Then the woman is gone and I am back to looking down the line. Though most people will have come on their own, or in couples, from the way people are talking to each other you would think they were well acquainted.
Sam walked through doors that opened into too much light. People stood in lines that seemed ready to dissolve. They glared at their too-heavy luggage in mistrustful silence.
For me this kind of friendliness typifies the difference between the old world and now. But there are plenty who disagree. Every year I have at least one student who insists it is not a matter of Before versus After, more of East versus West. He or she will come to the lectern after class and say, But the whole world was not destroyed. We did not rebuild from nothing. There were Chinese and Indian traditions. There were Asian values.
Sam’s gaze travelled across the airline desks.
It’s the kind of thing you want to hear from your students: a big, original-seeming idea that challenges orthodox positions. But the rebuttal is quite simple: The societies that exist today bear virtually no resemblance to what came before. To say they kept their streets and buildings, and most of their people, is to miss the point.
He could not see his airline.
Because their change was not spectacular. It took place unseen, within cells, in the dark of brains. Everyone, in every city, was of the same two minds. There was terror and there was relief. They rushed through each person in surging tides till all things were submerged.
It was difficult to concentrate with so many passengers sweeping through.
Obviously this wasn’t always for the better. The suicides went on for weeks, months, like echoes slow to fade. Even now they remain. An old man is found on the shore; an old woman steps from a cliff. I suppose they’ll still be heard for thirty, forty years. Fainter, less often, till there is silence; no Survivors left.
He saw the desk and joined its line. The whole thing was insane.
I turn and raise my hand to no one in particular. Which is to say I raise it to them all. Straight ahead, at eye level, my palm facing down. It is a gesture with a terrible history, but this no longer matters. Without a frame of reference, it is a salute.
The man in the front of the queue had very large ears.
I know this is foolish, not really a joke. But when a few people raise their hands in answer it pleases me far more than it should. Thus distracted, I finally step through.
He watched the ears as the queue moved forward.
I enter a corridor whose walls are covered in something grey and uneven. I think it is a kind of lichen. When I brush against it there is an intense smell of rosemary that is almost cloying. I cough, and the irritation passes. A second door slides open, and I step into a small room. “Good afternoon,” says a voice that has been made to sound like both a man’s and woman’s. It thanks me for choosing to take part in the project, then informs me that if I do not wish my image to be saved I should press the yellow button.
What would happen if he touched them?
The button winks invitingly. Although my hand twitches forwards, it won’t get any closer. My image can’t do harm.
He’d be hit. Badly beaten. The thought was appealing.
“When you’re ready to proceed, please step into the circle.”
The man in front was almost at the desk. His ears were quivering. His head turned from side to side, looking for the smile, the signal, that he could cross the line on the floor.
As I look down a white circle brightens, then dims, at exactly the same rate as the button. I wonder how much time a person is given to decide.
The woman behind the desk beckoned.
I step into the circle. The light no longer dims. It is now a bright ring that holds me in place. “Please remain still,” says the voice. “This will not take long.”
Sam’s feet touched the line. He looked at the desks, the heads locked to screens, the faces that paid attention whilst they ignored.
Invisibly, and in silence, my face is being captured. It will be transformed.
Sam opened his passport in readiness. He turned to the back page. The photo was eight or nine years old, his face a little fatter. He was not wearing glasses. His hair was shorter. It was him, and not.
Even as I wait, the years are being taken. With every second, another is gone, no doubt two or three. I must already be middle aged, my hair plentiful.
He had just started at the bookshop. He had been seeing Emma, who went to Madagascar to observe lemurs.
I am no longer a professor. I am just a lecturer. Then a librarian. Then I am in my cell. In court. In that square where flags were waved.
He understood why Emma had left, but he still blocked her e-mails.
I am back in that crowded bar watching the end of the world. I am drunk. Crying. As confused and helpless as a newborn.
