“Exactly. I’d rather obsess over my eyebrow than be consumed for hours by silly things like who is the best player.”
Daniel pushed Gabrielle away again and then grabbed her back. This was their routine, the little game of love and hate. Alice watched them bemused by their antics. She never showed any signs of jealousy, no matter what Daniel did. She was amazingly sure of her position at all times, which was something I wish I could possess just for a moment.
Their interaction caught my attention though. I wasn’t sure why but I noticed Gabrielle in a different way. It was perhaps Fionna’s words or Daniel’s ease with her, but it was like she wasn’t there before and then she was. She was a friend and then all of a sudden I wanted her to be more. It was like I was looking at a different person.
My thoughts were shattered when John came over and started drinking wine from the bottle. “It’s over,” he said.
“Are you alright, John?” Gabrielle asked, as she squeezed his hand softly.
“Drink and be merry, my boy. Fionna wasn’t really for you.”
“I know,” he said. He took another sip and then stood up sharply.
“Don’t go, John. Stay. Lie down and talk to me. Tell me about Oxford.”
He looked down at Alice who had put the large book under her head and had lain on the blanket. He hesitated for a moment but then he sat stiffly next to her.
“What’s Oxford like?” I heard her ask and he started to tell her with the eagerness of a little boy.
Gabrielle tried to stand up but Daniel held her down again and said, “Stay with me and talk to me now that John Ashford has usurped my girlfriend.”
“No. I’m done with you kids. I need to go talk to an adult,” Gabrielle said and walked over to sit with Fionna.
Daniel handed me the bottle and I took a long drink, letting the strong wine coat my mouth. I took another sip and handed the bottle back to Daniel. The warm day had brought dozens of people to the park and Daniel sat back and stared at each person. I knew he was making a story for each one that caught his eyes.
“It’s back to us again,” he said while bearing down on a couple that had just arrived and were putting their blanket down. “What the fuck were we arguing about?”
I didn’t reply. I was following Gabrielle’s movements as she spoke to Fionna. I couldn’t hear their conversation but it was certainly about John. I didn’t care. I had for the first time really noticed her. I had noticed her face and her bright brown eyes that seem to dance happily in their place. I had noticed her ponytail bobbing up and down as she walked away. I had noticed her burgundy sweater that hugged her tightly. I had noticed her and I wanted Daniel to stop talking so I could follow her. I wanted to sit with her and listen to her. I wanted to be the adult in her life. I wanted to tell her I’d give up football if she asked. She wouldn’t though. She loved the game.
I had been in London for almost five years and that day for the first time, I felt content. I had my friends around me and I was happy. Daniel was still talking, but I had stopped listening. I didn’t care if O’Leary was the best footballer or the best ballerina. I was wondering why I had not noticed Gabrielle before. I hated Fionna for her clarity when I was so confused. I was wondering why I had never asked Gabrielle out on a proper date. You see this kind of clumsy behavior in movies and think how it could be possible but there I was, in real life, and it had happened to me. I had spent years with her and she was just a friend, just a pal. How was it possible to wait so long to notice someone? Then I was scared. What if she had no feelings for me? What if I take the step and then get rejected? What if I was like John, a little boy who didn’t know when to stop? The prospect of Alice asking me to tell her about Imperial so I’d feel loved was harrowing. Gabrielle had never showed any sign of wanting me as anything other than a friend.
Then there was only John’s little murmur behind me and no other voices. I looked around and Daniel was looking at me. “What?”
“Jus’ ask ‘er out for Christ’s sake. Y’fuckin’ idiot.”
“Who?”
“Fuck. Be a man.”
He’d said the same thing two years earlier, right after the debacle with the Italian boy. I couldn’t then. I’d told him she was just a friend. She was one of the boys. He’d told me to grow a pair, but he didn’t push hard. He knew I was scared and perhaps he wasn’t really sure about friends dating friends. I had told him that and then convinced myself that she was too pretty for me, too smart for me, too everything for me. She had so many friends and I was just one of them. I was just one in the huge mass of friends that she hung out with. I tried to say the same things again but Daniel wasn’t buying it this time. He gave me no way out. He told me he would ask her for me, and if I still didn’t act, he would get her to go out with John.
I couldn’t take that humiliation.
III
Gabrielle and I had gone out a few times before but there was nothing serious. She hadn’t noticed me, not then. She went out with others too — that’s how it was then, there was no exclusivity. Most times, we were in groups, going to movies and pubs. But a week after the picnic in Green Park, I asked her out on a date, a real date, and to my astonishment she agreed. It was easy. I asked her and she said yes, as if she was waiting for it, expecting it. She didn’t say it but I could read in her face that she was disappointed that I had not done this earlier. But I didn’t think about that. I was happy that I had taken the first step. It was just the two of us, without feeling awkward.
We had a second date and then there was the third. That’s the one that proved to me she was mine. We held hands and we kissed, not like teenagers to prove something, but I want to believe to cement deeper emotions. It felt right and it seemed that we were finally on the right path. She wasn’t my girlfriend, at least it was never officially declared, but she acted like she was. It felt like she was.
