The captain realized he was wasting his time and could bluff no longer. He gathered up the passports as slowly as he could and allowed al-Takriti to lead him back into the hall. As they entered the room, the Pan Am crew members who were scattered around the benches suddenly rose from their places and began walking about, continually changing direction, while at the same time talking at the top of their voices.
“Tell them to sit down,” hissed al-Takriti, as the crew zigzagged backward and forward across the hall.
“What’s that you’re saying?” asked the captain, cupping his ear.
“Tell them to sit down!” shouted al-Takriti.
The captain gave a halfhearted order, and within a few moments everyone was seated. But they still continued talking at the top of their voices.
“And tell them to shut up!”
The captain moved slowly round the room, asking his crew one by one to lower their voices.
Al-Takriti’s eyes raked the benches of the transit hall, as the captain glanced out onto the tarmac and watched the French aircraft taxiing toward the far runway.
Al-Takriti began counting, and was annoyed to discover that there were only fourteen Pan Am crew members in the hall. He stared angrily around the room, and quickly checked once again.
“All fourteen seem to be present,” said the captain after he had finished handing back the passports to his crew.
“Where is the man who was sitting next to you?” al-Takriti demanded, jabbing a finger at the captain.
“You mean my first officer?”
“No. The one who looked like an Arab.”
“There are no Arabs on my crew,” the captain assured him.
Al-Takriti strode over to the senior flight attendant. “He was sitting next to you. His upper lip had makeup on it that was beginning to run.”
“The captain of the French plane was sitting next to me,” the senior flight attendant said. She immediately realized her mistake.
Saad al-Takriti turned and looked out of the window to see the Air France plane at the end of the runway preparing for takeoff. He jabbed a button on his hand phone as the thrust of the jet engines started up, and barked out some orders in his native tongue. The captain didn’t need to speak Arabic to get the gist of what he was saying.
By now the American crew were all staring at the French aircraft, willing it to move, while al-Takriti’s voice was rising with every word he uttered.
The Air France 747 eased forward and slowly began to gather momentum. Saad al-Takriti cursed loudly, then ran out of the building and jumped into a waiting jeep. He pointed toward the plane and ordered the driver to chase after it. The jeep shot off, accelerating as it weaved its way in and out of the parked aircraft. By the time it reached the runway it must have been doing ninety miles an hour, and for the next hundred yards it sped along parallel to the French aircraft, with al-Takriti standing on the front seat, clinging onto the windscreen and waving his fist at the cockpit.
The French captain acknowledged him with a crisp salute, and as the 747’s wheels lifted off, a loud cheer went up in the transit lounge.
The American captain smiled and turned to his chief flight attendant. “That only proves my theory that the French will go to any lengths to get an extra passenger.”
Hamid Zebari landed in New Delhi six hours later and immediately phoned his wife to let her know what had happened. Early the next morning Pan Am flew him back to New York—first class. When Hamid emerged from the airport terminal, his wife jumped out of the car and threw her arms around him.
Nadim wound the window down and declared, “You were wrong, Papa. A fortnight turns out to be fifteen days.” Hamid grinned at his son, but his daughter burst into tears, and not because their car had come to a sudden halt. It was just that she was horrified to see her mother hugging a strange man.
CHUNNEL VISION
Whenever I’m in New York, I always try to have dinner with an old friend of mine called Duncan McPherson. We are opposites, and so naturally we attract. In fact, Duncan and I have only one thing in common: we are both writers. But even then there’s a difference, because Duncan specializes in screenplays, which he writes in the intervals between his occasional articles for Newsweek and The New Yorker, whereas I prefer novels and short stories.
One of the other differences between us is the fact that I have been married to the same woman for twenty-eight years, while Duncan seems to have a different girlfriend every time I visit New York—not bad going, as I average at least a couple of trips a year. The girls are always attractive, lively and bright, and there are various levels of intensity—depending on what stage the relationship is at. In the past I’ve been around at the beginning (very physical) and in the middle (starting to cool off), but this trip was to be the first time I experienced an ending.
I phoned Duncan from my hotel on Fifth Avenue to let him know I was in town to promote my new novel, and he immediately asked me over for dinner the following evening. I assumed, as in the past, that it would be at his apartment. Another opposite: unlike me, he’s a quite superlative cook.
“I can’t wait to see you,” he said. “I’ve come up with an idea for a novel at last, and I want to try the plot out on you.”
“Delighted,” I replied. “Look forward to hearing all about it tomorrow night. And may I ask …” I hesitated.
“Christabel,” he said.
“Christabel …” I repeated, trying to recall if I had ever met her.
“But there’s no need for you to remember anything about her,” he added. “Because she’s about to be given the heave-ho, to use one of your English expressions. I’ve just met a new one—Karen. She’s absolutely sensational. You’ll adore her.”
I didn’t feel this was the appropriate moment to point out to Duncan that I had adored them all. I merely asked which one was likely to be joining us for dinner.
“Depends if Christabel has finished packing,” Duncan replied. “If she has, it will be Karen. We haven’t slept together yet, and I’d been planning on that for tomorrow night. But as you’re in town, it will have to be postponed.”
