It only happened to me once that I arrived late at the airport — only once in my life; actually, I was just on time, but the flight was delayed. Much to my surprise, I wasn't told to stand by, but was rushed instead to the aircraft, where a party of security advisers stopping their ears with headphones hailed me from a small hut and showed me up into the plane. I sortof hurried slowly to my seat, and begging the stewardess to tell the pilot how grateful I was, all I had to do was mutter my apologies to the nearby passengers. As I sat down warily into my seat, I couldn't but acknowledge their accusing, questioning stares. I gathered that they had been strapped into their seats for over half an hour awaiting my arrival.

The engines soon roared and hissed; within a quarter of an hour, the jet was crossing the Channel, leaving the London lights blinking far below. As the air-hostesses were busy giving out the drinks, I settled back and started reading a travel magazine. 

Something made it impossible for me to think clearly — a strange, alternatively loud and muffled blend of sniffing and sobbing, that came from a young lady, hunched into a corner of the seat by me. Her long hair veiled her from any sort of precise reality, and her deep blue eyes were unable to retain tears. I snapped the magazine closed and leaned towards the trembling figure.

'Excuse me, young lady, I said, but I reckon my late arrival may have been a cause of disturbance. Could it be the reason why... ?' As usual, I wasn't able to finish my sentence, being altogether hard put to express myself more precisely about my, or anyone else's, feeelings. Could this evince a split or unachieved personality, or an overcautious way of addressing others while on their own planets ?

Beneath her hair, a beautiful tear-stained make-up free face brightened up slightly, and her green eyes glanced at me sparkling with both anger and distress, 'I wish I were upset, because it'd mean we're being waited for.' I noticed she hadn't finished her sentence either, but just breathed out her last two words. I then thought it might be a good idea to crack the latest jokes, that of the guy who gets private tuition to be trained out of his Dublin accent, but eventually gets noted Irish when in a perfect London accent he asks the butcher two packets of cigarettes. On second thoughts, I offered to have a bit of a chat, but she interrupted me — had I even started talking ?, this I can't make out — saying, 'You remind me so much of my brother ...

— There, there, said I it's us usually say this when we're about to chat a girl up ! I mean, we change for "sister" of course !

— Please, she cried out entreatingly, I've gone off that sort of game: the man I'm telling you about ...'

She paused, her eyes brimming with tears, displaying such genuine uncontrollable emotion that I began to wonder if she wasn't on her way to some hospital or even ... oh no ! it couldn't be ...

'I'm awfully sorry, I said, I couldn't guess.

— I can't blame you for that, but please don't expect anything from me during that flight.

— I would be loath..., I insisted.

—Thank you for your sympathy.

_ When is the funeral ?

— Tomorrow in Greenwich Village.

— Are you American?

— He was. I'm British.

— How come ?

— You couldn't imagine any weirder stories to induce children into sound sleep. Yet I swear nothing is invented. It all started in India, would you believe?'

II

The stewardess was showing us various newsmagazines offered free of charge (we were in the 1970s), glamorous girl-covered monthlies or the usual glazed paper travel reviews filled with advertisements for high-class hotels where I'd never have a single chance of staying overnight; nonetheless neither of us was able to direct one's attention to a single cover. My neighbour was miles away from it all, from the simple notion of where she was flying and where from, only aware of the reason why she happened to be there. As for me, I was none but amazed a the amount of mystery usually lying in the nearest person you may get in touch with. Was I about to rediscover , centuries later, centuries too late, the safeguarded treasure of each person in this world? 

Not forgetting a man is also a gentleman, or has to be, I offered a drink, but inferred from her poor smile that I would order one glass only. When the trolley rattled past the seats, I ordered one whisky and orange, taking the utmost care not to speak aloud since my neightbour had eventually gone to sleep after having fought her tears back and tried to relax as much as she could. I had not noticed so much time had elapsed since I was busy planning my week out, sharing it among my retired parents, my former wife and her daughter, and a few friends I had not met for long, including perverse kinky Susan for whom I felt more pity than affection; our latest conversation came to mind, on the comparative merits of flood-lighting video live scenes or daylight exposure. 

'Are you from the States ?', she suddenly asked, her intense look causing me to wonder what had gone into her mind?

— Actually, I'm an English-bred Frenchman, I replied, which means my mum was from London and my dad from Southern Brittany. Does this sound all right ?

— Which language would you speak at home ?

— French at home, English at school and outside generally.

— Don't you ever feel split up, sort of?

— I do, but not in every respect.

— Do you make love in French ?'

She kept so stupendously cool while asking the question that it took me some time to realize I was supposed to answer. 

'I'm sorry, but it matters a lot to me; you see, I met someone who couldn't make love unless he was spoken to in Hindi. And even that, I did for him.'

