Packaged Lives, page 8
Her son never came the entire month. She sat alone in the square crowded with thousands of people every day, in solitary confinement with the paintings. She no longer heard or saw what was happening around her. She spent her days cut off from the outside world. Her son finally came, on the last day of the exhibition, to help her pack the paintings. He arrived late and saw her standing there, on her own, before a huge mural he thought he had seen before. With eyes filled with tears, she explained to him what she saw: picking up from a conversation interrupted for a brief moment due to unforeseeable circumstances, and with a voice trembling with excitement and happiness, she deciphered for him the hieroglyphic symbols of the obelisk. Was this his mother, the woman who could not take any decisive sides between him and his father?
Like a priestess confident of what she knew, of what she saw, she pointed at the shapes floating above the ruins of the city pervading his father’s paintings, which did not disappear but had acquired distinct features. People are the essence of the painting, his mother said. Places change. They may get better or worse. Places are the product of imagination, the priestess added, pointing to the light colors in the painting. Afire with passion, his mother had disappeared into an intoxicated trance and he was drawn into it very quickly, and into the painting following her unusually warm voice. The passion spread from his mother to the painting and from the painting to him. A strange force moved around the triangle from his mother to the painting then him. He had never felt so close to his mother before.
With her he owned the past, from the cradle to adulthood—a sperm in the womb, unsteady steps, first words, early tentative written letters, trips to places with his hand firmly held in hers. On the open ground of the wide square sitting in the heart of a city noisy with life, they stood alone, so close together their shoulders were touching, lost to the world, haloed by the heat of their passion.
n.d.
Packaged Life (2007)
11
Packaged Life
Episode One
Lanzarote, Canary Islands, October 1998
Act One
He was the first in line. He arrived at the airport three hours before the scheduled departure time. He stood in front of the empty check-in counters for an entire hour before the clerk began checking tickets and passports and weighing luggage. He asked her to put him in a window seat and in the area dedicated to nonsmokers. The clerk smiled and explained gently, “Smoking is prohibited on all our flights.” He remembered an announcement to this effect. She handed his ticket and passport back to him. “Go to the waiting area. We will announce the departure gate half an hour before takeoff. It will appear on the monitors there.”
Two hours of waiting. He had to kill time. He had to keep himself busy. He ate a tuna mayonnaise sandwich his parents prepared for him in the morning. He drank an orange juice and threw the bottle in the rubbish bin. He went to the toilet. He washed his hands several times to get rid of the smell of tuna. He sat in a corner, away from the other passengers, watching planes take off and land behind an airport window. He pulled out the book she recommended to him from his hand luggage. He looked at it despondently then returned it to its place. He walked around in shops and cafés. He wanted to buy a bottle of perfume for her from the duty-free shop but remembered her warning and left the shop empty handed. He went to the toilet again. The smell of tuna seemed to have stuck to his hands. He sat in front of a monitor, staring, and waited for the announcement of the departure gate. The gate was finally open.
As soon as he settled into seat 6A next to the window he followed all the instructions lit above his seat. He adjusted the back of his seat, fastened his seatbelt, put his book in the seat pocket in front of him, and looked expectantly at the small screen installed on the ceiling, which everyone could comfortably see. When would the broadcast begin? The screen was dim, waiting for the plane to take off and reach a certain altitude. The man sitting next to him in 6B asked him, “Is this your first visit to Lanzarote?” He replied quickly, “No, no, it’s my second.” “Why? I mean why are you going back?”
They were interrupted by the voice of the flight attendant asking them to watch her while she demonstrated safety procedures. He must pay attention. Her movements were mechanical. Her smile revealed her teeth and a bit of her gums. Her voice was clear. She repeated her instructions in easily understood language. She was like his teacher.
He replied distractedly, his eyes full of the flight attendant, “Birds.” The friendly passenger next to him laughed out aloud, his laughter insinuating a manly solidarity. “You mean women, don’t you? I do return to some of the places I have visited in spite of myself,” he said, nudging him, “for the sake of birds, I mean women, the most beautiful women are birds, don’t you think?”
