Nowhere. Some room in some hotel, some taxi drive from the airport. Walls, carpets. Beige. Functional, bluntly thrifty. Adequate, forgettable, for adequately forgettable travelers in transit.
Except I’m not in transit.
“He’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land…” I sing, finding the minibar. Yil’aan abouhon. Empty. “Making all his nowhere plans…”
“Hadi? Are you singing?!”
Hayati, you introduced me to Lennon. What did I know about the Beatles? What did Lennon know about nowhere? Fucking Lennon and his British passport and fucking platinum records.
“Are you drunk?!”
“Ha! I wish. There’s nothing to drink in this khara hotel. And the restaurant’s closed. I would kill someone now for a Big Mac.”
“Hadi…”
“But hey, they gave me a toothbrush! And a razor! Did I tell you my suitcase didn’t arrive?”
Suddenly, it’s hilarious. Howlingly hilarious. Pound-my-fist-into-the-fucking-thin-plaster-wall hilarious.
“Hadi…”
Sorry, Sama. I can’t stop.
“Let me tell you what did arrive.”
All I have I splay out on the table.
“Wallet, useless. Passport too, except as a memento, I guess. And of course, Form I-275.”
I unfold it again. The creases are firmly marked now and beginning to brown. It must be the heat. My Boston coat is hanging on a chair.
“ ‘I understand that my voluntary…’ Ha, I signed under ‘voluntary.’ You know what this form doesn’t specify, Sama? That the alien has to pay for his own return ticket. Isn’t it hilarious? You only find out after. Smart ikhwan sharameet. They made me pay for my own deportation!”
I’m howling. I can’t help it. I’m starving. Maybe I’ll eat my passport, the fucking stubs of boarding passes: two layovers. The only ticket I could afford. It’s so hot in here.
“Hadi…”
The window won’t open!
“The fucking window won’t open! What? Are they afraid I’ll jump? From the second floor? You can’t die if you jump from the second floor!” I shout at the glass.
“No one’s that stupid! No one’s that…”
The sobs come. Stupid, or desperate. You let me cry. On the bed, a bed, nowhere, till I drain the room of air.
Quiet. Breathing. Crying breathing. Not mine.
“Sama? Allo?” My voice echoes across the line, across… I cannot bear to think of the immensity of the space it travels. The sky is moonless here, and black. Where are the stars?
“Sama? Please.”
Don’t leave me here alone.
“I’m here.…”
“Why didn’t you call?”
You said it so quietly. Still, it rang like glass.
“I… What do you mean?”
“From the airport, why didn’t you call? Before they put you on the plane. They must have let you make a call.”
I lie. “They didn’t let me.”
Through the crack in the window I managed to open, a hissing draft slips in. I slam the window shut. I have never lied to you before. Your husband is a liar, Sama. A lying coward, but you cannot hear my thoughts. I cannot hear yours, but you say nothing, and I realize you already know. And for one horrible moment, I have trouble picturing your face.
“I’m sorry, Sama. I’m sorry. Don’t cry. It’ll be okay.”
Nothing. I ramble on, flooding the gaping chasm with promises.
“We’ll be fine, Samati. It’ll be okay.”
Trying to reach you, put my hand on your arm, on the couch in our living room, but this void is too immense.
“Are you okay? And the baby? Where are you now, at home?”
Silence.
“… Sama?”