Travel, unravel

By Dewi Anggraeni

I find airports, especially large international airports like this one, very exhausting. No, I'm not complaining about the distance between the entrance and the check-in counters, or between the check-in counters and the gate lounges.

It's the unrelenting bright lights and the constant movement of strangers that I find overwhelming. It is almost a whole mini city in itself. There are shops, cafes, bars, restaurants, a post office, kiosks, information desks, fountains, and whatnots. In the cafe bar behind the fountain, some people are nodding off to sleep in their chairs, as if enjoying a make-believe sun shining from the neon-lights.

Lugging my cabin bag I walk slowly to an empty table near a potted plant, pull a chair out for my bag, then pull another for myself.

"What would you like, Madam?" I look up to see the wooden face of a waitress, staring down at me, stiff with impatience at my momentary silence.

"Can I have mineral water?" I ask.

"Certainly. Would you like anything to eat?"

"Do you have anything light? I'm not terribly hungry."

As the waitress is writing down my order, I suddenly realize that the man from the next table is watching me intently.

When the waitress has left, I look back at him. The days when I always avoided stares from strangers have long passed. Now I only avoid them if the weirdos don't stop staring even after I stare back for a considerable length of time.

The man returns to his newspaper and only looks up when the waitress brings his Devonshire tea. After thanking her, he glances at me and smiles ever so slightly. No, he doesn't look like a weirdo. Nor does he appear to be entertaining indecent thoughts. But I feel disturbed. A stir of recognition flits across my mind then disappears.

Maybe he looks like someone I know. His wavy, mousy hair that might have been brilliant blond many years ago is graying at the temples. Behind his gold-framed glasses, his blue eyes look straight at me, then at the food in front of him.

We must have come across each other in one of our respective travels. In my younger days, I would feel comfortable only with strangers who looked like someone close to me, my best friend, my sister, my brother-in-law...

Slipping a corn chip into one of the Greek dips in front of me, I look up and, again, our eyes meet. This time, I return the slightest suggestion of a smile. The stir of recognition becomes stronger. Good God, he looks like an old lecturer of mine. That's it. He looks like Chris Newman, rather, he looks like Chris Newman would look now. We lost touch with each other when Chris went back to England.

Yes, it was England. Oh God. I stop chewing and shoot a look at him. As if aware that I have finally worked out who he is, the man's face relaxes to a definite smile.

I was sure the taxi driver had driven around unnecessarily to add mileage, but, too frightened to argue, I paid up. Victoria Station stood like a looming foreign monster threatening to whittle away my false courage. I had only been in London for two days, and wish I were able to stay a little longer before going on to Paris, where I had arranged to meet Milda, my cousin. Milda had given me detailed instructions on how to catch a night train to Dover, then a ferry to Dunkirk, and on to the next train to Paris.

The night felt colder by the minute. I clutched at my coat collar and put my suitcase down, then pulled my woolen hat over my ears. With one hand carrying my suitcase, the overnight bag over my shoulder, I walked slowly through the gate, while people rushed past me. I didn't have to rush, because I intentionally came more than an hour before the departure time, and at this moment, because I didn't really know where to go.

Searching through the information board above each platform entrance, then matching the figures with those on my ticket, I bumped into a tall and slim young man wearing corduroy jeans, a thick blue jumper and a blue beret.

"Oh, so sorry," the man grabbed my shoulder with his free hand, looking down at my bewildered face. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, thanks. Hm no. I'm actually looking for the train to Dover, departing at ..."

"I'm catching that train too. Come with me."

I quickly looked up to study his face. Unlike his lean figure, his face was fairly wide, with deep kind eyes. His whole body language was no-nonsense. The beret made him look very French.

"You are French?" I said as I caught up with him.

"Is that a disadvantage?" He laughed and took my suitcase from me.