The flight attendant put the oxygen mask on her mouth, pretending to breathe, and her teeth and gums disappeared. He felt the nudge and hastened with his answer. “No, not at all, I really meant birds, seagulls, white birds, they are lonely.”
The flight attendant completed her demonstration, and he heard his neighbor mutter. Did he make him angry? Maybe he did. He felt sad. He wanted to make amends. He asked him in a friendly tone, “Do you want to hear about my dream?”
He waited.
He wanted to tell his neighbor about his dream, his recurring dream. The other shook his head no. Very politely the man buried his friendly initiative alive. He pulled out the airline magazine from the seat pocket in front of him. Universe Packaged Tours Magazine. “Maybe later,” the stranger said as he turned the pages of the magazine.
When would the broadcast begin? The small screen was still dark, like a sky without stars. To keep himself occupied, he pulled out for the second, or was it the third time, he could not remember, The Tales of the Prophets, and opened it to the page he had marked by folding its edge, page 11, and looked at the words. No use. He looked up again at the screen. He saw reflections of distant lights flickering on it. He was completely absorbed until the voice of the flight attendant interrupted him again, “Would you like a set of ear phones? It’s two pounds and a half and you can use it on all future Universe Airline flights.” “No, thank you.” The neighbor asked the flight attendant, as he handed over the cash, “What is today’s film?” “Chicken Run. It is an animation film with Mel Gibson as the lead male voice.” He guffawed teasingly, “Chicken Mel Gibson, what a wonderful title!” He shared in their laugh. The broadcast would begin soon then.
In Lanzarote, he was the first to exit the airport and the first to stand in line next to the bus. Bus no. 3 parked on tarmac no. 7 would deliver them to their hotels and apartments. He had no heavy luggage. His bag did not even weigh five kilos, and they let him take it with him on board the plane. He waited alone with the driver for forty-five minutes. When would the rest of the passengers arrive? The driver did not stop smoking. A cloud of smoke covered his face. He did not stop looking at his watch either. Were the arms moving?
Minute 48
He stood outside the bus. He watched the passengers drag their heavy suitcases toward the bus in front of him. He counted five, seven, ten . . .
Minute 60
The passengers arrived slowly. They occupied their seats on the bus. The representative of the company introduced himself to the tourists. “My name is David,” he said, and counted the passengers on the bus, calling out their names. He laughed out loud all of a sudden. Everyone looked at him inquiringly. He lowered his head in embarrassment. He had silently counted the passengers with David, imagining them a flock of sheep. He mumbled while looking out of the window at children running and racing each other on the sidewalk, “forty heads.” He wished he could be with the children and could share in their laughter.
“Is everyone here?” the driver asked in Spanish. “Except for two,” the company representative answered in English. “Where are they?” David looked at the passengers then turned in despair to the driver. “I will go back to the airport and look for them.” He wondered to himself, the passengers are bored, shall I tell them about my dream? Before he could get over his hesitation David returned to the bus running. He got on the bus and closed the door behind him. “Where are they?” the driver asked, and the passengers stretched out their necks in anticipation. David muttered, “They got on another bus. It’s not important. Let’s move.”
Act Two
He stood in front of the apartment door for a few minutes. It was on the third floor, on the roof of a new building. He was standing with his back to the horizon and the sea. He erased them from existence. He was looking at the key in his palm, trying to remember why he was there, and why he was carrying that key. “Buenas tardes, Señor.” The cleaning lady going into the apartment next door drew him out of his reverie. He nodded in acknowledgement and went into his apartment in a hurry. He locked the door. He turned the key several times to make sure it was firmly locked.