Tears lurked again, and I understood she wouldn't give a damn whether I made love in French or English or both. The moment I'd left my hotel in Gower Street, WC1, seemed ages ago. Ever since, there had been that cab — fortunately an American sports-car — rushing me through the West End after my explaining that I had overslept, due to being unable to go to sleep after such a hectic day. I remembered the cabman's unperturbed reaction when I said, 'Listen, it's eight, the plane's due to take off at 8.30 from Heathrow. Can you make it ?

— Sure I can, he replied, so long as no one gets in the way.

— Sounds good ! Thanks a lot.

— No thanks beforehand, guv', but plenty of them afterwards, if you don't mind.'

The cheek of it ! They all have the nerve to suggest a fine tip might help when a fair amount of five-star petrol, a nice smile and a deft driver's skill aren't enough to take you there on time. Anyway, my neighbour was still looking at me with beseeching eyes that made her resemble a stray spaniel with many tales to entrust its master with. After refraining so long from speaking, she kept chattering, eager to tell better and better, to convey more and more, as though she felt on the verge of finding something out and had to set the lenses properly, correcting ever so slightly up till she obtained a precise subject in her viewfinder, so clear as to leave her possessed of the final truth, the ultimate picture to which none could add.

III

There I was, seated on the left wing of a jet high above the Channel — or was it the Atlantic by then ? — and still unable to decide whether I was being used as a loudspeaker or a focus ring.

— I suppose I kind of feel in English, but the right words for the right things crop up in French.'

Her eyes lit up, 'it's just like my brother; whenever he wished to discuss or make things precise, he had to speak English; but at the bottom, you always found Hindi.'

— Were there that many who managed to reach that depth, if I may ask ?

— Of course not. He wasn't the sort of guy to hanker after company, mates, girls, and so forth. Still, he was extremely faithful and true to his friends.'

Then I found myself gazing at the haughty dreamy-eyed face of a real gentleman whose dark complexion was even darker for his moderate beard and his moustache.

— Usually he would wear jeans, and drink a hell of a lot of Coke! But he had just brushed past Marx, untouched by this culmination of earthly forget-us-not sharing of the big pie, to which he preferred drifting, cutting himself off more and more, longer and longer. He would often quite mysteriously say something that none of us ever understood, but I now realize it was the key to it all, 'Where I've got to by now, no one can ever reach me', which was true. I'll tell you what, he was in a world of his own, in which he got along as though he were high, whereas in fact he never got addicted to smoking nor even drinking nor shooting himself. He was in perfect agreement with himself.

— Sorry if I sound down-to-earth like, but I don't quite see why this should be so strange. I mean, is it not the usual plight of so many youngsters who've given up fighting and pushing up, later to find their way to Katmandu as an escape ?

— India was no escape in his case, 't was his cradle ...

Then, quite in a self-assured tone that astonished me, she added, 'he was my brother, he died a few hours ago. And', this time she could not retain her tears, 'we were lovers too.

— I'm awfully sorry to sound unsympathetic ...

— ... I know you feel sympathy, I also know what you think ...

— Be careful ! You're about to make a big mistake.

— Aren't you shocked ?

— Not in the least. I myself fell in love with ..., it took me some time to get it over ... happened just because we had been separated for so many years ...

_ It's just like us ! Just like us ! When a child, I always missed something, or rather someone, but I didn't know precisely for want of what undefined complement I was becoming the shadow of myself. But later, when I was told the story of my life, everything became so clear, and all my energies centered on the sole idea of going back to India, finding him, living near him.

— I suppose you never imagined that you might get into trouble since you didn't know the country, its culture and language ...

— ... I'll stop you right there ! That was the place where we spent our childhood.

— "we" refers to your family, doesn't it ? Didn't you say your brother was American ?

— Of course. When my parents, who had been living in India for years, found life over there was becoming unbearable, they decided we would all move back to Britain, so to speak. The only problem was with the two children. Sivananda who is my foster brother was the elder of us two. When he was four, his parents found their deaths in a bus crash — they've got so many accidents in India. Before that, the two families had shared the same superb mansion or residence, whatever you call it, since both fathers were working for the British Consulate in Chandigarh. We'd been brought up together in fact. To cut the story short, because Sivananda was the elder, he'd gone to primary school there, he spoke Hindi almost better than English, and most importantly, he was a true-born Indian. 

— Were you not ?

— Geographically yes ! Strangely my brother retained my mother's complexion and type, whereas I looked the real Londoner and took after my father exclusively. The whole story dates back to the nineteen-sixties: at the time, less than twenty years after the Indian Independence, it would have been impossible to leave the country with a child who was part of the family, sure, but not in legal terms. 

— So he had to stay there.

— Exactly. It was so horrible that I partly lost memory, had troubles in mental adjustment, especially when I came to grips with the British school-system. I suppose my mind was split up by the hidden, invisible heritage of an Eastern mother, whereas Sivananda's outward appearance was the exact reflection of his environment.

— Terrible" was all I said, I could not find words to express my sympathy.