At the entrance to the platform a man, his face obscured by a dark brown peak hat, his hands in the pockets of his full-length coat, greeted Paul, my French companion. When Paul introduced us, he took one hand out and we gripped each other's gloved hands. His name was Serge.

"Is this ours?" I asked, pointing at the train in front of us.

"It is," replied Paul, picking up his suitcase, then mine. "Let's go and pick nice and comfortable seats."

When Paul and Serge stepped on to carriage C, I had another look at my ticket. Grabbing Paul's jumper sleeve as he was disappearing with my suitcase into one of the carriage doors, I yelled, "Excuse me! This is not my carriage. My ticket says carriage B!"

Paul's lighthearted manner contrasted with my hesitation. "Don't worry. They never check that. Hop on. This carriage is half empty. Look!"

I followed him, or rather followed my suitcase. My two companions located their compartment. I stepped in quietly, still filled with doubt.

"Where do you want to sit, Ana?" asked Paul, putting my suitcase on the overhead rack.

"Where's forward? Here? Well, I'll sit here then," I said, taking the seat near the window. "What if I get kicked out because I'm in the wrong carriage?"

"They won't do that. Believe me. Besides we'll stand up for you. Okay? Relax."

Paul seated himself on the other side, with my overnight bag separating us, while Serge took the seat opposite him, both forming an invisible fence between me and the corridor. There didn't seem to be anything else to do, so I opened a side pouch of my overnight bag and took out a book, rearranged my handbag on the lap against my chest and began to read. My two companions slouched back and closed their eyes.

I began to unwind in my book. Peace reigned in the carriage. Everybody was either reading or asleep.

I spoke too soon. Just before the train moved a rowdy group of French men invaded, thoroughly upsetting the slumber that I thought had already settled in this carriage. Paul and Serge looked sternly at them as they marched and staggered past our compartment, talking, singing and pushing one another. The noise seemed to go on relentlessly. "Rugby fans," Paul explained to me.

I tried to ignore my thumping heartbeat, my headache and the overall feeling of annoyance rising in my chest, and kept reading. I was thankful of the barricade Paul and Serge provided, because four of these French men began to march and swagger up and down the corridor, singing and telling jokes to each other. They found everything funny. The way we sat, the way the suitcases slid when the train turned, how one elderly passenger nearly choked on his pills.

By midnight, even those rowdy rugby fans had subsided into snores and grunts. I had closed my book, turned the cabin light off and was trying to sleep. Every little squeak seemed to push my nerves back to alertness, however, and I began to count sheep. I counted to two hundred and gave up. My body was stiff. I needed more space. So I picked up my overnight bag and put it on the floor, then lifted my legs and folded them in the space left by the bag. Using my handbag as a pillow against the hard window pane, I positioned myself for several hours' sleep.

Someone tried to pull my overnight bag out of the compartment. I jolted forward to grab it but I was too slow. The thief disappeared with the bag and I hadn't been able to see his face in the dark. I ran into the empty corridor, staggering with the sway of the train, in thorough despair. Suddenly I heard people whispering in a nearby compartment. I pricked my ears and concentrated hard. They were speaking in French. I heard them discussing, and I intuitively knew it was about me.

"I won't let you implicate her. She's completely innocent. She knows nothing about this business."

"Then why didn't you pick someone less innocent? Besides, nothing's going to happen. At the other end we'll just sort it all out. No one's going to be hurt."

"No. We just have to do it ourselves and carry the risk ourselves, without endangering anybody."

"You fool! She needn't even know..."

"Hushhh..."

I tiptoed to the compartment, debating whether I should let myself be seen. Then I saw the light of the toilet on the end of the corridor, so I decided to pretend to be on the way there.

To my surprise when I looked out of the corner of my eye, the compartment was empty. I made an about turn and rushed back to my own compartment. It was also empty. I felt frantically along my seat for my handbag. It wasn't there.

I woke up sobbing, and felt someone shaking my shoulder.

