Due Preparations for the Plague

by Janette Turner Hospital

  “The ticket was for an Air France flight, Paris–New York, Flight Number 64, leaving the next day, September eighth. The name on the airline ticket was Khalid Waburi. ‘I’m not going to be permitted on the plane with a ticket that doesn’t match my ID,’ I pointed out.

  “‘I have a passport that matches the ticket,’ he said. ‘Of course, we’ll need to insert your photograph, but that’s easily done.’

  “He lifted his arm and signaled to someone unseen and then there was a flash and my picture was taken.

  “‘I don’t think I look like a Khalid Waburi,’ I said.

  “‘If there’s any questions, you can say you are a Black Muslim.’

  “I laughed. ‘You think that would get me smooth passage?’

  “‘You will say your father was a refugee from Idi Amin, and you were born in the USA.’

  “‘I see. Then I am assuming that the package you wish me to deliver is something I may have trouble getting through customs?’

  “‘Not at all, my friend. It is a letter that I need hand-delivered.’ He gave it to me. There was no address. ‘There is another envelope inside this one,’ he said, ‘which you will open in New York. Of course, I will need a photocopy of your American passport, in order to have the details for the carte de séjour. We will make it when I meet you at the airport. Tomorrow.’

  “And here I am, another tangent, another coincidence, and a question of minor interest to me is: had he already decided on revenge because I ignored him in the coffee shop? Was his threshold for sensing insult so low? Or was he intending to make use of me until he ran a check on my name? Did he decide the jail time in Mississippi was not sufficient to vouch for me as a renegade? Did he put together the Sorbonne and my French and my Arabic and wrongly conclude: CIA after all?

  “It doesn’t matter.

  “It would seem that the tangent must be significant, and the meaning tantalizes but eludes me because what hovers as of equal significance is another random moment from the day of the flight, a street musician I heard in the Place des Vosges. I had my ticket and my fake passport, I was filling in time before the two o’clock Roissybus from Place de l’Opéra, and I heard the unmistakable sounds of New Orleans jazz. Someone was playing Duke Ellington’s ‘Caravan’ on a tenor sax, and I can’t begin to explain to you the effect, the excitement, the extraordinary coincidence. The night before I’d left New York to fly here, to the Sorbonne, I mean, I’d gone to a concert of a new young trumpeter from my home town: Wynton Marsalis. He played ‘Caravan’—well, every jazz musician who’s ever lived has played ‘Caravan’—but this bracketing of my flights with the song filled me with an intense and obscure excitement. I had an inner conviction, entirely irrational, that something profound would come of this. The feeling was just as intense as the one that flooded me at the New Orleans courthouse thirty years earlier. This will come to pass, I knew then.

  “This flight will have profound significance for me, I knew as I listened to ‘Caravan’.

  “The musician was black. We made eye contact and never lost it. At the end of his set, he asked me, ‘Where you from, man?’ And when I said, ‘New Orleans,’ he began to laugh and said, ‘Me too, bro. Got a riddle for you. When two niggers from Nawlins meet in Paris, what’s the first thing they ask one another?’

  “‘Don’t know,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’

  “And he said: ‘Where can I get me some grits and where can I get me some good blues?’ And we laughed and shook hands and I said no, sorry, I couldn’t stay for a drink because I had a flight to New York.

  “But I can’t stop thinking about him. I have ‘Caravan’ running through my head, and I am also noticing that though my eyes are stinging and my vision is blurred, and my lungs feel as though they are stuffed with wet towels, the gases are clearly dispersing because here I am still talking and you two have just come to the same conclusion and it is time to find the way out.”

  CUT

  Editorial Voiceover:

  This is Salamander. Homer Longchamp was accurate. I did observe everyone in the restaurant. I noted Longchamp’s presence, for example, even as I bargained for the lives of the passengers with Sirocco. I noticed that Longchamp was reading Le Monde. I noticed that he addressed the waiters in French. I noted that French was not his first language; his facial muscles did not have the shape of a French-speaking face.