IV

Fidgeting with my pen, thumbing through a few pages I wanted to read before landing, I was kind of retreating as if I was trying to delay as long as possible the moment when I realized that the slim trembling girl, so relaxed and so frail, was not telling her own story but mine, arousing sharp, poignant memories of a holiday spent in Greece — those were the days ! we slept on the beach every night, our bodies getting closer and closer and, God only knows why, we enjoyed it till it became inevitable ... The morning after was just like the world's first-ever dawn, heavy with human weight and so light with flowers' scent. The distant cry of a seabird, the regular thump of a fishing boat, and above all the friendly smile of the waiter who brought our tea to the tables on the pavement and whose eyes gently vowed he had understood everything but wouldn't tell anyone ...

Fortunately, the pilot spotted a liner on the Atlantic and stopped me thinking about these strange remembrances. Yet I thought to myself, this was perhaps the woman I'd been yearning after so long, the one I might entrust with my secret and who might give me the safety of a matter-of-fact, undramatic explanation. My heart was pounding. 'If I leave you my phone-number, will you contact me ?' I was amazed how I had ventured upon the polite request, how I had voiced my own fear of leaving too much veiled, too much unknown. 

'I do appreciate your concern, thank you very much', she said, as I was writing my area code and phone number in the States. We heard the engines suddenly roar and the jet bang as it began its descent. I loved watching the sunrays frame a golden, gleaming circle around her dark hair. Overwhelmed by an outburst of emotion, I felt like kissing her eyelids and shouting, 'Who are we, that have never loved who we should have, when and how we should have? Are we a race of its own, suffused with blood of its own ? All I know is that we were born only to hitch our freedom to a chariot of love led by wild horses.'

The stewardess looked at me in surprise when I said, 'We never wanted to love each other, we only wanted to love.' There were merely a few minutes left, time enough to speak out to a complete stranger and be advised, just once, without the hassle of being judged. My neighbour said, 'My brother and I were brought up together in the Chandighar district. Then when I was four and he was seven, my parents actually went back to Britain for good, leaving Sivananda in his own context, although we all regarded him as part of the family. For years, I never enquired much about him, although I knew I missed somebody, something undefinable. My parents kept receiving the school-reports, along with aptly written letters in perfect English. But even as a child, I noticed they looked less and less like conversations, becoming literary English monthly compositions, sort of. Strangely my parents had developed a nasty bias against Indians, whereas I felt more and more shocked and dissatisfied with Western family life. I found it a kind of outrage to welcome home some strangers who had just seen HIM in Chandighar or Delhi, talked to HIM, brought a letter from HIM.

Eventually he sent a simple note stating that on account of his particular merits at high school, he had been awarded a grant to perfect his studies in America. After two years in California, he was offered the choice of returning home or applying for U.S. nationality. Back then they badly needed computer-scientists and India had a lot in store ! He had been a full-fledge American for a fortnight when I first landed in L.A. The day we met, I felt sort of awkward, forcing myself into a relaxed family-life behaviour, whereas I was undergoing such inner tension as became overwhelming later. One night off San Fran we had a joint of herb, during a party at a friend's, an actor-trainer he was; it's strange how everything resembled the lonesome nights when I had invented him, smoking his image out a of a tight-rolled cig, as it were. Then hours seemed seconds and minutes lasted for days, and we woke up as I lay cuddled up in his arms. We both were stark-naked, and a warm July light was showing through the half-closed shutters.

Everything had grown so simple, so easy; it just felt nice awaking in his arms. No doubt we were in for a lot of trouble, but we had done it, and that dawn seemed more promising than it had ever been. I decided never to leave him: I would find a job somewhere and he would put me up as long as I wished. We thought we were approaching Heaven, singing Leonard Cohen's favorites in huge parties till all hours, working in daytime as lollipop-vendors or nursing infantile paralytics. We never hit upon the idea of getting married, we just wouldn't think about it. Only we had forgotten completely about Britain. London intimated to me that I had to be back straight away, London wanted to know why I was intending to stay, London required a letter of explanation. So when I finally pulled myself together and flew back there, I told them that Sivananda and I had decided to live together. They were horrified. As though she was asking me to reveal Fatima's third secret, mother inquired of me whether we had made love and what we proposed to do. To this I answered that we didn't care about the future, but that he lay with me regularly. She almost fainted and screamed, 'That's incest'. As I wondered why she had broken the poor cup by her right hand, I retorted, 'You know damn well it wasn't and will never be !' ...

— 'Here, here!' the voice said; 'How much shall I get for this free therapy ?' For there I was, sitting on a late-night train beside McIlroy, my tennis partner. We were on our way to Antwerpen back from Amsterdam where  we had just lost the Open Double finale. And I was wondering why I hadn't won that match-point in the final tie-break. 

Jerome Smith-Collier (May 2022)

jer_smith-collier.auteur@laposte.net

Photo 1. Comment Express co.uk. 2. Crying People Wallpapers - Wallpaper Cave