So he’s back.
My wayward, snivelling, profligate brother, son of my father, has returned. What’s more he’s slotted right back in to where he was before, like a tent pole into the earth.
I saw the celebrations from the field, not once imagining it was all for him. To see our father make a giddy fool of himself as he dressed my bastard brother in fine robes and jewels and sacrificed a calf- it was too much.
‘He was lost and now he is found. He was dead and now he is alive.’
Ha! The words still boil in my head.
He won’t talk about where he was. But stories came back to us. I kept them from my father to shield him from the shame of a whoremonger son. I wish I’d told him, but he wouldn’t listen now, his joy so unabated. I sit across from them at dinner and watch my father rub his shoulder, pour his wine and give him the choicest cuts of meat and it makes me want to spit in the dust.
My brother tries to engage me, but away from my father I give him nothing. I won’t forget how he was before: never helping, sleeping in the afternoon sun, drinking wine with his friends. Then the audacity of asking for his inheritance, almost wishing the death of our father! Of course the money vanished, squandered on licentiousness.
I would have taken him up on his offer to be a hired worker. Work all day amongst the filth and sleep in a hovel: the just course for a debased winebibber. Yet no doubt half of what was to be my money will go to him now, just because everyone is so glad to have him back.
He’ll never know the ache he caused my father. The days of sorrow and worry. ‘How is he? Where is he? Is he well? Minding himself and his God?’ Ha! The blessings we threw his way. ‘May the Lord protect and defend him.’
I don’t believe in God anymore. How can I believe in a God who showers providence on a shameful son? A God who, like my own father, grants unreserved forgiveness to a flagrant, yet never recognises the steady work and devotion of a quiet, obedient son? It stings like a scorpion!
I am glad I no longer believe. It strengthens me to finish this, to give that dishonourable charlatan the end he deserves. I watch and wait for my chance. Maybe down a well, like that other spoiled brat, Joseph? Maybe quietly in a field, like Cain to Abel? Or something simple yet tragic: an accident with the herd or slip of the scythe?
Afterwards I will stand by my father as he grieves a second time. Finally he will turn to me and see the one son who has always done right.
And he will give thanks.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Staying at The Mercure
Last night I stayed in a hotel room so small Houdini would’ve taken one look and turned his back. When I stood in the middle of the room I could make contact with two walls, read a tiny sign on the third and have a close acquaintance with the fourth. Very close.
If I believed in signs, I’d have foreseen trouble: we walked right past the hotel. I was looking for The Grosvenor and had a glorious art deco image in my mind. It was only when we doubled back that we discovered The Mercure Grosvenor, a sleeker, tarted-up Grosvenor.
This didn’t necessarily seem a bad thing. Mercure hotels have a slick rep and I was happy to swap nostalgic 30s for cutting edge glam. The Mercure, it turns out, was trying to do the same, but the effort was a bit like your grandma with swapping brooches for body piercing.
Our room was on the fourth floor and as far from humanity as possible. The walk from the elevator was a monumental 3 passageways and a staircase. The further back we got into the nether regions of the hotel, the more the illusion slipped. Carpet gave way to vinyl, soft lighting gave way to fluros and hotel gave way to hospital. The room doors became suspiciously close together.
Our room, number 475, was right next to 476. Not unexpected, of course, but ‘right next to’ in this instance meant sharing a door jam and, over the course of an evening, sharing intimate details in the life of an unseen neighbour. More about him later.
It took longer to get to the room than explore the room. Double bed, one bedside table, luggage rack and a cupboard containing everything else, including the television (which had a completely unnecessary remote.) A caravan-sized door led to a caravan sized bathroom. Location location, location: toilet, basin and shower conveniently located in easy distance of each other. I’d estimate thirty centimetres. I could sit on the toilet and play cards with someone in the bed, neither of us needing to stretch to have our turn.
Just as the bedroom had no room, the bathroom had no bath. And here the entire place both contradicts and excels itself. A brochure gave tips for an environmentally friendly stay, suggesting 4 minute showers. A good idea, except that the amount of water coming out of the 70s showerhead could save the Lower Lakes. In 4 minutes. And the pressure! It shot out with epidermis-removing force.
My neighbour enjoyed his bathroom too, if his frequent usage is any indication. The separating wall was waterproof but not soundproof. I’d never want to eat at the restaurant he patroned, and for him it was fortunate the toilet and basin were so proximate. He also misinterpreted the environment tips and showered at 4am for 40 minutes. It’s not big business ruining the planet; it’s the illiterate.
