Girl on a Plane (14 page)

But I have to concentrate, not miss my chance. I raise a hand and brush the tears quickly away, not wanting Sweaty to notice. Could I slip the letter out too? What if they take it off me? Is it better to take it or leave it safely here for later? Will it be too much to bear? I pull out my school coat, a rust-colored Aertex top, my toothbrush, toothpaste, and a pot of Nivea cream—​and there's the PFLP badge my friend Samir gave me the night he showed me where he used to live in Palestine. I hide it inside my clenched fist.

“You, Anna,” Sweaty says, “hurry!”

How dare he use my name? The bastard. I snatch up Marni's letter and stuff it into the folded Aertex top. I show him the coat, shirt, tooth things, and cream. He nods. Then he takes them all from me.

“I keep,” Sweaty says. “You go there.” He points to beyond the trenches around our plane, past some low, scrubby bushes, to where there's a semicircle of tiered boxes and crates, Jeeps and trucks. Several of the women hostages are already over there: Mrs. Newton, Rosemary and Celia, looking tense and out of place, the two blond sisters, pressed together, the sun reflecting off their silver bangles. Nearer to me, Mrs. Green, holding several boxes of pills, is refusing to be separated from Susan, who stands desolately crying. Maria, now separated from the bald man and escorted by two guards, walks self-consciously toward the Jeeps, stopping to flick her hair from her face every few steps.

The male crew are already climbing back up the ladder under escort. The other men being herded back toward the plane are calling out to us or shouting at the guards. I see Tim and David stop on their way back to the plane, worry written across their faces. Mr. Newton is arguing with one of the guerrillas.

“This is outrageous!” he shouts. “You can't just take the women off like this! Mary! Come back! Come back here!”

It's going to kick off,
I think, pressing the edge of the small metal shield-shaped badge deeper into the palm of my hand.
Someone's going to get shot . . . Someone's going to die . . .

I stop walking, stand dead still. The guard urges me on, but I feel strange, otherworldly. Sounds become muffled. Everything slows down. I feel a long way off . . . distant . . . in a vacuum.

Quite alone.

It's so quiet.

Faces press against the windows, Sweaty's mouth moves, Mr. Newton is taken away. They have nothing to do with me.

The Giant's huge hands are open. He's nodding. He wants me to do something. I don't know what. He looks like my father. His eyes. They're the same blue-gray color as . . .

. . . as Dad's.

My face screws up, tears come. I stand there, helpless, as they stream down.

Rosemary, shading her eyes by the trucks, beckons to me.

I walk slowly toward her. Trembling. In a daze.

She puts an arm around me. “It's all right. There's been a misunderstanding. We didn't realize what they meant. The hijackers just want us for their photo.”

“Wh—” No word comes.

“They're having a photo taken to remember the hijack. They want the women in it. We'll be fine.” But there's a faint patch of pink, like a rash, blooming on her neck.

More women arrive. They stand in loose groups, clumped around the first line of boxes. Maria stands slightly apart from the rest of us, pulling her shirt down and chatting with Sweaty. She leans over and touches him on the shoulder and laughs. And I feel shocked. How can she bear to be near him? The two sisters in miniskirts look frightened; the younger one picks at her fingernails. Rosemary goes over to reassure them. She's bare legged now and without makeup, her hair loose, her nail polish chipped.

The sun beats down. The earth is baking underfoot. Sweat runs in rivulets down my spine; it drips from my temples. I can see faces peering out from our plane, watching through the sealed windows. The captain, Alan, and Jim crowd around the open door.

Suddenly there are loud shouts in Arabic and a great noise as about forty more guerrillas climb out of the trenches and stroll toward us, laughing and chatting.

So many! All believing in a common cause, believing this is the right thing to do—​even if it means killing us.

They gather in the area in front of us, and when the Giant blows a whistle, they start clambering onto the trucks and boxes behind us.

The Giant asks Rosemary to place the women in among the guerrillas for the photo.

