Everything Beautiful Began After Part 24

You boarded the aircraft.

Deep down you knew it was time to leave Athens-even though you had nowhere to go and the people on the plane just stared at you.

Chapter Thirty-Nine.

Asleep on the short flight to London. A flight attendant woke you after landing. She was pretty, but there was something sinister in how she barked at you to get up. You imagined Rebecca in her uniform. Her eyes, the way she stared at you. You wish now you'd confessed everything about your brother. She would have understood. She would have helped you let him go.

You found out that you were actually in a place called Luton-which was close to London, but not in London.

"Why are we in Luton?" you asked another pa.s.senger who had also slept through the landing and was now collecting his belongings.

"I ask myself that every day," he said.

You continued sleeping at the airport. It was much colder than Greece.

In the early hours of the morning a Jamaican cleaner woke you up and asked if you were okay. He wanted to know where you got your pajamas. He gave you some ginger beer from a plastic bottle. The ginger beer was very sweet and stung your throat. The man insisted that the burn of the ginger keeps away colds and spirits. Then he went back to work, swis.h.i.+ng past you from time to time with a mop and a chuckle.

When the airport began to fill, you went outside and asked a taxi driver to take you to the nearest branch of your bank. You also asked the driver if he had a bag. He looked around on the floor under the pa.s.senger seat and shook his lunchbox from a plastic shopping bag that read tesco supermarket.

"Here you go, mate," he said. Then with his eyes still in the mirror, he said: "What are you doin' wearing b.l.o.o.d.y pajamas in this weather? You all right?"

You told him it was a long story.

Inside the bank, you asked to withdraw your life savings-the money from unspent student loans, plus the inheritance from your grandmother, which was meant for you to buy a flat when you got married.

The teller asked you to take a seat somewhere more private. Then a tall Sikh came out and introduced himself as the manager. He asked if you were feeling okay. You told him you were, but that you just wanted your money.

"But our policy is to-"

"Just give me my G.o.dd.a.m.n money," you snapped.

The manager nodded reluctantly and said, "I can tell that these are strange and original circ.u.mstances."

Only about a quarter of the bills would fit in the Tes...o...b..g. The teller and the manager watched with a mixture of curiosity and horror.

"Please, please, Mr. Bliss," the manager implored you. "At least take the rest in travelers checks-if only for safety."

You returned to Luton Airport in the same taxi with approximately 48,000 in a shopping bag, and 160,000 in American Express travelers checks.

When you got back into the taxi with a bag of money, the driver was amazed. "Did you just rob that b.l.o.o.d.y bank?"

On the way back to the airport, you noticed an air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. It was shaped like a child and said baby on board.

You asked the driver to stop the taxi. He wouldn't. You screamed and he did. You got out with your shopping bag. He was reluctant to just leave you. It was windy and gray. The gra.s.s at the side of the road was very green. Birds flew against the wind. In some places the gra.s.s was soggy and you felt the cold soak into your slippers. At the side of the road were many things: a pink teddy bear, a pair of workman's goggles, empty cigarette packets, broken bottles, pieces of b.u.mper and shards of headlight from a late night of flas.h.i.+ng lights.

And there you were-walking in your pajamas at the side of the road. Children looked out and wondered who you were, where you were going. People you will never meet, and who knew nothing about your life, carried you for a few miles as a silent flush of compa.s.sion.

The cold didn't bother you, but it was hard sometimes to cross roundabouts because n.o.body wanted to slow down.

You were the Oedipus of legend, the doomed soul, left to wander blindly in the wilderness.

In the distance burned the lights of the airport.

You stopped midway and bought coffee from a van selling hot dogs. The lights of the planes were beautiful in the gray light.

You followed the path of planes coming into land. It was very cold by the time you arrived, and you felt like you might fall down. The world behind you had fallen into darkness.

You sat still for a few hours, and then ate minced-beef pie and mashed potatoes in a cafe. A bit later you found a British Airways sales desk and asked to buy a ticket.

It was getting late. Only a few flights left. The woman leaned forward and smiled.

"Where is your destination, sir?"

"When's the next flight?" you mumbled.

"To where, sir?"

"Anywhere?"

"In Europe?"

"Yes."

"Well, there's a flight to Dublin leaving, but they're closing the gate. There's a very early flight to Milan if that's helpful-"

"It doesn't matter," you said. "Everywhere's the same to me now."

Chapter Forty.

When you arrived in Milan, the airport was packed with handsome businessmen smoking and touching their hair. There was a place to buy fresh orange juice, and so you bought some and then drank it quickly on the spot.

You decided to see the city, and after visiting the Bureau de Change, you took a taxi into the center of town. You walked around with a shopping bag full of money. Your pajamas were getting dirty, and you wondered if you should buy some real clothes.

It was very busy.