  Khalid Waburi was one of our agents. He successfully infiltrated an Islamic fundamentalist cell and was selected for the crew of Black Death. It was he who gave me the information that Sirocco had other plans and that the stinger was to be stung. Waburi paid a steep price.

  CUT

  9.

  “Symmetry.” Tristan speaks to his gas mask as though it were Yorick’s skull. “Symmetry keeps cropping up like a dandelion, but it doesn’t make any—”

  “… there at the same time as you, listening to ‘Caravan’. I’m Genevieve Teague. At exactly the same time, in Place des Vosges. Isn’t that weird?”

  “… in the end, some vast symmetry, and everything tends there the way water runs downhill, even though that defies—”

  “You heard my friend on the tenor sax?”

  “Playing ‘Caravan’.”

  “Three of us there, and three of us here,” Tristan says. “It defies all odds.”

  “It’s so bizarre it has to mean something.”

  “We want it to mean something,” Homer says.

  “But it couldn’t, because no conspiracy could be so—”

  “Forget conspiracy,” Homer says. “There’s something awesome about the patterns of chance, something mysterious, and we need that mystery. Especially now.”

  “At least it makes our deaths interesting,” Tristan says. “Stupid and horrible, but interesting. These seven grotesque deaths …”

  They are all talking at once in little rushes of sound, and touching one another, holding one another, stroking one another in a manic kind of way as though the sarin will return if they slacken or if they let the heat of connection drop for one heartbeat. And then—click. On the stroke of grotesque deaths, a switch is thrown, or so it seems. It is as though one group-brain is governing them, the change is so uniform and sudden. They fall silent and still, three solitudes. Their hands and arms, which were flashing about, droop, then twitch, then hang slack.

  This lasts for three seconds.

  “There’s air,” Homer says. “A small current.”

  “Has to come from the opening.” Tristan pulls off his gloves and rakes the walls with the palms of his hands. “Door. Trapdoor. Whatever they sealed up. There must be a crack.”

  The unseen puppeteer picks up their strings again, but the three marionette figures move strangely. They flicker. The movie they are in—an old black-and-white reel, nicked and grainy—seems to be on fast forward. The actors bend, stretch, reach, in double-quick time. They are reading the walls with their hands. They hold up index fingers, they rest cheeks against cracks in the wall. They gravitate toward one corner and then suddenly the movie slows down.

  “It’s here,” Genevieve says. “Feel it? There’s a definite draft.”

  Homer leans against the wall. “Something’s strange. I feel as though I’ve been doped.”

  “What if it’s gas?”

  “I’ll be the canary.” Homer tilts his face into the crevice where two walls meet and breathes deeply.

  “I think we’re not going to die”—Genevieve flinches and raises her arms defensively in an odd motion, as though the idea has swooped by her like a bat—“the same way they did. My muscles feel strange.”

  “I don’t think it’s gas,” Homer says. “My lungs are okay. I just feel weak.”

  “I think oxygen deprivation’s our problem now,” Tristan says.

  “My eyes are really giving me hell all of a sudden. My vision’s going cloudy.”

  “Can you two lift me up? Let me feel around the light?” Genevieve asks.

  Homer says, “I can’t see you. Arms won�
��t do what I tell them. Give me time … to get air … my lungs …”

  “The stench,” Tristan says. “C’est insupportable.”

  “It’s getting hotter. Why’s it getting hotter? I’m boiling in this wretched suit.”

  “The bodies are starting to decompose.”

  “Ugh …”

  “Oh my God.”

  The marionettes stagger. They are buffeted by unseen waves.

  “Got to move … other side of the room,” Homer gasps. “Need to sit … conserve strength.”

  “Not sit,” Tristan warns. “Gases settle low. Lean on the wall.”

  “Can’t,” Homer says. “Too weak.”

  “People are negotiating,” Genevieve says, “at the highest levels. For us. You know they are. Must be.”

  “Doubt it. The line’s cut and the devil’s dead.”

  “Someone’s watching us,” Genevieve insists. “We’re Sirocco’s last bargaining chip. He can’t let us die.”

  “Don’t count on that,” Homer says. “Curious thing … about psychopaths … notably deficient … in capacity to anticipate consequences.”