But by the time I was certain I was in love with her and wanted her for myself, it was too late; events had taken charge of our lives. She had started to have feelings for me too. I was certain of it. But before it started, it had to end. Life creates new pathways and forces us to take them. That was my reality no matter how much I planned, while sitting on the windowsill of the Goldborne Road flat and pondering the pedestrians passing by.
It started in April and ended before the summer’s end. How ridiculous. How pedestrian. I waited five years to date her and then it ended in less than five months. If there was any serious crying, it wasn’t for us — it was for what life had served us. I cried for myself though, angry at life. You sit there alone and cry out in misery, thinking that life can’t get any worse, but it can. And you think no one can understand your pain, and you are right. No one can. They say they do but they don’t. My friend, Daniel, brought her to me and he took her away from me. No one can understand that.
We promised to write to each other and we did for a time though there was not much to say and eventually we stopped. There was nothing for several years and then there was one more letter, the news of her pending marriage sent on July 12, 1992. It was followed by an invitation, but I didn’t have the money or the inclination to attend Gabrielle’s wedding. Gabrielle Desidéria became Mrs. Gabrielle Ashford. She is not English but her husband, John, compensates for both of them. I always wondered if there could have been more to Gabrielle and me. Time and distance and for a period my own imagination made me believe that there might have been, if I only had made different decisions. John was never a threat. He was short and sappy. He was simply happy to hang around with us. I don’t even remember him talking to her. He didn’t even play football. Gabrielle was the one who denied the possibility. I guess I was right about O’Leary at the end. John and Gabrielle have been married for six years. Daniel had no role in this.
CHAPTER SIX
I
I’m sitting in row 6, in fact seat 6A. Row 5 is first class. We have just landed in Heathrow. It’s Friday afternoon, June 26, 1998. I was served champagne before take
off. I slept the whole way and missed the meal and I was so looking forward to the business class food. On the positive side, I was given a pass that permits me to go through a special passport control queue. I find my way to the special line. The flight attendant was correct, there are only a few people ahead of me, whilst the other line has hundreds of passengers. We wait patiently. We don’t admit it, but there is some degree of anxiety in the room. I could feel it. We all feel it, whether we admit it or not. The person who’ll stamp our passport has power over us. We know it and the passport control officers know it. I look over at the other line. It’s more colorful. My line is pinstriped grey. It’s the same apprehension in both lines.
My line is moving slowly. There’s only one person serving the special line and there is some complication with one of the passengers, a young and very aristocratic looking man. On the other side, a family of four moves to one of the kiosks, staffed by an Asian woman. She doesn’t smile when the father presents the four passports. She inspects each passport carefully. She is certain there is something wrong with them — you can read it on her face. The father tries to smile, but the Asian woman’s stern face stops him midway. His mouth looks twisted now with a half frozen smile. She can’t find any problems. She hands the passports to the family. The family is free. The next kiosk is friendlier. It’s manned by a fat bald man, who chats with passengers and welcomes them warmly to the country. They all want to be picked by him. There are several other kiosks but I can’t see the agents from my vantage point. It’s an immense hall with hundreds of people from across the globe. The hall smells like earth.
My line moves quickly after the initial passenger gets his passport stamped. I’m next. The pass allows me to use the special line, but I’m still grilled by the immigration officer who wants to know my whole life story. He looks at my passport and then at me and then at my passport again. The picture on the passport is almost ten years old. I had long hair and faint traces of a moustache.
“You’ve changed.” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation, as if there is a conspiracy behind aging.
“Getting older.”
“What’s the purpose of your visit to London?” He asks.
He says London, not the United Kingdom or even England. I didn’t think I needed a reason to visit but I say, “Just a short vacation.”
He flips through my passport but there is nothing for him to see. My passport had expired a few months after I left London and I had to get a new one. This is the first time I’m using it in almost ten years. He doesn’t like the look of a pristine passport that is about to expire. “What is it that you do?”
“I’m in search and rescue.”
He looks up for the first time and repeats what I had just told him. “Search and rescue.” He tries to weigh the taste of my answer in his mouth by repeating it. He doesn’t like it. There’s a flicker of doubt, but I hold his eyes for a moment and nod in earnest. I’m trained well. He’s convinced.
It’s not a lie. I search for deleted documents on wiped hard drives and rescue them. That’s one of the things I do. I’m a Software Forensic for a certain government agency. I’m not permitted to tell people that. I’ve a business card and an ID that say I work for Atlantic Engineering. I don’t usually say such things to strangers or for that matter even to people I know. In fact, I’m instructed to say that I’m an engineer and leave it at that, but the guy’s mannerisms annoyed me and I wanted to prove something. If they find out about my little bravado, they would consider it a security breach, a serious violation.
The immigration officer looks at my passport again but he’s satisfied. He is still impressed by my search and rescue credential. I don’t have the body for it but he sees what he wants to see. He stamps my passport and says, “Enjoy your visit.” I have nothing to declare at the customs and I only have my carry-on bag anyway. They waive me through without talking to me. There are so many other passengers to stop and search, especially those with large suitcases or cardboard boxes from the other countries.