I laughed. “I could wait,” I assured him. “After all, I’m here for at least a week.”
“No, no. In any case, I must tell you about my idea for a novel. That’s far more important. So why don’t you come to my place tomorrow evening. Shall we say around seven-thirty?”
Before I left the hotel, I wrapped up a copy of my latest book and wrote “Hope you enjoy it” on the outside.
Duncan lives in one of those apartment blocks on 72nd and Park, and though I’ve been there many times, it always takes me a few minutes to locate the entrance to the building. And, like Duncan’s girlfriends, the doorman seems to change with every trip.
The new doorman grunted when I gave my name, and directed me to the elevator on the far side of the hall. I slid the grille doors across and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor. It was one of those top floors that could not be described as a penthouse even by the most imaginative of realtors.
I pulled back the doors and stepped out onto the landing, rehearsing the appropriate smiles for Christabel (goodbye) and Karen (hello). As I walked toward Duncan’s front door, I could hear raised voices—a very British expression, born of understatement; let’s be frank and admit that they were screaming at each other at the tops of their voices. I concluded that this had to be the end of Christabel rather than the beginning of Karen.
I was already a few minutes late, so there was no turning back. I pressed the doorbell, and to my relief the voices immediately fell silent. Duncan opened the door, and although his cheeks were scarlet with rage, he still managed a casual grin. Which reminds me that I forgot to tell you about a few more opposites—the damn man has a mop of boyish dark curly hair, the rugged features of his Irish ancestors, and the build of a champion tennis player.
“Come on in,” he said. “This is Christabel, by the way—if you hadn’t already guessed.”
/> I’m not by nature a man who likes other people’s castoffs, but I’m bound to confess I would have been happy to make Christabel the exception. She had an oval face, deep blue eyes, and an angelic smile. She was also graced with that fine fair hair that only the Nordic races are born with, and the type of figure that slimming advertisements make their profits out of. She wore a cashmere sweater and tapered white jeans that left little to the imagination.
Christabel shook me by the hand, and apologized for looking a little scruffy. “I’ve been packing all afternoon,” she explained.
The proof of her labors was there for all to see—three large suitcases and two cardboard boxes full of books standing by the door. On the top of one of the boxes lay a copy of a Dorothy L. Sayers murder mystery with a torn red dust jacket.
I was becoming acutely aware that I couldn’t have chosen a worse evening for a reunion with my old friend. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to eat out for a change,” Duncan said. “It’s been”—he paused—“a busy day. I haven’t had a chance to visit the local store. Good thing, actually,” he added. “It’ll give me more time to take you through the plot of my novel.”
“Congratulations,” Christabel said.
I turned to face her.
“Your novel,” she said. “Number one on the New York Times bestseller list, isn’t it?”
“Yes, congratulations,” said Duncan. “I haven’t got round to reading it yet, so don’t tell me anything about it. It wasn’t on sale in Bosnia,” he added with a laugh.
I handed him my little gift.
“Thank you,” he said, and placed it on the hall table. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“I’ve read it,” said Christabel.
Duncan bit his lip. “Let’s go,” he said, and was about to turn and say goodbye to Christabel when she asked me, “Would you mind if I joined you? I’m starving, and as Duncan said, there’s absolutely nothing in the icebox.”
I could see that Duncan was about to protest, but by then Christabel had passed him and was already in the corridor and heading for the elevator.
“We can walk to the restaurant,” Duncan said as we trundled down to the ground floor. “It’s only Californians who need a car to take them one block.”
As we strolled west on 72nd Street Duncan told me that he had chosen a fancy new French restaurant to take me to.
I began to protest, not just because I’ve never really cared for ornate French food, but I was also aware of Duncan’s unpredictable pecuniary circumstances. Sometimes he was flush with money, at other times stone broke. I just hoped that he’d had an advance on the novel.
“No, like you, I normally wouldn’t bother,” he said. “But it’s only just opened, and the New York Times gave it a rave review. In any case, whenever I’m in London, you always entertain me ‘right royally’,” he added, in what he imagined was an English accent.
It was one of those cool evenings that make walking in New York so pleasant, and I enjoyed the stroll, as Duncan began to tell me about his recent trip to Bosnia.
“You were lucky to catch me in New York,” he was saying. “I’ve only just got back after being holed up in the damned place for three months.”
“Yes, I know. I read your article in Newsweek on the plane coming over,” I said, and went on to tell him how fascinated I had been by his evidence that a group of UN soldiers had set up their own underground network and felt no scruples about operating an illegal black market in whatever country they were stationed.
“Yes, that’s caused quite a stir at the UN,” said Duncan. “The New York Times and the Washington Post have both followed the story up with features on the main culprits—but without bothering to give me any credit for the original research, of course.”
I turned round to see if Christabel was still with us. She seemed to be deep in thought and was lagging a few paces behind. I smiled a smile that I hoped said I think Duncan’s a fool and you’re fantastic, but I received no response.
After a few more yards, I spotted a red-and-gold awning flapping in the breeze outside something called “Le Manoir.” My heart sank. I’ve always preferred simple food and have long considered pretentious French cuisine to be one of the major cons of the eighties, and one that should have been passé, if not part of culinary history, by the nineties.
