The flight was every bit as uncomfortable as Kubu had expected, even though a flight attendant had offered the passenger next to him an alternative seat—an offer that was hastily accepted. After pecking at his tasteless dinner, Kubu had difficulty finding a comfortable position to sleep and anyway was concerned that if he did fall asleep, he would start snoring. So he read every word of the in-flight magazine, perused the emergency procedures, and read The Star, which he borrowed from a neighboring passenger.
Even walking up and down the aisle was problematic, though Kubu attempted it every thirty minutes or so to keep a promise he’d made to Joy, who was concerned about deep vein thrombosis. It was almost impossible to progress without brushing against the shoulders of passengers who were trying to sleep or stepping on feet that had strayed from under the seats. Kubu found himself apologizing at every step of the way.
The situation worsened when the plane landed at Dakar, which Kubu had not realized was a scheduled stop. Nobody left the plane, but quite a few boarded, filling the plane completely. The passenger originally seated next to Kubu was forced to return, and Kubu had to lower the armrest between them, which was no mean feat.
After takeoff, Kubu asked a flight attendant whether, in the interests of harmony in his row and the one in front of him, he could use one of the flight-attendant seats until they started the descent into New York. A quick glance at his bulk convinced her that a small violation of the rules was acceptable, and Kubu at last found a modicum of comfort.
* * *
WHEN THE CAPTAIN announced that they had commenced their descent into New York, and Kubu had returned to his seat, he started to feel excited. The Big Apple! JFK! Manhattan! The Metropolitan Opera! Central Park! The Empire State Building! Forty-Second Street! The Museum of Modern Art! Carnegie Hall! Broadway! All these places that he’d heard about for years were now going to become real.
He closed his eyes and imagined himself standing in the snow, eating roasted chestnuts and warm pretzels on the pavement—sorry, sidewalk. He smiled. He would go and watch people skating at Radio City Music Hall, wrapped in colorful scarves and holding hands, Strauss waltzes playing over the loudspeakers. For the first time in weeks, he felt a pang of hunger as he saw himself walking into a deli and ordering a Reuben sandwich and a blintz, whatever that was, to be washed down by a root beer float. And he would sit there and read the New York Times review of the current opera at the Met, surrounded by visitors from all over the world speaking languages he didn’t understand. How sophisticated. And nobody would know he was just a boy from Mochudi.
* * *
HIS ENTRANCE INTO the land of the free was not quite what he’d anticipated. He noticed that passengers whose skin color was not white seemed to take much longer to clear immigration. And when he reached the front of the line, he was interrogated as though he were a terrorist—until he produced his police identification. “Why didn’t you say so right away,” the immigration officer muttered, banging his stamp onto Kubu’s passport.
Then Kubu was pulled aside by a customs officer with an inquisitive dog and asked if he had any foodstuff. Kubu shook his head. “No, sir,” he said politely.
“Open your suitcase, please.”
Kubu complied, and the officer pulled clothes out and piled them onto the table. Eventually, his hand emerged grasping a small, gift-wrapped parcel.
“What’s in here?”
“I don’t know,” Kubu said, beginning to feel a little guilty. “My wife must have put it in my bag.”
“Open it.”
Before doing so, Kubu read the little tag attached to the parcel. On it was written “I love you” in Joy’s handwriting.
“See, Officer. It is from my wife.”
“Please open it.”
Kubu tore the paper to find a small packet of sliced biltong and another note: “You won’t find any biltong in New York.”
Now Kubu felt embarrassed.
The customs officer told Kubu that he couldn’t bring meat into the country, even if it was cured. He took the packet and threw it into a large barrel. “Next time, remember you can’t bring foodstuffs with you. Welcome to America.” He walked off, following the sniffing dog, leaving Kubu wondering how he was going to get everything back into the suitcase. Next time, he’d watch Joy packing more carefully.
It was just getting light outside when Kubu emerged from the arrivals hall. He followed the signs for the taxi stand and walked through the sliding doors out into a cold New York winter’s day. The few snowflakes didn’t bother him, but he was totally unprepared for the cold. His coat was designed to ward off cold Botswana desert nights, where the temperature rarely fell below freezing. But it was nearly useless for the -3° F temperature that he had stepped into, made much worse by the howling wind that pushed cold air right through it. For the first time in his life, Kubu understood the meaning of the windchill factor. He gasped, thinking his lungs were going to freeze, and staggered back inside the terminal.
He stood recovering for a few moments, then decided he needed to find a place that sold hats and gloves. I couldn’t care what I look like, he thought. I’m going to find a stocking hat—and a big one at that. And if all they have is garden gloves, that’s what I’ll wear.
* * *
“HOW CAN PEOPLE live like this?” Kubu asked the Somali cabdriver, as he unsuccessfully contorted his neck to see the top of the buildings. “Everyone living on top of each other.”
“People don’t see other people. Just concentrate on where they’re going.”
“And the traffic! We’ve moved two blocks in fifteen minutes. How long till we get to the hotel?”
“Nearly there. Only a few more blocks.”
Kubu leaned back and closed his eyes. A power nap when I get to the hotel will be in order, he thought. But there was too much to see to keep his eyes shut, so he spent the rest of the time gazing in awe at the masses of people, the thousands of shops, the lights, and the slow-moving traffic, which was occasionally punctuated by cyclists weaving their way between the cars. And the noise! Everyone seemed to be hooting at everyone else. The cabbie behind nearly went apoplectic when Kubu’s driver looked down for a few moments and failed to close the ten-foot gap ahead of him. As though it made any difference!
Eventually, they made it to the hotel on Thirty-Seventh Street. “Broadway is two blocks in that direction,” the cabbie said, probably trying to be helpful to a fellow African. “If you go in the other direction, you end up at the Hudson.”
“Thank you,” Kubu said, paying him.
“You’re welcome. Have a nice day.”
The check-in was efficient, and Kubu soon found himself unlocking the door to his room on the twenty-seventh floor. He gazed around. I’ve paid over two thousand pula for this? he thought. The bed nearly takes up the whole room, and it’s only a queen.
He put down his suitcase and squeezed past the bed to the bathroom. He stopped, trying to figure out how he could get in and shut the door. It seemed impossible. After a few seconds, he decided that since he was the only person in the room, it didn’t matter if the bathroom door was closed. I understand now, he thought, how there can be so many people in New York. They’re packed in like sardines.
Having a shower also posed logistical problems, and Kubu was worried by the amount of water that found its way outside the tiny stall. He hoped that it wasn’t leaking into the room below. But what can I do? he wondered. The shower door opens inward, and once I’m in the shower, I can’t close it.
After he had dried himself—in itself a difficult undertaking because there was no room to spread his arms—he decided to have a nap, even though it was only eleven in the morning. He reset his watch to local time, set the alarm for twelve thirty, slid between the sheets, and within minutes, the room was filled with the sound of his snores.