He registered with his eyes the dimensions of the apartment. It was big. He would try to write down the measurements later. He would have to buy a measuring tape. There was a bedroom and a large bathroom. The kitchen opened out to the living room, which led to a balcony with a table and two chairs. An “X” made from black tape marked the glass door separating the living room from the balcony. He leaned on the balcony railing and looked down. He saw an uncovered swimming pool with a blue floor, right next to another swimming pool for children. His arm felt heavy, and he realized that he was still carrying his bag. He put it down on a side table. He must keep the place tidy. He thought, the room is too big for me, what will I do here, in this large room, why didn’t she come with me, why did she make all the arrangements and send me away on my own, alone, so that she could stay with him? I know she wants to be with him, what about me?
A white apartment. The walls were white, the floor was white, and the plastic table and chairs were white. He walked around one more time looking for some color. Nothing. Only white. In different shades. He stood in the middle of the living room, finding pleasure in being where he thought was the heart of the apartment. If only he had a measuring tape to make sure of the distances and that where he was standing was the exact center of the place. He suddenly realized something very important was missing. He noticed the absence of a TV set. He felt a heavy sadness descend on his chest. What will I do in this big white place, why didn’t she come with me? His eyes began to tear. If she had been with him she would have scolded him, and he would have said to her, hiding his tears, it is the sunlight coming through the big windows reflecting on the walls and on my eyes. For her sake, he covered his eyes with a pair of sunglasses and left the apartment.
Act Three
“We are ten minutes away from the beach.” This was what the advertisement in the Lanzarote Paradise said. The reception office was closed. He wanted to borrow a measuring tape. 3 p.m. He left the building. The street was empty. The walls shielding the buildings on both sides of the street were constructed from stones. Most of them were black. Black walls. He walked slowly, enjoying the warm sunlight. He forced himself to slow down as he descended toward the sea. The houses here were painted white and blue. She loved white and blue. He would call her to tell her. No, no, not now. He remembered what his mother said to him. Call me in the evening. Rest first. Then organize your clothes. Call me after you have eaten.
A row of shops began to appear. Shops glorious with goods. Restaurants. Cafés. Ice-cream kiosks dotted the two sides of the road for tempting everyone going to the beach. He reached the beach. He looked at his watch. Exactly ten minutes. What the Lanzarote Paradise advertised was true then. The ground beneath his feet changed. He took off his shoes and walked on the beach, happy with the feel of the warm sand on his feet. He got closer and closer to the sea. He did not like getting his feet wet. He noticed how small the number of people taking walks on the beach was. He began counting them, one, two, ten . . . It was very difficult getting the count right. Some were disturbed when they noticed his searching look. He too was disturbed by how disturbed they were. Too many of them. He had to get away. He tried to avoid tripping over their naked bodies. The sun was still warm in October.
He returned to the cement sidewalk, to the shops, most of which were open for business and window-shopping. Window-shopping more than sales. Colorful goods for all ages: the young and the old. In a shop he watched an old woman buy ten postcards. He bought ten of them too, just like her, five all black postcards with “Lanzarote at night” written on them, and five all white with “Lanzarote during the day” written on them. He put them in his pocket. He also bought, like her, five ashtrays made from the island’s volcanic rocks.
He walked away from the tourist area. He withdrew from people. He walked on the volcanic rocks along a desolate landscape, inhaling the dry air free of insects. He gathered some stones and put them in his pocket. He sat on a high rock looking at the white birds flying around. He wanted them to come near him. He drew a square around them, framing them inside a TV screen his hand made, and absorbed himself in watching them. The seagulls were gliding in the air, soaring, how high were they going up?, and dropping, what was the distance separating him from them?, should he tell them about his dream? Alone on the isolated rock, before a screen his hands drew on the horizon, he felt the tremor of the night course through his body. He did not move from his place. He remained glued to the black rock, telling the seagulls flying away from the darkening Lanzarote beach what happened in his dream. He was saying . . .
Episode Two
Saint Ives, Britain, August 1999
9:10 p.m. My husband and I left the hotel in complete silence. Like two strangers, we avoided looking at each other. We walked along the external wall, through the front garden, and turned left onto a side street that ran parallel to the main street. I sighed loudly so as to attract his attention. It fell on deaf ears. He continued to look ahead, absorbed in his own thoughts, his eyes hidden behind the darkness of the side street and the edge of his hat. He loved rain, he said, and loved walking in the rain, but hated getting his hair wet. I sighed also because we left the hotel. We felt cheated when we were inside, imprisoned in our feeling of being cheated by Universe Tours Company.