With only motel milk and coffee sachets provided, we considered ordering room service, but the fine print detailed a $3 surcharge. I’m confused. I’m already paying for the room and the food, but they’ll charge $3 to deliver it. I could order pizza from the outer suburbs, an entire list from an online grocer and a book from the UK and they’d all deliver for less than The Mercure.
I was tempted to compensate my disappointing experience with a spot of petty theft: a coffee cup here, a hand towel there. But tiny little room 475 perfectly guards itself against crimes of this sort; anything lifted, however small, would immediately leave an extremely obvious gap. Housekeeping would tell with one glance that the kettle cord was missing.
After making the long hike to reception to check out, nobody commented on our hot and puffed appearance. I’d say they’re used to it: a room such as ours leant itself very well to an hourly rate. No wonder it was so far away.
If I believed in signs, I’d have foreseen trouble: we walked right past the hotel. I was looking for The Grosvenor and had a glorious art deco image in my mind. It was only when we doubled back that we discovered The Mercure Grosvenor, a sleeker, tarted-up Grosvenor.
This didn’t necessarily seem a bad thing. Mercure hotels have a slick rep and I was happy to swap nostalgic 30s for cutting edge glam. The Mercure, it turns out, was trying to do the same, but the effort was a bit like your grandma with swapping brooches for body piercing.
Our room was on the fourth floor and as far from humanity as possible. The walk from the elevator was a monumental 3 passageways and a staircase. The further back we got into the nether regions of the hotel, the more the illusion slipped. Carpet gave way to vinyl, soft lighting gave way to fluros and hotel gave way to hospital. The room doors became suspiciously close together.
Our room, number 475, was right next to 476. Not unexpected, of course, but ‘right next to’ in this instance meant sharing a door jam and, over the course of an evening, sharing intimate details in the life of an unseen neighbour. More about him later.
It took longer to get to the room than explore the room. Double bed, one bedside table, luggage rack and a cupboard containing everything else, including the television (which had a completely unnecessary remote.) A caravan-sized door led to a caravan sized bathroom. Location location, location: toilet, basin and shower conveniently located in easy distance of each other. I’d estimate thirty centimetres. I could sit on the toilet and play cards with someone in the bed, neither of us needing to stretch to have our turn.
Just as the bedroom had no room, the bathroom had no bath. And here the entire place both contradicts and excels itself. A brochure gave tips for an environmentally friendly stay, suggesting 4 minute showers. A good idea, except that the amount of water coming out of the 70s showerhead could save the Lower Lakes. In 4 minutes. And the pressure! It shot out with epidermis-removing force.
My neighbour enjoyed his bathroom too, if his frequent usage is any indication. The separating wall was waterproof but not soundproof. I’d never want to eat at the restaurant he patroned, and for him it was fortunate the toilet and basin were so proximate. He also misinterpreted the environment tips and showered at 4am for 40 minutes. It’s not big business ruining the planet; it’s the illiterate.
With only motel milk and coffee sachets provided, we considered ordering room service, but the fine print detailed a $3 surcharge. I’m confused. I’m already paying for the room and the food, but they’ll charge $3 to deliver it. I could order pizza from the outer suburbs, an entire list from an online grocer and a book from the UK and they’d all deliver for less than The Mercure.
I was tempted to compensate my disappointing experience with a spot of petty theft: a coffee cup here, a hand towel there. But tiny little room 475 perfectly guards itself against crimes of this sort; anything lifted, however small, would immediately leave an extremely obvious gap. Housekeeping would tell with one glance that the kettle cord was missing.
After making the long hike to reception to check out, nobody commented on our hot and puffed appearance. I’d say they’re used to it: a room such as ours leant itself very well to an hourly rate. No wonder it was so far away.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Panamanian Nights
Every night is the same.
The only pyjamas I wear are the sheets, and every morning they are ready to wring. Jesús Chrísto- the heat! It never lets up. The nine night-time hours don’t cool; not once, not for one minute.
This room is a zoo. I watch fireflies flicker and flirt, and listen as tiny, bizarre, translucent lizards make their high-pitch bark. Mosquitoes big as cats circle and stalk uncovered flesh. I drift off to a lullaby from the slum next door: salsa music drowning in static. But I know I sleep well, because I dream in Spanish.
The mornings begin with a survey: skin clammy, sheets damp, fireflies extinguished, lizards rigid, and the hopeless mosquito-repelling coil burned to a perfect ash replica on the floor.