The man at the desk called him forward. Sam handed over his passport, then put his bag on the scale. He was told to have a pleasant trip.
After that, or before, there are just flashes of someone else. A person I recognise, although we met for only a moment, as if we stood in different sections of a revolving door. Him exiting as I entered.
Sam stepped away from the desk, then stopped. He had no idea where to go next. Then he heard a scrambled voice telling him to go to gate twelve.
The announcement does not need words. Instead there is a single note that lasts three or four seconds, a clear chime that makes me think of a metal strip with a mirror’s shine being struck with great skill. It tells me the capture is complete. It asks me to prepare.
This was all he needed to hear. The airport was just like the hospital: All he had to do was trust the signs. Although the corridors were busier then the hospital, prickling with hurry, as he stood on stairs that lifted he felt the same feeling of surrender.
Without warning, the circle starts to turn. Very slowly, anticlockwise, which seems appropriate. After a quarter of a revolution it stops and the wall slides away.
There was little time to worry, certainly not enough to panic.
I step through. The tunnel is a long grey tube. Its gentle slope is an optical trick, or at least so I’ve heard. Something to do with reflection.
At the gate he was thankful that the flight was boarding. He did not want to sit and wait; he wanted to keep moving. Soon he would be rising. Everything would quickly shrink until it wasn’t there.
The light of the tunnel is the diffuse kind that has struggled through clouds. The silence is similarly effortful. There should be sounds of waves, cries of gulls, voices from those passing. The walls aren’t thick enough to block these out. This quiet is manufactured. Even though I understand why—to reduce distraction—it’s still irritating. Even the best-intentioned trick contains some kind of insult. One person saying to another, “I am smarter than you.”
“You are an idiot. A fool,” said a woman behind Sam. He turned and saw a woman with a magenta headscarf speaking into her phone. “Beverly, this is it. No more. You have given me no choice. I am not going to wait.”
I hesitate on the threshold. Nothing is happening. The walls are dark, and there is a silence made of sounds beyond my perception. But nothing is wrong; I’m just nervous. As soon as I step from the entrance, the walls come to life. Either there’s a hidden sensor, or someone is watching. With all us old people shuffling through, I suppose there must be.
When he reached the end of the line, he dropped his boarding pass. He bent quickly, retrieved it, then straightened, and for an instant he was falling.
There may have been fainting spells or a heart attack. If so, I doubt they happened here. When people saw their faces, as I see mine, there would have been no alarm. No matter that their eyes, like mine, were multiplied hundreds of times. At this age, there should be nothing upsetting about the sight of one’s own face. No surprises, only recognition.
“Sam?” said a voice he knew. He blinked, and the world became steady. “What are you doing here?” she asked. His delay i
n replying to Boring Lesley was not because he had forgotten she had found this job at the airport; it was because he had forgotten she existed. By the time he recognised her, it was too late. She stared as if betrayed. Boring Lesley, in that instant, became interesting. Either he was important to her in some fashion, or she was oversensitive. When he handed her his boarding pass, she tore it angrily.
I walk beneath my gaze. In the far distance, at the end of the tunnel, a figure appears. A man about my height, with grey hair, slowly walking towards me. When I pause, he also stops. I stare, and he stares back.
She thrust the jagged stub at Sam and pointed down the tunnel.
And what will happen now? Do I turn and run? Even if I were able to, it really wouldn’t help. The only thing to do is go on. That’s why I’m here, what I want, what I am afraid of. Thankfully, little is required. I do not need to be brave; I do not need to make eye contact; I do not need to speak. All that’s required of me is to shuffle on.
He followed the slope of the tunnel down into the plane. His seat was at the back and by a window. It was occupied by a middle-aged Filipino man whose eyes were closed. He was breathing loudly through his mouth. His neck was heavily bandaged. “Excuse me,” said Sam. “I think that’s my seat.” The man did not respond.