“Mrs. Newton, would you go there?” she says. “And, Celia, there.” She points. “Maria, over there, and, Anna, up there.” We go off singly and are helped up onto the boxes by the men.

I'm handed up high, onto the bed of a big truck, to join a group of guerrillas who seem to be behaving as if they are on holiday. They move aside to give me space. I stand stiffly among them, not understanding what they're saying and uncomfortably far from Rosemary and the others.

The sun, now low in the sky, casts a warm, golden glow over the whole scene. Suddenly, from the left horizon, a white van, flanked by two Jeeps with gun emplacements, comes over the top of the escarpment and tears down, trailing a cloud of dust. As it draws up in front of us, the men whoop and whistle and cheer.

From the van steps a small, round Arab with a short, pointed beard, wearing a white
thawb
and a black headband with a red and white head shawl tucked in around it. He starts taking equipment out of the van and assembling it with great efficiency.

A tripod—​and a tube. A gun? I feel a ripple of fear.

No, it really is a camera. We really are having our picture taken. And it feels suddenly so familiar. Of course! It's just like we're having a school photo.

How absurd! Laughter bubbles up inside—​or is it hysteria? I look around at the men. They're just men, somebody's brother, somebody's father, someone's uncle. I begin to relax. They're refugees. They're homeless. They're men with a cause. Something I've never had. How feeble is that? And I smile at myself, and soften, and when I look up again, the men nearest me smile back, their eyes friendly and full of humor.

They're OK.
It comes as a shock. Are these men prepared to kill me? Really? The man next to me nudges me and points. A large bird of prey flies across the sky in front of us and above the plane, its shadow distorted over the wings. The bird soars and swings west against the great ball of the sun, flaps a little, and turns, rising on a thermal, up and up, until it's just a tiny speck.

I imagine it looking down from up there at the three white planes reflecting the quiet pink of the evening sky, surrounded by the distant black pinpoints of tanks. And us, ranged on the arc of Jeeps, the men in camouflage gear and the women among them soft dots of color.

“Whahed, ithnain
. . .
”
the tall photographer shouts. The smiling men put their arms around one another's shoulders and around mine. I feel the weight of them, of their homelessness.

“Thalatha!”
roar the men. The camera flashes.

And I'm sure all of us are smiling.

As the guerrillas help us down from the trucks, the sun begins to set, turning the desert apricot, orange, then red. Some of them come over to thank us.
Shukran,
they say, shaking our hands, holding them between theirs, patting us on the back. Then they point us toward the plane.

I'm dazed, bewildered—​relieved, happy. I feel the badge in my hand, glance quickly down at it, then hide it away again. Most of the others are ahead of me. I lag behind. I want to stay out here and watch the night set in, watch the darkness travel across the sand, watch the desert come alive with scorpions scuttling from under rocks, sidewinder snakes slithering from under the sand, toads and foxes emerging from underground hiding places.

I want to stay to ask the men what all this means to them, why they have to do this. I want to understand, to talk, to find out and make sense of it all. I don't want to go back into the plane. I want to stay out here, to breathe the cool night air.

A full moon rises behind the plane, golden as an egg yolk; its cratered face, wide-eyed and innocent, makes it seem as though nothing is wrong with the world.

Someone touches me gently on my shoulder. “You must go in.” It's the ammo-belt boy.

I don't move but stare up at him.

“You must go back in,” he insists, “before . . .”

He speaks English. Why didn't he say something before? “I must go in—​before what?” I ask.

“Quickly.” He speaks quietly, walking by my side, his head down, encouraging me on. “The second in command is coming.”

I feel a frisson of fear. The woman? Lady Macbeth?

“Where did you learn English?” I ask quickly.

“My mother . . .”

“Your mother?”

“Shhhh!” He falls silent as Sweaty and Maria overtake us.

“What's your name?” I ask.

“Jamal.”

I walk under the plane to where the other women are lining up to climb the ladder, and my heart sinks when I see it's Sweaty helping us up. When my time comes, I feel his paws on my back, sense his animal smell—​but then I'm distracted.

I can hear music.