People talked loudly on phones as they walked. Vespas threaded their way through traffic. Taxi drivers talked in groups with sweaters tied around their shoulders. It was almost like Athens, but beautiful and organized.

When you were hungry, you found a bustling restaurant close to a courthouse. The counters were long rivers of brushed steel.

The ceiling fans were slow and clean. Each blade was slightly angled. The tables, the chairs, and the floor were all cut from the same dull steel-or perhaps after decades of use, the s.h.i.+ne had worn off.

Everyone chewed in silence and looked at one another.

You pointed to a plate of something in a gla.s.s case on the counter. The young waiter nodded.

"Signor," the waiter said, pointing to an empty seat.

A few minutes later your meal arrived. You noticed several other people at nearby tables eating the same thing. And then you noticed that all the meals in the gla.s.s case were exactly the same.

There were no children in the restaurant, and you wondered why.

The restaurant was part of a tobacconist's shop, and after lunch, you picked up your shopping bag and wandered over to it. Everything in the shop was streamlined. Even the white hair of the tobacconist was brushed back and glistened under the shop light.

Although you had stopped smoking in hospital, you bought a few packets of cigarettes because the boxes were beautiful. You received your change in a chrome ashtray, not in your hand.

As you went to leave a man blocked your path.

The man stood between you and the door.

"Signor," he said.

You looked at him and gripped your shopping bag.

The man held up some lottery tickets and a small pencil.

When you finished marking one line, the man pointed to the next. When you finished all the lines, the man held the card at a distance from his eyes.

"Foreigners are sometimes good luck," he said.

You walked around for an hour and then went into a shop that sold crucifixes, hoping to use the bathroom. There were hundreds of crosses in the shop, in all different colors, but with Jesus wearing the same expression in most of them.

The manager said, "If you want to use the bathroom, buy a crucifix."

"But I have nowhere to hang it," you said.

The owner shrugged.

"I'd really like to use the toilet, without purchasing an action figure nailed to a piece of wood."

"Please leave the shop," the man said. Other staff drifted over.

"I can pay you," you said.

"Just buy something with Jesus on it," the owner said. "The toilet is over there behind those shelves."

"Actually, I think I'll go."

You left the shop and peed against some recycling bins nearby. In the alley beyond the bins, sitting atop a black garbage bag, was a typewriter. You went over and pushed a few keys. Then you put it under your arm and walked away.

You ambled back toward the center of town, studying the design on a packet of the cigarettes you'd bought.

Then you noticed a gang of teenagers watching from a park across the street. You had seen them before outside the lunch place. You looked down at your money. How could they know? But then you thought that maybe it had something to do with the typewriter. You considered putting it down and walking away.

You strolled a few blocks to see if the teenagers would follow. They didn't seem to be behind you, but when you thought you'd lost them, they suddenly appeared ahead of you-a tight group of boys in whitewashed jeans, like a scene from West Side Story.

Instead of waiting for them to come upon you, you turned and sprinted down a narrow street. At the end was an opening that led on to a very wide and beautiful street-a street far too handsome to get robbed on.

You looked back and saw two of the boys enter the alley running, and so ducked quickly into the nearest shop. The bell rang violently.

The shop was empty, but smelled delicious-as if someone had been smas.h.i.+ng grapefruits. Mannequins in metallic dresses glowed under the lights.

A woman approached you. A mole on her lip made her mouth look exotic.

"I need clothes." You opened the shopping bag by letting go of one of the handles. "And do you take pounds because I've run out of your currency?"

The woman peered into the bag.

"I think we probably could," she said.

Then she asked if you'd like to put down your typewriter and try a few things on.

Three hours later-after a local tailor was called in to make adjustments-you left the shop in a double-breasted navy suit and a sky blue polo s.h.i.+rt.

The tailor had told you off for carrying money around in a plastic bag and helped you pick out a black alligator briefcase that smelled faintly of mints.

At a nearby barbershop, you received a haircut and a shave. Hanging on the walls were pictures of dead movie stars. The barber was very old and kept going into the back every few minutes to tap something with a spoon.

After another hour walking around on the streets of Milan, you stopped to rest on a street called Via Palomba. There were display cabinets for bottles of men's perfume, and you thought of George.

You realized then you were starting to feel hopeless and tired, and so decided to go back to the airport. Your briefcase was heavy because it also had the typewriter in it.

It took over an hour to get to the airport in a taxi. It was uncomfortable because the driver wouldn't open the window and you were too depressed to ask.

You caught the next flight by running to the gate.

Alitalia Flight 522 to LaGuardia Airport in New York City landed on time.

It was a bright morning with many birds.

You walked from the terminal to the hotel in Queens across the freeway. A few people honked.

You lasted a week at the hotel, living off free breakfast bagels and watching cars from your window inch their way along the Grand Central Parkway. There were a few rainstorms but they didn't last very long.