He’s younger than he looked at first. His hair isn’t as grey. He’s clean shaven, taller. As for his walk, it isn’t a copy of mine. It has been given more thought. His back is straighter; his arms swing more. The length of his stride, though somewhat shortened, is still greater than mine. The overall effect is more that of an interpretation rather than an impersonation. It is very impressive, though not, alas, correct: Until ten years ago, I still walked with a limp. Of course there’s no way for them to know that just from an image. They only contain so much.
Sam repeated himself more loudly. The result was the same, except that the corners of the man’s mouth lifted, not a proper smile, but suggestive of mirth.
Now I can see his features clearly. His hair is almost dark. He has stopped moving, seems to be waiting. But of course he is not. He cannot wait any more than he can laugh, cry, do a conjuring trick. Which is all he is. The most that he can do is seem to be looking at me.
The man’s eyes opened. He blinked. “Yes?” he said, and looked at Sam with so much hostility that his gaze was like a blade pushing through his body.
But there is no reason to avoid his gaze. I can look in a mirror. He is the one who should find it hard to make eye contact. The fact that he can look me in the eye so coolly, almost with amusement, only underlines the falseness of the trick. And of course this should not be disappointing. And yet it somehow is.
The bandages around the man’s neck made his head look disembodied. They were so thick their primary aim seemed to be concealment. Sam thought of a terrible wound, a hole in the throat, the vocal cords exposed. The man pointed at himself and spoke. “Is this you?” he asked while jabbing his fingers into his chest in an emphatic manner.
Now there isn’t much resemblance. He is in his mid-thirties; his head of hair is dark. For some reason he has a beard, why I’ve no idea; I’ve never even had a moustache. I suppose the program has to guess some of these things based on the fashions of the period. Though I’d also like to think that someone has made the program stick facial hair where it doesn’t belong, either as a joke, or to remind people that this “person” wasn’t, won’t be “them.”
“Are you here?” asked the man, and raised himself, a slight motion that still seemed to cause him discomfort. “Yeah,” said Sam, and then the man became contrite. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. She told me to sit there, and I didn’t check, I probably should have. I’m really not myself.” He brought his hand to his neck, swallowed, and looked in pain once more. “It’s just easier if I can lean against something, then maybe I can sleep.” He closed his eyes, then opened them; only then did he start to gather his belongings. He had several magazines, a bottle of water, some thick wooden beads. One of the man’s hands was also injured; its bandage was coming loose. As he stood, he dropped the bottle of water, and then, when he bent to retrieve it, one of the magazines as well. There was so little space between the edge of his (or rather, Sam’s) seat and the one in front that he had to twist his body to the side as he bent down, and though he did so carefully, it was still so painful he gasped. When the man straightened, he was pale and sweating. He looked both close to tears and ready to collapse.
With heavy legs, and almost staggering, I reduce the distance. At ten feet the beard is gone. He is thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty years of age. He is in the streets of Manila. He is on the plane.
Sam looks at the man, and I look at him, and then he steps aside. From the man on the plane, from me in the tunnel, so that we can pass. In the present this is a thoughtful gesture: I imagine most people would prefer not to step through themselves. Sixty years ago, Sam stepping aside meant quite the opposite. It was a last aversion of the eyes, a final turn of his back.
The man stepped into the aisle as I step next to Sam. There are only six inches between us, six inches that are sixty years, a gap between worlds. We stand next to each other, face to face, I with too much to say, him with not enough. I thought this would be upsetting, traumatic. But now that I see him, this less than a ghost, I realise there’s nothing to fear. There’s no need to destroy a relic. So long as it knows what it was, it is being punished enough.
Sam took his rightful seat. He leaned against the window. Nothing more was required of him, nothing except patience. With this in mind, he took off his shoes, fastened his seat belt, then spread out the blanket. He wasn’t sure if he’d turned off his phone; when he put his hand in his jacket pocket it met the smoothness of paper. He took it out and stuffed it into the seat pocket—he wouldn’t need his ticket anymore—then put his hand back in. The mobile wasn’t in there, so he tried the other, and again found paper. He brought it out with the phone and saw it was his ticket. He leant forward and retrieved the first piece of paper. It was Caitlin’s e-mail.