  “If he were watching,” Tristan says, “he couldn’t resist taunting us again. I’m sure you were right about that.”

  “The red light’s still on,” Genevieve says. “The camera’s still watching, so someone somewhere is still watching us.”

  “Sharpshooters must have got Sirocco,” Tristan says. “Only explanation for the silence.”

  “If sharpshooters got him, rescue’s close,” Genevieve says.

  “Hell of a case study, Sirocco … subject of my next book. Definitely.” Homer, slumped low against the wall, begins playing, with great lassitude, an imaginary tenor sax. Wa-wa-wa-waa, he quavers. His fingers move like sleepwalkers on the keys. His voice, in startling saxophone mimicry, sounds like an old 78 version of “Caravan” played slow. “Heard Duke Ellington and Charlie Mingus together?” he pauses to ask. “The gold standard. But that Wynton …! Inside my head … angel music, man. Gabriel’s horn.” His voice slides into a Marsalis rendition. “I need drums,” he says drowsily. And Tristan joins him as drummer, thumping his hands against the wall, adagio version, the tape speed slow …

  “Swing low,” Homer croons, switching mood, “sweet chariot …”

  “Gonna get me some grits,” Homer smiles. He sings again, slow, molasses-slow: “When I get to heav’n, gonna play my blues, gonna play all over God’s heav’n …”

  “Homer, you’re letting go. Don’t let go.”

  “Wa-wa-wa-waaaaa,” Homer quavers. He has his sax propped against his knees. “Wa-wa-wa-waaa … wa-wawa-waaa …”

  CUT

  Homer Delaware Longchamp

  Born New Orleans, 1949

  10.

  “Génie?”

  “Unh?”

  “How are your eyes?”

  “Could be worse. Yours?”

  “Bad. Mais la puanteur!”

  “Yes,” she murmurs, drugged, as though the stench has indeed stunned her. “Worst thing.”

  “Got to find the opening.”

  “Must be here where the draft is.”

  “Crack’s nearly one centimeter wide.”

  “I know. If we could wedge something in … pry it open … Fingernails all we’ve got.”

  “My belt buckle!” Tristan fumbles with the drawstring at the neck of his padded suit. “Help me get this damned straitjacket—”

  “Not sure I can. No energy. Ugh … uh … this smell … I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Can you pull—?”

  “Wait.” Génie goes to the far corner of the room and stoops over, leaning her head against the wall. “Oh, I feel ghastly.” Her body heaves violently. She is sick. “Don’t come near me, okay?” She wards him off.

  Minutes pass.

  “Can I—?”

  “No,” Génie says. “I just want to crawl off like a cat and die in private.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “Okay, okay,” she moans.

  As though she would collapse without the walls, she marks her slow route at arm’s length, leaning in, tilting against her wrist and her open palm. She resembles a blind woman groping.

  “See?” She tries to make a fist to show Tristan how the muscles in her fingers have gone slack. “See what’s happened?”

  Nevertheless, working clumsily together, struggling, panting, grunting, they free Tristan’s arms from his suit. Génie tugs back the quilted top and begins to laugh helplessly. “You look like a half-peeled banana.” Laughter hangs as loose as oversized clothing from her shoulders. It folds itself round her. It floats and lifts. It climbs into baggy hysteria. It is infectious. The two of them reel about like drunken clowns. “Half-peeled banana,” she splutters. “Floating in sweat. You’re soaked.”

  “Je suis la soupe du jour.”

  “Soupe à la banane.”

  “I’ve been swimming in here.”

  “Go diving,” she commands, her eyes streaming, “for your belt.”

  “Uh … uh …” He gropes beneath the waistline of his suit and pulls the belt out like a water snake. “Moisture burning my eyes,” he says. “It’s like nettles.”

  “Mine too. Stinging like crazy. Push your buckle into the crack.”

  “Trying to … Can’t see properly.”

  “You got it. It’s in.”

  The laughter and weakness leave them abruptly then, like a weather system blown out to sea. They are intent and somber. They jiggle the metal back and forth.

  “Open Sesame,” Génie says, but nothing moves.

