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Trudeau International Airport. I found a comfortable seat, pulled
off my coat, and set out before me my reference books on antique
carpets. As my computer booted up, I went to the complimentary
self-serve bar area and helped myself to a glass of red and some
carrots. (I knew I d be too weak to resist the meal on the upcom-
ing flight my second dinner of the evening and I saw no need
to stress my wonderpants further than was necessary.)
Back in front of my laptop, I was searching my electronic files
for Pranav s phone number when I saw her. Hema Gupta was
across the room, looking very much like me: laptop, books spread
about, glass of wine. She seemed completely unaware of my pres-
ence, oblivious to her surroundings, head down, wildly texting a
message into a tiny hand-held device. I noticed a much older
woman, wearing a serious business suit, sitting one seat removed
from Hema. She too was positioned in front of a laptop, cup of
coffee in hand, talking softly into a cellphone. The man next to
her, much the same. And the fellow next to him.
My eyes roamed the room. Everyone was doing pretty much
the same thing. I d never before thought about what an unique
environment an airport lounge is: removed from the hubbub of
the airport, the lighting a little less harsh, the ambiance for the
most part calm, quiet, and reserved. It s otherworldly in a way,
caught between the outside terminal and 35,000 feet in the air.
Airline lounges are always situated somewhere after you pass
through security, so you can t readily leave the airport. And
there s no reason to leave the lounge itself until it s time to board
your plane. You re caught, in suspension, in this ethereal place.
So what do people do in this special world, at a time when
they are isolated from their real lives but not yet doing what
they re here to do, which is to fly somewhere else? Some certain-
ly use the time to work, their laptops and files of papers, and
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sometimes even their colleagues or employees gathered round
them at the ready. But many, I observed, use the time to reach out.
Via cellphone, BlackBerry, PDA, laptop, they reach out. They
speak to spouses, children, parents, even old friends they haven t
talked to in while. They call people they ve just left behind for one
last goodbye. They call people they are about to see at the other
end of their flight to reassure them and themselves that they ll
soon be immersed in the plans they ve made or lives they share.
There was a sense in the room that, although all was well,
these were people about to undertake a shared experience, not
entirely risk-free. If you asked them the majority likely frequent
flyers if they were Maple Leaf Lounge regulars most of them
would say they enjoy flying, and believe it to be safe. And yet, in
the quiet, uninterrupted moments of this space, segregated from
the real world, a free glass or two of liquor in hand, a moment
with no responsibility other than to wait, what they need most to
do is reach out and confirm they are alive.
I watched Hema for a moment, mesmerized at the speed with
which her thumbs moved across that miniscule typing pad. She
and I were meant to spend the next week together in a foreign
country. We really needed to get to know each other. Not to men-
tion come up with a basic plan for how things were going to work
once we got there. I gathered my things, and headed over.
Even as I put down my stuff on the free seat across from her,
Hema didn t bother to look up.
 Hello, I said once I was settled.
She finally glanced up, her large, dark eyes betraying some-
thing that looked a lot like irritation. Had she really believed we d
never talk our whole time together? I like my alone time too, but
in this case that just wasn t going to cut it. I d have to pull her out
of her shell no matter what it took: humour, too much wine, or an
escargot fork (only as a last resort).
 Oh, hello, she managed, still texting away, without even
looking at the buttons.
 I was surprised not to see you at the airport in Saskatoon, I
started out in a congenial conversational tone.  I was worried
you d missed the flight.
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 Why would you think that? What sort of idiot misses a
plane?
 Uh& oh, well, yeah& I just thought& well I didn t see you
there, or on the flight to Montreal.
 I flew in last night to see friends and go to some clubs. I hope
you weren t expecting me to be your escort all the way to Dubai.
My mouth was open, but no words were coming out. What
had happened to the reserved, demure, quiet young woman with
the shy smile and gentle demeanour? Where was she? That s who
I wanted to be on this trip with. Not this aloof, standoffish, indif-
ferent creature with the lightning quick thumbs and razor-sharp
tongue.
 I hope you can take care of yourself. I can t hold your hand
through all of this. You do your job. I ll do mine. Then we go
home. Sooner the better, as far as I m concerned.
 I take it you re not as convinced as your uncle is that your
cousin was intentionally murdered then?
She snorted.  My uncle is delusional. But hey, if he wants to
spend some of his wads of cash sending me on a fool s errand,
who am I to say no? And I couldn t have, even if I d wanted to. So
here I am. Who cares? Her shoulders did a bit of a hunching
move.  We re both here for the same reason, Russell. Money. You
run after it. I get pushed around by it. That s the way it is. Her
eyes moved down to her busy fingers as if she d said her piece
and was done with me.
Not so fast, sugar.  What do you think happened to your
cousin?
 How am I supposed to know? She didn t look up.  But
come on, the police investigated. There s no reason not to believe
what they say. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She
spoke as fast as her fingers moved, as if she were taking her own
dictation.
 Sure, Dubai is as Western a city as any in the Middle East can
be. But look at LA and Toronto and Detroit and Vancouver, even
Saskatoon. They all have places that if you go there when you
shouldn t, you re taking your life in your own hands. An Arabian
marketplace late at night sounds like one of those places to me.
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This had nothing to do with him being gay. It had to do with him
being stupid.
I stared at the young woman. I smelled her flowery perfume,
noticed her expensive shoes low-heeled and practical for travel,
but still ultra-stylish and her trendy hairstyle that before had
been hidden under the scarf of her sari or in a bun.  Even if that s
true, I began slowly, hoping the exaggerated speed of my words
would draw her attention. (It didn t.)  Don t you think your aunt
and uncle deserve something more than a statement off some
police report that says Neil s life was taken for no reason, by
hoodlums who ll likely never be caught?
Finally she stopped typing. She seemed to be thinking about
something, then looked up and said:  Why? It won t change any-
thing will it? He ll still be dead. They ll still be sad. Don t get me
wrong, I m sad about this too. Neil was an okay guy. But life goes
on.
 I think you re wasting your time. No. Wait. You re being
paid. What do you care? It s me whose time is being wasted. This
wasn t exactly how I d planned to spend the next several days of
my life. I don t know about you, but I don t like playing the pup-
pet of a rich old guy.
Her BlackBerry chimed. She looked down, read a message,
and furiously began typing again.
 I could have done that job better and faster than Neil, she
said, amazing me with her ability to have two conversations, one
verbal, one textual, at the same time. Of course, I was trusting she [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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