Hello from sweaty Cairo! The traffic’s crazy, and there’s too many people, but this place is amazing. Walking the streets is like being in two or three different eras at once, there are streets with old mosques that are centuries old and then there’s ones that just sell iPhones. There are massive hotels with white limousines outside and then there are these huge graveyards where thousands of people live in tombs and sleep on the graves. So far everyone’s nice except for some of the creepy men—a woman in my hostel was groped on a train and bus on the same day. She said it wasn’t just because she was foreign—it happens to women with headscarfs too, which is a shame because I’ve started wearing these. After an hour in the afternoon sun my brain was really throbbing—I almost fainted in the spice market on my first day. I like moving through the crowd as if I’m in disguise, it makes me feel like one of those nineteenth-century travellers who pretended to be Muslim. Best moment so far: sitting by the Nile at sunset and hearing the call to prayer. It’s such an amazing sound that I expect everyone to just stop and listen, but of course it’s as normal to them as church bells are to us, although I still think there’s something special about hearing a voice. Must go—am off to Yemen tomorrow with two Dutch girls I met in an ahwa. I had no plans to go there, at least not for ages, but they told me about this little island called Socotra that has prehistoric trees and pirates and at first I wasn’t sure but then I googled it and found this picture and knew I had to go there.
Maybe it will be disappointing, but I want to take the chance. I don’t believe in fate, but if I’d come here earlier, when I planned to, I definitely wouldn’t have met them, and so wouldn’t have this chance. That’s what this trip is all about: meeting new people, taking opportunities, trusting to luck. Say hi to everyone, will write more soon xx
Sam folded the paper. He was glad Caitlin was doing well. She was in a new place, with new people, becoming someone else. Obviously, he couldn’t take a
ll the credit. But he had played his part.
The plane began to move. Next to him the man crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. “I don’t like flying,” he said. “I know it’s safe, but that doesn’t help, I still have stupid thoughts.” Sam nodded, then looked away. Outside the lights were picking up speed, as if they were racing the plane. Though they went faster, they could not keep up, unlike the airport fence, the trees, the hills that hulked in the gloom. These kept pace with him and the plane like loyal, cheering crowds. With a vertiginous lurch, and a moan to his left, Samuel Clark departed. As the plane climbed the sky lightened further, till there was a scarlet line to the east. At first it was as thin as a paper cut, but this soon widened, acquired thickness, bled beyond the edge of land that still made the horizon. The plane had barely begun to level when the sun emerged. It welled up like an orange tear. The wings of the plane glowed. Sam watched fields and rivers burn, trees, cottages, cows. No place could escape those flames. Not Glasgow, not Edinburgh. Comely Bank was ablaze. What had been solid during the night was melting, being transformed, just as the fire was changing as it found new fuel. Light that had been red, then orange, now shifted to gold as it swept over the bridge, down the street, pushed through windows, slipped through curtains, seeking, finding faces. Mrs. Maclean would already be awake, as would Mr. Asham, who had probably not slept. The light could even reach under the bridge, but Sam hoped it wouldn’t, not yet. He wanted Alasdair, Toby, Abby, and Spooky to sleep as long as they could, to wake only after the light had run out of surfaces to touch. He wished for it to first visit Sean and Rita’s bench, then brighten the paint outside Mr. Asham’s, flicker on the bookshop window, glance off the French delicatessen, burst into his former home, gild the surface of the pond, heat the church’s steeple. Only when almost all was lit, aflame, should those relics wake and understand that the day had come with neither warning nor remorse. It seemed fitting that these pieces of the past should linger for an extra instant: Time past as time present, as old fools might say.
The Casualties Page 24