"Ana! Are you okay?"

Paul had turned on the cabin lamp. The flood of light made me close my eyes again, then squinted to see the two men sitting up, looking at me. I rubbed my eyes, then massaged my whole face, slowly swinging my legs down. Then I saw that my overnight bag had slid outwards, propped sideways between Paul and Serge. I bent over to drag it back towards me.

"What happened?" asked Paul, 'Did you have a bad dream?'

"I dreamt that one of the men from that group stole this bag... Oh it was awful!" I decided not to bore my companions with the whole story.

Serge had turned the lamp off again. "Well, it was only a dream. You can go back to sleep for another hour or so, before we arrive in Dover."

At Dover we all filed in to the port's customs office. My suitcase felt heavier than ever and my overnight bag strap kept sliding down my shoulder. Again Paul silently took the suitcase and walked ahead of me. The customs officers were much more awake than most of us, but they seemed to take their time checking our passports and luggage, asking routine questions. Then we went on to the hydrofoil, put our suitcases on the racks, and went upstairs. I'd lost Paul and Serge by the time we each found a seat in the saloon, dining room and on deck.

Sleep was out of the question. Since the dream on the train I hadn't been able to even close my eyes or relax any muscle in my body, my arms hugging my handbag and my legs gripping the overnight bag on the floor.

Sitting in a corner in the saloon, I scanned the faces of the other passengers, looking for the man who had entered the slumber world for my bag. My mind moved seamlessly between dream and reality. The man had an accomplice, who had tried to protect me.

A waiter was approaching. I had to quickly think of an order. "A cheese salad and a black coffee, please," I said. He nodded and walked away.

The cheese looked old and the lettuce leaves were drenched in vinegar. Wasn't cheese supposed to be old? But not stale old. I drank my coffee. I felt queasy. The sea was fairly calm. It must have been exhaustion. Exhaustion and anxiety.

At Dunkirk, we again dragged ourselves to the customs office for an even longer wait. The queue hardly moved. In exasperation I put my suitcase down and sat on it. I couldn't tell what was happening at the customs office end, but I overheard some people whispering that someone had been caught with prohibited drugs on him. I wondered who it was, but was unprepared to lose my spot in the queue, so I thought I'd ask Paul and Serge if I saw them.

But I didn't see them again.

The following morning, having breakfast on the balcony of Milda's apartment in Paris, I suddenly stared at a familiar photograph on the second page of the morning newspaper. Drug Courier Caught in Dunkirk, the heading said.

"Oh my God!' I shrieked, "I know this man!"

Milda bent forward and twisted her neck to look at the page. "Looks like Chris Newman, don't you think?" she said casually.

"Milda!" I retorted testily. "I know this man, I mean I know, like, I met him and traveled with him and his friend from London, for goodness sake!"

Milda looked at me wide-eyed. "You mean, you were there when they were carrying the drugs? And when they were caught?"

All of a sudden, the penny dropped. Blood rushed from my head and I felt faint. "Milda," I whispered feebly. "Did you know that I was nearly... I could've been ... implicated?"

"S**t, how?"

"You haven't changed a bit," Paul says. He had brought his coffee to my table. "Fifteen years ago, wasn't it?"

"You haven't either," I reply, trying to match his gallantry.

"Mais si, I have! Several years in jail would age anyone."

I look at his face, wanting to say something nice, but all I can mutter is, "Paul, thanks."

"What for?" he asks, rather astonished.

"I knew what you did then... for me."

I look at my watch, then begin to collect my things. My plane is boarding.

Dewi Anggraeni was born in Jakarta and lives in Melbourne. She was formerly the Australian correspondent for Tempo and now writes for The Jakarta Post, Forum Keadilan and other publications in Indonesia and Australia. She published three books in Australia, including the novels The Root of All Evil (1987) and Parallel Forces (1988), and a trilogy of novellas called Stories of Indian Pacific (1993).