Chapter
5
The
Man in the Airport
Quantum theory leaves no room for any doubt
that multiple universes exist. It is as if there were a debate about whether
our partitioning of the surface of the earth into latitudes has an objective
basis or is merely a human convention. Whichever view one takes, the physical
fact remains: the Earth is not confined to a single latitude but really does
extend over many parallel latitudes. – David Deutsch
No single thing abides; and all things are
fucked up. – Philp K. Dick
This much cannot be denied: Transatlantic flights suck. Seven hours in a flying tin can is not a
pleasant experience, especially, if like Marie, you have long legs, a far too
large carry-on bag under the seat, more or less, in front of you. She had watched X-Men: Days of Future Past, and
Michael Fessbender’s suave looks and cool charm had helped wile away a couple
of hours, and five or six episodes of Sheldon and Company’s antics in The Big
Bang Theory, helped for a couple more.
The food wasn’t actually too bad, which was a pleasant surprise, though
with no elbow room, eating it proved a challenge. Luckily on this flight, unlike her other two
European excursions, there were no screaming infants. On that long trip back from her Italy and
Greece Latin Club sojourn, a baby had cried in agony the entire fourteen hours
back from Athens to New York. His
primordial howls and screams were a reminder of the very existential pain of
being a live, she realized now. Later,
her Latin teacher, Mrs. Lucra, told her the infant had cancer and was headed
for treatment at some prestigious hospital whose name Marie could no longer
remember. In some ways, despite the
cramped and uncomfortable conditions, she was doing the same thing in reverse. Leaving the land of modern medicine,
conveniences and comfort for one of simplicity and ancient splendor, a quest to
find out where all that was Marie Brabant had begun, to find that essence of
beginning, that existential spring … a place to start anew. One has too much time to think on such
flights, she mused.
Then there was the long shuffle through the
gates and terminals, her guitar in its soft case on her back and backpack in
her hand, the Visa stamp of the customs official, and the long wait for the
baggage to be unloaded from the plane and placed on the conveyor. She recognized many of the people at the
luggage carousel from the plane, more than she had expected she would. There was the lovely elderly couple who still
doted on each other. She had always
imagined that would be her and Roger some day, though Roger rarely doted. There was the young man, a former Marine
captain who was seated next to her on the long passage, he still wore his hair
in the shaved fashion of the Corps. The
beautiful young woman, a slight girl, with stunning fashion sense and style,
paisley skirt and ruffled top, heels and matching bag, clearly French,
returning home. The family who were
seated two rows ahead, the parents in their early thirties, children, a boy and
a girl about ten and twelve respectively, ready for the sensual glut of a
tourist binge. Marie found herself
jealous of the twelve year old … the child was living her dream at the age when
she first dreamt it. She wondered if the
tween shared such a dream. Marie hoped
so, and decided to believe that such was the case. It made her feel good. Several business men in fine and inexplicably
un-rumpled suits, pros at luggage carousel waiting were standing with practiced
indifference for the bags to arrive. A
few youths in concert shirts and ball caps ready for some Paris fun, one also
had a guitar on his back, though his was a travel guitar, much easier, no doubt
to stow in the overhead compartments.
More and more people packed in close to the moving conveyor. Marie tried to move closer so she could see
her bag come by. The first suitcases
appeared and were greeted with a wave of anticipation from the gathering crowd.
It was then that Marie felt the eyes upon
her, that feeling of being stared at.
She instinctively turned to look for the visual assailant. Briefly she wondered how exactly such a
feeling, a knowledge of something one could not see, could be explained. Then she saw him. A dark man, Indian or Pakastani, she surmised
by his complexion and features. He wore
a black suite with a black turtleneck sweater.
His eyes were fixed upon her. As
soon as he noticed that Marie had turned to face him he averted his gaze,
pretending to look idly at the moving carousel, though he was too far back to
even see past the huddled passengers.
She had not seen him at the gate nor on the plane. She would have noticed the Indian Johnny Cash
for sure. Marie turned her attention
back to the passing suitcases for a moment and then back to the stranger. He was looking intently at her again. They played this silent game of looking away
and watching each other for a while.
Taking turns, Marie also watching for her bag, the man pretending to watch
for his. His looks weren’t the type of
stares at someone that one finds attractive, she had plenty of experience as a
good looking young woman, and now she was middle-aged and mildly over
weight. There were plenty of prettier
women there to look at. No, there was
something unpleasant behind his eyes. The most likely possibility was that he
was a thief looking for his next victim, and that he had selected Marie as a
likely candidate. Well, that sucks. Marie decided that her best plan was to
pretend she didn’t notice him, which would probably be more effective, she
realized, if had she not be looking at him so much. So she focused on her finding her suitcase.
When she finally spotted the red ribbon on her
suitcase handle she was relieved. She
could not afford to have the better part of her luggage lost by the airline. She reached over, her backpack slamming into
the former marine captain.
“Sorry” she apologized.
The Captain simply smiled good-naturedly
and took his lumps. She grabbed the
suitcase by the handle and swung it off the conveyor, almost hitting one of the
businessmen. Luckily she missed him. She pulled her luggage away from the crowded
carousel and found a spot to catch her breath.
She looked over to see if the man in black was still looking at her, but
he was gone. No sign of him as she
glanced in every direction. Perhaps he
found another potential victim, she hoped.
copyright 2017 Diana Hignutt
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