Out of bed, I begin the horror-movie daily ritual of scraping dry blood from under my fingernails. Those monstrous mosquitoes maraud all night, and I scratch the bites in my sleep. For eleven months my legs look ebolic and twenty years later I still have the pockmark scars.
Every day is soupy as the sun boils the air. In the shower –a single pipe poking out the wall- I wash away my night layer and for five precious minutes, I’m clean.
The only pyjamas I wear are the sheets, and every morning they are ready to wring. Jesús Chrísto- the heat! It never lets up. The nine night-time hours don’t cool; not once, not for one minute.
This room is a zoo. I watch fireflies flicker and flirt, and listen as tiny, bizarre, translucent lizards make their high-pitch bark. Mosquitoes big as cats circle and stalk uncovered flesh. I drift off to a lullaby from the slum next door: salsa music drowning in static. But I know I sleep well, because I dream in Spanish.
The mornings begin with a survey: skin clammy, sheets damp, fireflies extinguished, lizards rigid, and the hopeless mosquito-repelling coil burned to a perfect ash replica on the floor.
Out of bed, I begin the horror-movie daily ritual of scraping dry blood from under my fingernails. Those monstrous mosquitoes maraud all night, and I scratch the bites in my sleep. For eleven months my legs look ebolic and twenty years later I still have the pockmark scars.
Every day is soupy as the sun boils the air. In the shower –a single pipe poking out the wall- I wash away my night layer and for five precious minutes, I’m clean.
The Loss
The Loss
The first day the blood came the girl knew something was wrong, but she didn’t tell anyone. She sat and stared then pulled up her pants and went to work.
The next day there was more blood.
The third day there was less staring.
The fourth day she told the boy.
There is some blood.
Is that normal?
She didn’t answer.
What are you going to do?
Wait.
She waited. There was no pain, but there was a mess. Nothing more than she’d dealt with monthly for years. No one else knew. They hadn’t guessed in the first place. At the end of each day he would ask the same thing.
Are you still bleeding?
Yes.
After a week they went to a doctor.
There is always a chance of some wastage, he said. The girl cried and the boy yelled.
Wastage? You call it wastage?
It hasn’t happened yet. It might not.
The girl said, I want to go.
Come back in three days.
Go to hell.
She stopped crying before they got home. The boy made cups of sweet tea and sat next to her on the couch and they drank but didn’t speak, their hands resting on her tummy even though they knew it was too soon to feel.
At work she broke down and made an excuse to leave. At home she howled alone and delivered a red thing. She called the boy and they went somewhere different.
We can do some tests, they were told. We can find out.
A wand was waved and a machine made noises. The screen, the wand, her tummy; they watched all three. Beep beep beep not thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump and that was the problem. Someone new came in.
Im sorry we dont have good news for you this time.
No.
More was said but only the boy heard. Not all of it.
The girl lay in the white room eight months early, shivering, but not from cold. She had not slept the night before.
I’ll be waiting, the boy said. He only let go when they wheeled her away.
She had to give her name again, then they asked for her procedure and the girl gave the medical name as they made ticks and checks on a chart and talked among themselves, only returning to her when she made a noise.
Dont worry. We’ll look after you.
But what about my baby?
They put the mask on.
Not grief, but hunger when she woke up. The boy bought sandwiches and coffee and watched her.
Are you alright?
She nodded and ate but on the way out threw everything away- paperwork, drugs, results, hope.
The boy saw her crying for three weeks and caught her crying for three more. She gave up trying to explain and he gave up understanding. They went back to life but it was only motions.
In the summer the girl got sick. She fevered and coughed in bed for a week. The boy cared for her but there was not much to do. He filled her prescription and stayed in the spare room.
She was still sick but told him, Im not sick.
I think you are.
Her look was different and then he knew.
This time there was no mess until there was supposed to be. He wiped her brow, rubbed her back and shared her breath.
Soon. It must be soon.
He agreed because he didn’t know.
Its coming. Are you there?
Im right here.
The boy held her hand as she heaved. He didn’t see the slither but he heard the cry.
Oh
Let me see.
They first saw together and everything that happened before was gone.
The first day the blood came the girl knew something was wrong, but she didn’t tell anyone. She sat and stared then pulled up her pants and went to work.
The next day there was more blood.
The third day there was less staring.
The fourth day she told the boy.
There is some blood.
Is that normal?
She didn’t answer.
What are you going to do?
Wait.
She waited. There was no pain, but there was a mess. Nothing more than she’d dealt with monthly for years. No one else knew. They hadn’t guessed in the first place. At the end of each day he would ask the same thing.