When the bus brought us to the hotel, we saw right away a huge billboard standing in front advertising, “25 pounds per night,” and realized we had paid the Universe Tours Company double. It was no use running from the bus to the hotel. Our light summer clothes got wet in the torrential rain. Who would have thought of wearing raincoats in August? The lady who owned the hotel laughed. “A stormy day, isn’t it?” she said. “They mentioned in the news that we haven’t seen the likes of it since 1968.” “Would you like to have dinner or not,” she asked us after registering our names. “No,” I replied quickly, “thank you!”
In our very small, very tidy, dollhouse of a room, we found an electric kettle, a platter lined with bags of coffee, tea, sugar, and creamer. Two of each. Two glasses. Two mugs. My husband unpacked and neatly arranged his few clothes and belongings in the wardrobe. He always did this. “So that we can feel at home in the new place,” he would say. This was precisely what I was afraid of, to leave my old place and start another journey of settling down in a new place, and I always left my clothes and things neatly packed in my suitcase, ready to return to my home. He asked me sharply, “Why did you say no to dinner?” “Because it is a small hotel and the dining room feels like a tomb,” I said. “Isn’t it better to have dinner in a restaurant overlooking the sea?” He looked to the window without interest, like a child being forced to look at something he has been refusing to see. The storm. The heavy rain beating the window glass. My illogical suggestion that we look for a restaurant overlooking the sea. What a start for a summer holiday meant to bring us closer. “Let’s go out,” he said.
We put out of our minds the storm, the tempestuous summer holiday, and the loss of a free dinner and walked to the nearest pub. We sat close to the bar. It was a small local pub that felt more like a simple living room in a house if it had not been for the bar standing in its left corner. The room was furnished with wood benches covered in colorful embroidered cushions. Everything was old except for the customers. The bar smelled normal, of smoke and alcohol, of different kinds of cigarettes and alcoholic drinks. The customers did not have their distinct odors. They seemed to have left them behind at the door when they closed their umbrellas. They shook them off and left them on the hangers outside before they came in.
The pub was divided into two sections, one for drinks only and another for dining. We sat in the drinks area. We wanted to eat but the waiter pointed to a big clock hanging on the wall and said very politely, “The kitchen closed a few minutes ago.” He was a handsome young man who gave us his apology with a smile that lit up his face. “Our fault,” we said in an understanding tone, “we came too late.” “What do you have to drink?” my husband asked. “Beer.” He ordered for himself a pint of beer and a shot of whiskey. I stole a look at the owner of the pub. A thin man wearing reading glasses so thick his eyes looked bigger than their normal size. The black frame reminded me of the reading glasses sold at charity shops and flea markets. Or maybe their owner died and his heir got rid of them. I said to my husband as he put a bag of roasted nuts in front of me, “I know a friend who kept his dead mother’s dentures for years. He used to carry them wrapped in translucent tissue paper inside a red velvet pouch.”
He said “to your health” and downed the shot of whiskey before he began sipping on his beer. “The waiter is wearing a dark blue shirt like Tony Blair,” I said. “It must be the fashion,” he said. “Do you think Che Guevara would have become the universal symbol for revolution and an icon for all generations if he had not been handsome?” “Why the question?” “Our forgiving attitude toward the waiter and our acceptance of his abiding by the dining schedule to the second despite our abhorrence for all rituals of timekeeping.” “Icons are not necessarily handsome.” “For example?” “Ho Chi-minh.” “Ho Chi-minh!” I screamed in protest, “But he was a handsome man. What if Che Guevara was a carbon copy of Idi Amin, for example?” “We can’t build a theory on one example.” “I know. But any theory begins with an observation. What about Castro?” He got up to fetch another beer.
