives,” she says. “. . . kindly offering to look after . . . children . . . take home . . . meal, bath, sleep . . . tomorrow's flight . . . door marked A . . .”

Sarah turns and spots me. “I don't suppose you'd hold him for a moment,” she says, “while I get something warmer for him to wear? This air-conditioning's freezing, isn't it?”

She passes the baby into my arms. I feel the soft suede of his head brush my chin and breathe in his milky smell. He feels so solidly alive, a warm bundle of flesh. He turns his head and looks at me with eyes full of wonder.

“Hello,” I say, smiling down. “Hello, you.” And I jiggle him a little, as Sarah does. He gurgles and wobbles about, and I hold him more tightly. Then he reaches out a chubby little hand and grabs my hair.

The crowd in front has started to thin now, and I just glimpse Tim and David being hustled through a door at the end of the room. Tim turns to look back, his eyes searching. I try to wave, to stop him, but I can't. I'd drop the baby.

I'm last to be called forward, the last to go through door A, for unaccompanied children. I burst through, excited to catch up with David and Tim at last—​and am devastated to find that they're not there in the room beyond.

The only person in the room is a tall woman with thin brown hair pulled back in a small bun. She has a long English face and wears an old-fashioned cotton dress belted at the waist. Her flat open-toed shoes are just like Granny's—​navy leather, with twists at the front.

“Hello, my dear, you must be Anna.” Her brown eyes are kind behind pale blue-rimmed glasses. “I'm Mrs. Hamilton.” I take the hand offered and shake it. Her grip is surprisingly strong.

“Now”—​she licks her thin lips quickly—​“I've not had children of my own,” she says, making nervous, birdlike movements, “but I do volunteer at the local orphanage, so you're not such a strange species to me after all.” She laughs. It's an awkward, dry sound that feels like it needs practice. “They said sweets, but I thought fruit.” She offers me a small Tupperware box.

“Thank you!” I say. I lift the lid and feast my eyes on the jewel-colored fruit: two fat, glistening dates, two moons of mango, a chunk of pineapple, and two thick slices of peeled orange.

“Go on, dear,” Mrs. Hamilton says. But I need no encouragement and polish it all off very quickly. Nothing has ever tasted so wonderful. When I start licking the juice off my filthy fingers, she offers me a napkin. Then she leads the way down several long sage-green corridors to a sleek black car parked around the back of the hotel. We stow my suitcase in the trunk and climb in.

Mrs. Hamilton drives away through the shaded, winding back streets. “It's a bit of a maze, I'm afraid,” she says as we pass a row of air-conditioning units dripping rusty water down scarred walls. “But we'll avoid the press this way.”

We swing down wider roads and skirt roundabouts before joining the heavy traffic in the city center. Battered, overloaded buses spew exhaust fumes into the car. Bikes and taxis press alongside. Through gaps between buildings, I glimpse telegraph line looping across stretches of wasteland, and dead grass pricking up through hot sand. And there is the sun, burning a hole on the horizon.

The road opens out a little, and I can see that we're surrounded by hills covered in small white houses. As she drives, Mrs. Hamilton points out tourist attractions, but I can't concentrate. When we climbed into the car, she handed me a bottle of water, apologizing for not giving it to me first, and it's sitting on my lap.

I can't stop looking at it.

I wait for a break in the chatter to ask, “Can I drink my water now, please, Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Oh, my dear, of course you can. You're bound to be a bit thirsty.”

I unscrew the lid. A whole bottle to myself ! This is what being all right is, having a stomach full of fruit
and
enough water to drink. I take a tiny sip, feel the cold wetness running down into the dry heat of my throat. I drink a little more. The cold winds its way down into my stomach. I put the lid back on, automatically rationing the rest.

The spicy smell of the souk wafts in through my open window. I imagine the cool, narrow crisscrossing passages crowded with people, squawking chickens, tables weighed down with bales of cloth, vegetables, coffee, and spices.

We turn left down a road with dual-ridged tracks and lined with date palms. A group of camels sits folded like cats on the bare earth. A moth-eaten donkey, weighed down with firewood, stands tied to a tree, and there's a scattering of goats eating cardboard from a trash pile.

“Where are all the other young people going to stay, Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Oh, at various diplomatic family houses. We were asked to offer hospitality, and I'm afraid I said I could only take the one. Will you be all right on your own?”

“I expect so,” I reply, feeling a sense of dread at the thought.

When we arrive at Mrs. Hamilton's house, the turbaned guard at the gate salutes and lifts the barrier. We go down a gravel drive into a wide, white-walled garden and park in front of marble steps leading up to an imposing black front door with a brass knocker. A white-liveried servant opens it and stands back for us to pass.

“Anna will be in the Blue Room, Hassan,” she says. “She'll need a bath and then a tray of supper in the kitchen at about seven.”

“Yes, madam.”

I follow her through, into a large sitting room with sofas and a grand piano under an enormous gilt mirror. Tall French windows open onto the garden. Mrs. Hamilton sits down in a plush red armchair and points to the chintz sofa. Bird song breezes in through the windows. It feels unreal, like I've been dropped into a Bond movie.

“I hope you won't mind having a tray in the kitchen,” Mrs. Hamilton says. “It's just, we have people for dinner tonight.”

“No, not at all,” I reply.

“I imagine you'd value a little peace anyway, under the circumstances.” She blinks behind her glasses and then smiles a tense little smile. “You young people are very resilient, so I'm told. Do you feel resilient, Anna?”

“Well . . . I . . .”

Mrs. Hamilton senses she's been clumsy and changes the subject. “We've had Hassan for ten years now.” She takes off her glasses and wipes them with a white lace hankie she keeps under her bra strap. “He's a Palestinian, you know, and like a member of the family. If there's anything you need, just call him. There's a bell in your room.”

“Thank you.” And I wonder whether Hassan knows the Giant or Jamal—​or any of the others.

“That's all right, dear. It's the least we can do after your ordeal. I expect you'd like an early night? Your plane to Cyprus, where you'll pick up the flight to London, leaves at six tomorrow morning. We'll have to get you to the airport pretty early. You'll be reunited with the other hostages then, and I expect you're looking forward to seeing your parents.”

“Yes, I am. Do they know I'm here, do you think?”

“Oh, I doubt it, dear. We didn't know that you were really coming out until lunchtime, and you were allocated to us only shortly before you arrived at the InterContinental. They'll know that you're being looked after, though, and are coming home first thing tomorrow.”