Are you still bleeding?
Yes.
After a week they went to a doctor.
There is always a chance of some wastage, he said. The girl cried and the boy yelled.
Wastage? You call it wastage?
It hasn’t happened yet. It might not.
The girl said, I want to go.
Come back in three days.
Go to hell.
She stopped crying before they got home. The boy made cups of sweet tea and sat next to her on the couch and they drank but didn’t speak, their hands resting on her tummy even though they knew it was too soon to feel.
At work she broke down and made an excuse to leave. At home she howled alone and delivered a red thing. She called the boy and they went somewhere different.
We can do some tests, they were told. We can find out.
A wand was waved and a machine made noises. The screen, the wand, her tummy; they watched all three. Beep beep beep not thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump and that was the problem. Someone new came in.
Im sorry we dont have good news for you this time.
No.
More was said but only the boy heard. Not all of it.
The girl lay in the white room eight months early, shivering, but not from cold. She had not slept the night before.
I’ll be waiting, the boy said. He only let go when they wheeled her away.
She had to give her name again, then they asked for her procedure and the girl gave the medical name as they made ticks and checks on a chart and talked among themselves, only returning to her when she made a noise.
Dont worry. We’ll look after you.
But what about my baby?
They put the mask on.
Not grief, but hunger when she woke up. The boy bought sandwiches and coffee and watched her.
Are you alright?
She nodded and ate but on the way out threw everything away- paperwork, drugs, results, hope.
The boy saw her crying for three weeks and caught her crying for three more. She gave up trying to explain and he gave up understanding. They went back to life but it was only motions.
In the summer the girl got sick. She fevered and coughed in bed for a week. The boy cared for her but there was not much to do. He filled her prescription and stayed in the spare room.
She was still sick but told him, Im not sick.
I think you are.
Her look was different and then he knew.
This time there was no mess until there was supposed to be. He wiped her brow, rubbed her back and shared her breath.
Soon. It must be soon.
He agreed because he didn’t know.
Its coming. Are you there?
Im right here.
The boy held her hand as she heaved. He didn’t see the slither but he heard the cry.
Oh
Let me see.
They first saw together and everything that happened before was gone.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Sam Thom: Long Time No Sea
Nobody likes a whinger and if you ask Sam Thom, nobody likes Sam Thom either. Or, more correctly, Sam Thom’s art. His latest work, 'Homeless-Head Shark', is creating debate among the art community and angst in his neighbourhood. The notorious artist has installed the bright pink sculpture on the roof of his house in the eastern suburbs.
Thom is renown for his controversial works and has faced similar criticism before. Few could forget the furore surrounding his two previous sculptures- the soiled nappy clothesline and the leaking battery trail. Most of the disquiet this time appears to be due to the location of the shark. It is positioned crashing through the roof and juts out from dorsal fin to tail.
Well-used to defending his work, Thom says, “I passionately believe in the concept of the artist in the community. I have always tried to bring my work to the people. There are no groups in society that cannot benefit from the arts. This is clearly a case of NIMB (Not In My Backyard).”
Thom may well be right, but there are strong opinions surrounding his art, many of which centre around the spaces he chooses to exhibit. The value and quality of his sculptures have also been questioned.
“His work is mediocre at best,” states an unnamed critic. “He is not a strong voice in artistic -or ecological- circles. With his second-rate sculptures erratically and vulgarly displayed, the name Sam Thom is not held in any esteem. As far as I know, he is not on show in any major gallery.”
This is partly correct. For all his publicity, no Sam Thom sculptures have ever been acquired by Australian or international galleries. Helena Hoopmann, head of sculptural acquisitions at the Gallery of Modern Art, explains. “We would love to have a sculpture from him, but for Sam, the art and the space it inhabits are organic. The positioning of his work is just as important as the piece itself. One cannot commission something from Sam Thom. He would consider that a request for sky hooks and gravity clamps.”
A vocal advocate of Thom’s, she continues. “Sam is a purist and a visionary. Every phase of his work is meticulously planned and created. He uses only sustainable, eco-friendly materials. Each of his pieces have a message and he lives that message.”
Indeed, Thom has been very vocal in pushing his message through his art. 'Nappyline' was accompanied by a written explanation pegged to the line; fliers were also handed out. Refusing to wear a biohazard suit when dismantling batteries for 'Battery/ed', he ended up with corrosive burns on his hands which were photographed and included in the exhibit. All of this adds to the perception that Thom is more exhibitionist than exhibitor. His shows are regarded by many as stunts.