Duncan led us down a short crazy-paving path through a heavy oak door and into a brightly lit restaurant. One look around the large, overdecorated room and my worst fears were confirmed. The maître d’ stepped forward and said, “Good evening, monsieur.”
“Good evening,” replied Duncan. “I have a table reserved in the name of McPherson.”
The maître d’ checked down a long list of bookings. “Ah, yes, a table for two.” Christabel pouted but looked no less beautiful.
“Can we make it three?” my host asked rather half-heartedly.
“Of course, sir. Allow me to show you to your table.”
We were guided through a crowded room to a little alcove in the corner that had only been set for two.
One look at the tablecloth, the massive flowered plates with “Le Manoir” painted in crimson all over them, and the arrangement of lilies on the center of the table made me feel even more guilty about what I had let Duncan in for. A waiter dressed in a white open-neck shirt, black trousers and black waistcoat with “Le Manoir” sewn in red on the breast pocket hurriedly supplied Christabel with a chair, while another deftly laid a place for her.
A third waiter appeared at Duncan’s side and inquired if we would care for an aperitif. Christabel smiled sweetly and asked if she might have a glass of champagne. I requested some Evian water, and Duncan nodded that he would have the same.
For the next few minutes, while we waited for the menus to appear, we continued to discuss Duncan’s trip to Bosnia, and the contrast between scraping one’s food out of a mess kit in a cold foxhole accompanied by the sound of bullets, and dining off china plates in a warm restaurant, with a string quartet playing Schubert in the background.
Another waiter appeared at Duncan’s side and handed us three pink menus the size of small posters. As I glanced down the list of dishes, Christabel whispered something to the waiter, who nodded and slipped quietly away.
I began to study the menu more carefully, unhappy to discover that this was one of those restaurants that allows only the host to have the bill of fare with the prices attached. I was trying to work out which would be the cheapest dishes when another glass of champagne was placed at Christabel’s side.
I decided that the clear soup was likely to be the least expensive starter, and that it would also help my feeble efforts to lose weight. The main courses had me more perplexed, and with my limited knowledge of French, I finally settled on duck, as I couldn’t find any sign of poulet.
When the waiter returned moments later, he immediately spotted Christabel’s empty glass, and asked, “Would you care for another glass of champagne, madame?”
“Yes, please,” she replied sweetly, as the maître d’ arrived to take our order. But first we had to suffer an ordeal that nowadays can be expected at every French restaurant in the world.
“Today our specialities are,” he began, in an accent that would not have impressed central casting, “for hors d’oeuvres Gelée de saumon sauvage et caviar im-périal en aigre doux, which is wild salmon slivers and imperial caviar in a delicate jelly with sour cream and courgettes soused in dill vinegar. Also we have Cuisses de grenouilles à la purée d’herbes a soupe, fricassée de chanterelles et racines de persil, which are pan-fried frogs’ legs in a parsley purée, fricassee of chanterelles and parsley roots. For the main course we have Escalope de turbot, which is a poached fillet of turbot on a watercress purée, lemon sabayon and a Gewürz-traminer sauce. And, of course, everything that is on the menu can be recommended.”
I felt full even before he had finished the descriptions.
Christabel appeared to be studying the menu with due diligence. She poi
nted to one of the dishes, and the maître d’ smiled approvingly.
Duncan leaned across and asked if I had selected anything yet.
“Consommé and the duck will suit me just fine,” I said without hesitation.
“Thank you, sir,” said the maître d’. “How would you like the duck? Crispy, or perhaps a little underdone?”
“Crispy,” I replied, to his evident disapproval.
“And monsieur?” he asked, turning to Duncan.
“Caesar salad and a rare steak.”
The maître d’ retrieved the menus and was turning to go as Duncan said, “Now, let me tell you all about my idea for a novel.”
“Would you care to order some wine, sir?” asked another waiter, who was carrying a large red leather book with golden grapes embossed on its cover.
“Should I do that for you?” suggested Christabel. “Then there’ll be no need to interrupt your story.”
Duncan nodded his agreement, and the waiter handed the wine list over to Christabel. She opened the red leather cover with as much eagerness as if she was about to begin a bestselling novel.
“You may be surprised,” Duncan was saying, “that my book is set in Britain. Let me start by explaining that the timing for its publication is absolutely vital. As you know, a British and French consortium is currently building a tunnel between Folkestone and Sangatte, which is scheduled to be opened by Queen Elizabeth on May 6, 1994. In fact, Chunnel will be the title of my book.”
I was horrified. Another glass of champagne was placed in front of Christabel.
“The story begins in four separate locations, with four different sets of characters. Although they are all from diverse age groups, social backgrounds and countries, they have one thing in common: they have all booked on the first passenger train to travel from London to Paris via the Channel Tunnel.”
I felt a sudden pang of guilt, and wondered if I should say something, but at this point a waiter returned with a bottle of white wine, the label of which Christabel studied intently. She nodded, and the sommelier extracted the cork and poured a little into her empty glass. A sip brought the smile back to her lips. The waiter then filled our glasses.