As soon as the airplane wheels touched the runway, the magic of flying lost its divine, mythic, defiant quality and became the mundane act of endlessly taxiing. Charlie felt as if she were falling apart when the engines roared in reverse to brake. In touching down, that plane was forcing her to set foot on the soil where her father had just died. For the thousandth time, she sobbed, until they came to a complete stop.
Again she looked back, searching for Larry, but the crowd had gotten to their feet even before the announcement that it was O.K. to stand up. The only people still seated were the flight attendants; everybody else was opening overhead compartments, calling across the rows as if they were in a market. They smelled of fatigue and sleeplessness, and in the commotion, Charlie harbored the hope of finding Larry so he could be with her during the torturous ordeal of returning to Colombia.
She turned on her cell phone, and a message from Cristina, her sister, appeared, saying that everything was all set for her arrival. Salgado from the Bogotá office will be waiting for you, he’ll take care of everything, look for him. And just as she was finishing reading it the phone rang, from an unidentified number, but she answered because she knew who it was.
“Salgado just called to tell me you’ve landed,” Cristina said. “How was the flight?”
“Oh, Cris,” Charlie sobbed.
“I know. It’s awful.”
Charlie collapsed in tears, and Cristina told her, get off that plane right now, Salgado’s got your ticket to Medellín, we’re waiting for you. How’s Mom?, Charlie asked. She just can’t talk right now, Cristina replied, when you’re with Salgado call me back on his phone. O.K., Charlie said, then wiped her tears and stood up, but she had to sit down immediately.
I’m going to throw up . . .
“I don’t feel good, Cris.”
“You need to get off that plane right now,” her sister said, and hung up.
The discomfort was simply her body rejecting the drinks she’d had. A secret that, for the time being, she’d again have to hide.
He’s the only one who knows . . .
She tried to stand up once more, slower this time, and leaned on the seat back and asked another passenger to help her with the suitcase she’d stashed in the overhead compartment.
The first-class passengers were filing out, and those in coach were being told to wait by a flight attendant. Charlie let inertia carry her off the plane, though she threw one last glance toward the rear.
Nothing . . .
Just hundreds of frazzled faces. She put one foot in her country and then the other. She pulled her suitcase along, and almost immediately ran into a young man who said, “María Carlota, I’m Rubén Salgado, assistant director of human resources.”
Her surprise was visible.
“How were you able to get in here?” she asked.
“The minister of foreign affairs has been very helpful. He’s smoothed things out for us.”
They were standing in the middle of the ramp, with the passengers squeezing past. Salgado grabbed the suitcase and said, “Come on, let’s go. You’ve got just enough time to catch your flight to Medellín.”
They moved down the jet bridge, but Charlie stopped to look back.
“Are you waiting for somebody?” Salgado asked.
“Yes,” she replied, then corrected herself. “No, nobody.”
She tried to keep up with Salgado. She pulled her sunglasses out of her purse and put them on.
“I’m really sorry about your father’s death,” Salgado said. “Working for him has been one of the most enriching experiences of my life. He was a remarkable person. He’ll be missed here in Colombia.”
Charlie thanked him in a tiny voice. She’d have to get used to it. From now on people were going to be constantly imparting their condolences. She looked back again but saw only the herd also heading for the passport control area.
“I need you to give me your baggage claim slips,” Salgado said.
“What?” Charlie asked, distracted.
“The slips for your suitcases. They’re probably not going to make it onto your flight. I’ll claim them for you.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t worry. I’ll bring them to you on the next flight,” Salgado explained, and then his voice darkened. “I’m going to the funeral too.”
He put his hand gently on her shoulder to urge her to walk faster.
Charlie was out of breath when they reached passport control. Salgado apologized to her and said again that if they didn’t rush, she wouldn’t make her connection. He spoke with an airport worker, showed him a piece of paper, and then told Charlie that they could use the line reserved for diplomats. Salgado took care of everything. He showed the official her passport, answered the questions for her, explained once more why they’d used that line, all in hand.
Meanwhile, Charlie was eyeing every passenger who reached the spiral that was growing behind her. Until finally, way in the back, he came into view. He was walking slowly and carrying a backpack. A powerful emotion swept through her. She smiled. She raised her hand, but Larry didn’t see her. He was moving forward, his mind elsewhere, in the huge line that had formed.
“All right. Let’s go,” Salgado said, suddenly heading off with the suitcase bumping along behind him.
“Yes,” Charlie said.
Before leaving, she looked back at Larry again. He was standing still, his passport in hand, and he was looking at her, the way you look at something in a shop window that you can’t afford. Charlie raised her hand again, more timidly now, almost fearful. Larry did the same. Her hand and his, barely raised, insecure, vague, like two accomplices in a crime.