the feeling she thought men were disabled in some way. I didn’t know that then.
She picked up her coffee, flashed me a smile and then she left.
I watched her go.
These are the moments we can later appraise with hindsight. Reliving the moment now, I feel clairvoyant. But at the time I had no idea what would come to pass.
Sifting through the past on that bench, I could see how my life veered dramatically in the direction it did.
I dashed through the rain and boarded the plane.
There were only three rows of two seats on each side. Big cardboard boxes had been carefully stowed in the back two rows.
I sat down by the window in the front row and watched her walk unhurriedly towards the plane, oblivious to the rain, her head buried in the upturned collar of her coat.
She seemed amused by how we had raced to the plane.
Through the curtain of raindrops that ran down the scratched and pitted window, I thought I could make out a smile on her face.
She was soaking wet by the time she boarded the plane and she really was smiling.
Before she could sit down next to the pilot she had been speaking to earlier, a young man with headphones around his neck emerged from the cockpit and called out, ‘Come on, we can talk on the way.’ And he saluted the young woman with a nod before the two men disappeared into the cockpit.
She hesitated for a moment then sat down beside me.
She felt like she had to explain herself: ‘I’m afraid of flying.’
‘But you seem to know all the pilots,’ I said.
‘I do. They’re actually teaching me how to fly. The pilot you saw in the airport is giving me lessons in his crop-duster. His name’s Tahir.’
‘Aren’t you afraid then?’
She shrugged.
‘I am.’
The plane lurched forward as she took off her raincoat and placed it on the seat behind her.
As the plane lifted off the runway, I saw her clutching the armrests; her knuckles were white.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said.
‘I’m getting used to it. I actually like the feeling. It’s just that I talk a lot when I’m scared. Is that going to be a problem?’
It was hard to hear her over the roar of the engine.
‘No,’ I said.
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a writer.’
‘What do you write?’
‘Novels.’
‘And your name?’
‘You wouldn’t know me.’
‘Probably not. I don’t read much any more. Though I read a lot when I was a kid.’
She paused and then smiled: ‘Everyone you meet probably says that they read a lot when they were a kid. Is that true?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I don’t meet many who read any more.’
‘Is that heartbreaking?’
‘What?’
‘That people don’t read your books?’
‘I’m getting used to it. I like feeling disappointed.’
She laughed.
Now I realise it was the way she laughed just then that hooked me. I liked her quick reaction to my joke about her fear.
The plane shook and she grabbed my arm.
In that moment I knew my life would never be the same. It’s hard to explain, how that laugh and then the way she held my arm seconds later was the beginning of it all. I could just feel it.
There are those moments in our lives when we feel that nothing will ever be the same again. In retrospect we say that somehow we could feel the surge, the sudden change in direction, though sometimes it is a false alarm and we forget about the moment altogether.
But this was something seismic.
That moment I knew I had succumbed. I could feel myself being swept away, dragged into an abyss. And I wanted to be taken.
For me, exhilaration is the most dangerous emotion, and I felt it then: the expectation that she would teach me things more perilous than love.
I was drawn to excitement, leaping at any opportunity like an animal taking the bait, though fully aware of the impending disaster.
I thought I was the only passenger on the plane on the evening flight back to town. But drifting off to sleep, I saw her reflection in the window. I turned and saw her standing above me, holding all the novels I had ever written. Otherwise I might have forgotten all about her.
They constituted my Achilles’ heel, pinched by God when he dipped me in those magical waters. My novels, the weakest and most sinister aspect of my person.
I looked at her hands wrapped round my books and the letters in my name between her fingers. I looked up at her lovely face, like an inlaid Seljuk coin. I could almost feel the warmth of her breasts beneath her blouse and cotton jacket, the warmth of her navel and her thighs.
Seeing my books in her arms made me feel pathetic – a forgotten prophet prepared to worship anyone who will follow, building temples, shrines and altars for the few disciples, and drinking magical elixirs.
‘Where did you find those?’ I said, like we were old friends.
‘In a shop that sold books,’ she said, laughing and then sitting down beside me.
‘Do they still sell my books there?’
I had assumed they were out of print. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had read one of my books.
‘I’ll read at least one of them tonight,’ she said.
‘Do you think you’ll like it?’
‘Let’s see.’
‘How about this. You read one and if you like it meet me tomorrow afternoon at the old restaurant near the station.’
‘All right,’ she said, buckling her seatbelt. ‘I’m exhausted. I’m going to sleep a little. Is that all right?’
‘Of course.’
Laying her head on my shoulder, she was asleep within minutes.
She