  “There’s space behind here.”

  “See if you can feed the belt in.”

  “It’s going.”

  They thread leather through the eye of the crack and the slit in the wall eats the belt.

  “First hole,” Génie says, measuring off distance with her fingers. “Second hole, third hole, fourth … We’re going places.” Half of the belt has disappeared. “If we were paper-thin, we could follow it.”

  “Going to try something.” Tristan pulls suddenly and the buckle wedges itself, locks itself, on the far side of the crack. “Got it,” he says, jubilant. “Now we can pry the lid off this box.”

  They hold the leather—soft lever—taut and close. They work like galley slaves, pushing, pulling, forward, back, forward, back. They strain at the oars. They are racing for freedom, fast, faster, frenzied, a futile paroxysm of hope.

  “Stop,” Tristan says, gasping. “This is stupid. We’re using up oxygen. Sweat in my eyes … like razor blades …”

  “No, no, don’t stop. I can feel the wall giving way.”

  “It’s not the wall, it’s me. It’s me giving way.”

  Tristan slackens, breath raspy, but Génie rows faster and faster, delirious, a comic-book blur, until she gives a sharp cry of pain and presses both hands to her chest.

  “Uh …!”

  “Lean on the wall.”

  “Pain’s killing me.”

  “Is it your heart?”

  “I think so. Must be.”

  “Breathe slowly.”

  “My eyes!”

  “Mine too. Stay by the draft. It helps.”

  “We’ve got … air … at least,” Génie says. They are both taking short rapid breaths.

  “Rest. Don’t talk. Don’t try to talk.”

  “I feel dizzy.” Genevieve is crumpling. “I’m going to black out.”

  “No, you’re not. I won’t let you. Don’t sit on the floor.”

  “Have to.”

  “No. Here.” Tristan props her up in the corner by the thin wisp of air. He holds her there with his own body, pressing against her, kissing her lips. “Kiss of death,” he jokes. “That’s symmetry for you. Remember the first …?”

  “Never forget.”

  “I backed you up against the Quai d’Anjou.”

  “Seine didn’t smell so great either.”

  “Better than this.”
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  “That’s for sure.”

  Their speech is slow and fading, like old vinyl being played at half speed.

  “Thought … I was having … a heart attack.”

  “Think of something happy,” Tristan urges. “Think of Quai d’Anjou.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Left the party early, remember? My own party.”

  “Your own author. Very bad taste … on the publisher’s part.”

  “Au contraire. Good taste … I wanted to eat you.”

  “Mooring ring left a scar on my back.” Génie’s back is against the wall. Her eyes are closed. Only Tristan’s body holds her upright.

  “Had to put my mark on you,” he says.

  “Very primitive.”

  “Je suis l’homme.”

  “L’homme français.” Génie smiles. “Notorious subcategory of species. Distinguishing markings: possessiveness; jealousy.”

  “No virtues, c’est ça?”

  “Some.”

  “Femme australienne,” Tristan retaliates. “Espèce férocement indépendante. Very prickly. Dangerous to get close. Refuses to let man carry suitcase.”

  “Never let anyone carry my suitcase. Too much contraband.”

  “Génie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Tell me now, finalement. You work in Intelligence?”

  “You’re joking. Me? Never.”

  “No covert operations?”

  “Letters … I smuggle letters, that’s all.”

  “Pains of the heart.”

  “They’re not so bad now. Feel like jelly, though. I could sleep standing up.”

  “Days since we slept.”

  “Days since we ate.”

  “Don’t think about that. What do you mean, you smuggle letters? What kind of letters?”

  “Personal ones, not political. Like you and your manuscripts.” Génie takes long shaky breaths, and her breaths rattle like rice grains in a shaker. “Knew you were doing … something shady … You never told me.”

  “Couldn’t. Have to protect the writers. Have to publish them under pseudonyms.”

  “No wonder you’ve been under surveillance. Ever … get caught?”

  “A few times. Hungary once. Romania. Prague, just last week. I was lucky. Don’t know what happened to the authors. Not as lucky, I fear. You ever been caught?”