II
I was recruited a few months after I returned home from five years of living in London. I returned home certain that I would do good and be good. The agency wasn’t exactly the path I had thought I’d take when Daniel and I were planning our lives years earlier, but we must accept what life offers us. Daniel did and I thought I should too. What I do is not the humanitarian career that Mr. Verity-Osborne had perhaps alluded to so many years ago, but I’m good at what I do, and I believe I do stop the bad guys from doing harm to us. We recite this mantra, like fascists, almost weekly. We all believe in it or believe in something like it. I’m content. I am, really! My mother believed in me even though I could never tell her everything. She believed to the end that I was a humanitarian.
I’m supposed to tell people that I’m a programmer or software engineer at Atlantic Engineering. I tell people my job is rather boring. I tell people, I write lines and lines of code for industrial machinery. That explanation pretty much exhausts most people enough to stop them from asking more about my job. Most nod and smile and then quickly change the subject. On occasion, I get an interested party who wants to know the geeky part of the job. I can swim in that turbulent ocean with the best of them and be the only one back. You never want to make up a job. Half-truths are the best tools. You want a solid cover. If you are an electrician, you don’t say you’re a plumber. You say you are an electrician. You just don’t tell where you apply your skills.
I wear casual clothes to work. We all do. Atlantic Engineering doesn’t exist, at least not the way a regular company does. There’s a small suite on the 23rd floor of a commercial building with our name and logo. There’s a brushed steel logo on the hallway wall that is both stylish and unassuming. The front door is locked but if you ring the bell, the lone receptionist would let you in and she would tell you all about our products and services. Her name is Doris. Mrs. Doris Langham.
Mrs. Langham has been with the company for over twenty-five years. I think she must be in her late fifties. She is a dry woman with a seventies hairstyle. Doris is the constant. She only wears red dresses. She hasn’t changed her hairstyle for as long as I have been with Atlantic and I just received my ten-year anniversary pen. There is a backup receptionist just in case Doris is ill or on vacation. I don’t know the other person’s name and I’ve never met him or her. Doris never gets sick. The company even has brochures though it has been years since we have had a walk-in. The mailman delivers the mail — mostly junk mail and some local bills, and Mrs. Langham processes them. She also answers the phones and keeps the place tidy. There are a couple of offices in the back and they are occasionally used for quick meetings. Most of the machines that we supposedly write codes for have been out of commission for a decade, victims of outsourcing.
I’ve an email address at Atlantic Engineering that works. I use that address to communicate with Gabrielle. We’re allowed to have a personal private email but it’s best to use Atlantic’s email. It makes life easier. It’s best not to hide anything. The more open one is in his or her daily life, the easier to hide the more important things. That’s lesson number one if you ever want to work for this kind of agency. I’m listed on Atlantic Engineering’s web site as a “senior engineer.” I used to be just an engineer but routinely people’s titles change. That’s how Gabrielle found me. I’ve a small office, miles away from the little suite on the 23rd floor, with a two-combination safe, a desk and two computers with three screens. The office has a fake window — an exterior glass window over a concrete wall to make the building look normal to outsiders. They can never see the inside and I can’t find any way to see the outside. I have to go through three secure doors before reaching my office.
III
I’m at Heathrow now. I am home. Thousands of people going back and forth, some with purpose and others lost. A woman asks me for directions to Heathrow Express. She is German. I can tell. She speaks perfect English. I tell her I was going there and she can
follow me. She nods and smiles. There’s trust between us. I had to tell my boss that I was going to London. We’re required to tell our boss and the security office whenever we leave the country or become friends with a foreign national. The latter is not forbidden though it’s somewhat discouraged. The German woman doesn’t count.
I was certain where the entrance to Heathrow Express was but now that I’m leading another person I feel anxious. It doesn’t last. I find my way easily. The woman walks next to me, pulling a large suitcase.
“Do you need help?”
“Oh, no. Thank you.”
I don’t insist. We walk silently towards the Heathrow Express sign. I’m too tired to speak. The long conversation with the immigration officer was exhausting. I’m not entirely honest. The conversation wasn’t that long but I still feel tired. It’s because I’m anxious.
We take the escalator and I help her balance the suitcase. I show her where she can buy her ticket. I try to use a credit card to buy a round-trip ticket to the city but the machine doesn’t accept my card. It’s a good habit to use a credit card. You can keep a better track of your steps, just in case. I try and try without success. I had changed some money before meeting the German woman so I use the bills. I’m spending my own money but I still keep the receipts, just in case. I keep it in a little pouch that my assistant gives me every time I travel. It has the logo of Atlantic Engineering with an emergency number on the inside flap. The number can be used for regular emergencies or for special kinds. I have to give my private ID in order to get anyone to talk to me over the phone. I’ve always wondered if Mrs. Langham would answer the phone if I called. I have never used the number. It is best not to have emergencies.
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