Founder of the J.A-S Space, James Austin-Stephenson agrees. “Yes, he exhibits publicly, but only for publicity’s sake. For all his talk of ‘community art’ and ‘ecological messages’, the bottom line is he exhibits for maximum exposure and attention. The work is secondary to his message. That is not the motive of a true artist. 'Battery/ed' may have been an interesting piece… without the photos. It was just another typical example of his ‘poor me’ mentality . ‘Poor me- I can‘t get into a gallery. Poor me- everyone hates my work. Poor me- I suffer physically for my work.’”
Perhaps Thom is entitled to a little self-pity. Few artists in the modern Australian era have been subject to such harsh criticism. Everyone, from the art community to art lovers, casual observers and his neighbours have an opinion. Few are positive.
While there is certainly an element of sensationalism in his exhibitions, there may also be a practical element too. Faced with alleged ‘size 15 carbon footprint, earth-enemy, diversity-barren gallery owners’, Thom has little choice but to exhibit elsewhere. It is no wonder he must display his work with the greatest coverage in mind.
“Its not as simple as not wanting to contain my work,” Thom emphasises, “although it is true I have faced massive opposition from many galleries. It comes down to the fact that to me, for example, a washing line of dirty nappies belongs outside, and what better place for it than strung around the columns of Parliament House?”
And the shark? In his neighbourhood? “All of nature is fighting for survival against the machine of time, humankind and progress. We shove everything aside in our quest for dominance of this planet. The shark is no longer at home in the ocean. My house is a haven for the Earth’s displaced.”
So is Thom an artist with a rare understanding of space and objectivity or simply a man with a message? If you ask his neighbours, he is a neither. While most claim to be advocates of art and sustainable living, it is difficult to find voices appreciative of the giant pink shark in their neighbourhood. “Ask in a survey and everybody loves art, but at grassroots level it must conform to a certain aesthetic. I am not interested in that attitude,” says Thom.
Certainly, Sam Thom evokes a strong response. Whether he is a shameless popularist or a cutting-edge artist, it is hard to imagine him at a cocktail party opening of his work in a white-walled gallery.
“You would more likely find me collecting the glasses and serviettes for recycling,” he laughs.
Seasonal Musings
If it hadn’t done enough already, the damn drought cut my feet to pieces. Not content with destroying three seasons’ crops and the kitchen garden, it’d now sucked the emerald from the lawns, turning a pleasant, silent walk into a bristly, crackling hobble.
In the summer it was the crickets, in the winter it was dad’s gumboots. Schlep, schlup, schlerp- we giggled the noises to each other and always thought they sounded like German verbs. Achtung! Dad’s home from the sheds. If it was raining at the time it was a quick staccato: quash quash quash.
I’m a girl for a cocktail and I’m not intimidated by a long list of ingredients, but what I discovered in my gutter during the storm was awe inspiring. Leaves, twigs, mud, gumnuts, pigeon shit, tennis balls and dead birds, all swished together by the swirling, rushing water. The end result came out of my tap as a cloudy fusion of floaties with a gritty aftertaste. You’ll never find that on a menu.
I like the rain better than the wind; at least when it’s wet I can use an umbrella. There’s no escaping the wind. In the cold it finds every little crack on my face and ploughs a few more. When it’s hot the wind grouts them with dust until sweat makes grubby little rivers flow. Either way my skin is left battered by the attack.
In the summer it was the crickets, in the winter it was dad’s gumboots. Schlep, schlup, schlerp- we giggled the noises to each other and always thought they sounded like German verbs. Achtung! Dad’s home from the sheds. If it was raining at the time it was a quick staccato: quash quash quash.
I’m a girl for a cocktail and I’m not intimidated by a long list of ingredients, but what I discovered in my gutter during the storm was awe inspiring. Leaves, twigs, mud, gumnuts, pigeon shit, tennis balls and dead birds, all swished together by the swirling, rushing water. The end result came out of my tap as a cloudy fusion of floaties with a gritty aftertaste. You’ll never find that on a menu.
I like the rain better than the wind; at least when it’s wet I can use an umbrella. There’s no escaping the wind. In the cold it finds every little crack on my face and ploughs a few more. When it’s hot the wind grouts them with dust until sweat makes grubby little rivers flow. Either way my skin is left battered by the attack.
Bitter
The time had come.