The music floats on the air, and the night is suddenly full of color. It drifts up the aisle toward me as I enter the plane. I can't see who is playing at first, so I climb up onto my seat. Jim is sitting halfway down the plane, surrounded by passengers, the guitar he collected from his luggage resting in his lap. He's strumming a song. Everyone is silent, listening. Then he starts to sing.

It's a song I know well. Everyone's been playing it all summer. “Bridge over Troubled Water.”

Someone joins in. Then more and more people do. At first I feel shy. Then, carried by the crowd of voices, I sing along too. My voice feels dry and rusty, but it soon gets stronger—​and singing seems to lift something inside me: my body relaxes. I look around at the others, at their mouths working, at their glistening eyes. They look ordinary. They look happy.

CRACK!
I swivel around.

CRACK!
Lady Macbeth slams her hand down on the bulkhead at the front a second time.

The singing stutters to a halt. There's a final chord from Jim, then silence.

“Who said you could sing?” She marches down the aisle, her eyes blazing. Passengers retreat back into the empty seats like reef fish hiding from a shark.

She stands over Jim, who remains in his place.

“GET UP!”

He stands slowly and faces her. “Is something wrong?” he says calmly. Lady Macbeth flips her pistol from its belt casing. Her eyes brim with hatred as she clicks the safety catch off and levels it at his head.

She holds out her other hand for the guitar.

He passes it to her. “I take it you don't like my playing, then.”

She doesn't move. Jim closes his eyes, drops his head.

I stop breathing. Wait for the shot.

But she lowers the gun, turns on her heel, and walks back up the aisle.

I watch her pass, then breathe again. She stands opposite the open door, where we can see her, raises her arm, and slams the guitar down. There's a crack of split wood and the dissonant tremble of strings as it hits the ground. Then we hear the ladder creak as she climbs down into the night.

A terrible silence follows, the silence of disbelief and shock.

But then I hear it, coming from the back of the plane. The small voice wobbles a little at first but then picks up. It's a beautiful voice, high and pure. It's Tim's.

He's singing the chorus again, and the words ring out, loud and clear.

Everyone joins in.

The song wafts through the open door and spills out into the night.

“Tim!” I cry. “You were amazing! I didn't know you could sing like that!”

David claps him on the shoulder. “
You're
a dark horse. You never let on. Are you a chorister?”

Tim nods, grinning up at us. “I sing every day, and at all the cathedral services on Sundays . . .”

The captain, Jim, and Rosemary come over to congratulate him.

“Blimey,” I say quietly to David. “Do you think the younger you are, the less scared you feel?”

“It's probably easier,” David says, watching the captain shake Tim's hand, “when you can't imagine the consequences.”

“He doesn't really believe anything can happen to him, does he?”

“No. He still thinks he's immortal.” David gives a short laugh. “Must be nice.”

Tim turns back to us.

“You're crazy, Tim,” I say, smiling. “Crazy as that terrapin.”

“Thanks,” Tim says. “The twins are looking after him at the moment.”

“Hey, when are we getting that Polo mint?” David asks.

“Oh yes, here you are.” Tim takes half a packet out of his pocket.

“Where have they all gone?” I ask. “You haven't given them all away, have you?”

“No, I swapped the twins, one each, for another go on their Slinky.” He tries to remember. “And I gave Rosemary one, and I've had three myself.” He offers us the packet.

“Are you sure, Tim?” I say, “Shouldn't you . . . ?”

“Course he's sure,” David says, helping himself quickly to one and popping it in his mouth. He closes his eyes and sighs loudly.

Tim grins. He pushes the tube over to me. “Go on.”

I can't resist. I put the mint in my mouth, stick my tongue in the hole, feel the words written on the side, and savor the utter mintiness of it. “Mmm,” I say. “Wonderful! It actually feels like I've brushed my teeth!”

“Mmm,” David mimics me. “Fresh breath at last.” He pushes his mint out and holds it between his teeth. “Argh, it's getting thinner.”

I'm just silent with the delight of it. Before I can thank Tim again, he's off to check on Fred.