In the confined seat with her head down, her eyes looked around- everything was new to her. It was natural to be excited, but it was the anticipation of what was ahead that made her shiver.
Everyone had unintentionally assisted from the start. They’d boarded her first, found her seat and stowed her bag. She thanked them but modestly ignored their questions. They looked at her figure, nodded and moved to settle into their own seats, fanning their faces and reaching for the air conditioning.
Everything about her homeland was hot. With their bare shoulders and uncovered heads, the stupid foreigners never stopped going on about it. She saw them all the time through the windows of the stores and brand new shopping centres, spending money and eating and drinking without ceremony. They were licentious and ostentatious and she spat on the ground when they passed.
But not today.
Today she was staying close to the script and it was only the script that allowed her to be so close to the man next to her. They’d met only once before and even then she’d kept her eyes down. That day they’d measured and fitted her, attaching the belly and fitting the wires and switches up her chest and over her shoulders.
She looked right. They’d meticulously researched and her stomach was exactly correct, appropriate in shape and size, and it did make her heart beat faster, her precious cargo. She felt apt; she was a virgin, they were unmarried and this bundle would change the world.
So far everything had gone to plan. At each point she stopped, she’d been subject to the same checks, but nothing more. She protectively held her stomach, assured to be the one place they wouldn’t touch, the one place no one would search.
After a safety demonstration that she didn’t bother to watch, the man fitted her
seatbelt across her thighs and startled her by placing his hand on her stomach. He kept it there and closed his eyes in prayer. His words were too soft, but she knew what he’d be saying. He felt as blessed as she did to be chosen.
At the carefully calculated point they both left their seats. She struggled down the narrow aisle, everyone innocently making way for her huge, black-clad figure. In the tiny toilet she reached under her layers and connected the wires as she’d been shown. She allowed herself one quick look in the mirror and watched her lips move with the same words as the man: I thank you for this chance. I will not fail. I will not fail.
She checked the watch they’d given her, waited one more minute and opened the door just in time to see the man do the same thing from the other end. They walked towards each other. He came from the front, she from the rear. They looked at each other briefly. Then he walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
The first thing she had in common with the foreigners was the last thing they all heard- the man’s unexpected, shouted words. She never saw their confusion or their brief fear, only his face as he sent them both into history and martydom.
In the confined seat with her head down, her eyes looked around- everything was new to her. It was natural to be excited, but it was the anticipation of what was ahead that made her shiver.
Everyone had unintentionally assisted from the start. They’d boarded her first, found her seat and stowed her bag. She thanked them but modestly ignored their questions. They looked at her figure, nodded and moved to settle into their own seats, fanning their faces and reaching for the air conditioning.
Everything about her homeland was hot. With their bare shoulders and uncovered heads, the stupid foreigners never stopped going on about it. She saw them all the time through the windows of the stores and brand new shopping centres, spending money and eating and drinking without ceremony. They were licentious and ostentatious and she spat on the ground when they passed.
But not today.
Today she was staying close to the script and it was only the script that allowed her to be so close to the man next to her. They’d met only once before and even then she’d kept her eyes down. That day they’d measured and fitted her, attaching the belly and fitting the wires and switches up her chest and over her shoulders.
She looked right. They’d meticulously researched and her stomach was exactly correct, appropriate in shape and size, and it did make her heart beat faster, her precious cargo. She felt apt; she was a virgin, they were unmarried and this bundle would change the world.
So far everything had gone to plan. At each point she stopped, she’d been subject to the same checks, but nothing more. She protectively held her stomach, assured to be the one place they wouldn’t touch, the one place no one would search.
After a safety demonstration that she didn’t bother to watch, the man fitted her
seatbelt across her thighs and startled her by placing his hand on her stomach. He kept it there and closed his eyes in prayer. His words were too soft, but she knew what he’d be saying. He felt as blessed as she did to be chosen.
At the carefully calculated point they both left their seats. She struggled down the narrow aisle, everyone innocently making way for her huge, black-clad figure. In the tiny toilet she reached under her layers and connected the wires as she’d been shown. She allowed herself one quick look in the mirror and watched her lips move with the same words as the man: I thank you for this chance. I will not fail. I will not fail.
She checked the watch they’d given her, waited one more minute and opened the door just in time to see the man do the same thing from the other end. They walked towards each other. He came from the front, she from the rear. They looked at each other briefly. Then he walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
The first thing she had in common with the foreigners was the last thing they all heard- the man’s unexpected, shouted words. She never saw their confusion or their brief fear, only his face as he sent them both into history and martydom.
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