sufficient unto itself, and noth ing in the universe is ever lost; and after it comes to visit us, and sits among us pale and emaciated, and sets forth its fantastic views, it suddenly stands up, careful not to spill the tea we have placed before it, and begins wandering like a sleepwalker be tween our bedrooms, to meet people and events concluded long ago.
And so, even if a drop of mystery has fallen here, there is still no one capable of sensing it. Certainly not the young doctor’s father, Mr. Rubin, a tall English Jew wearing an old felt hat purchased five years before on a trip to Manchester, the city of his birth, who has been listening for some time in profound and patient silence to the lively explanations of the hospital director, whose hands, now that his luggage is sailing away on the con veyor belt, are free to sketch the map of India over and over in the air, pointing out the possibilities of various alternative routes, while his plump little wife, dressed in a loose blue tunic, her eyes no doubt already smiling behind her big sunglasses, listens calmly to the polite small talk of Mrs. Rubin, a lean, bony En glish Jewess, who steps ahead of her toward the guard, who in a moment will separate with a gesture of his hand the passengers and the people seeing them off, but who will not be able to separate the common thought, new and pleasant, that has begun spinning itself secretly — yes, secretly and without a word — be tween the two middle-aged women, each of whom is now imag ining to herself a possible love story between the young doctor- son, who still sees the journey as something that has been forced upon him, and the sick daughter, waiting thousands of miles away in a state of total debilitation.
To my great relief my seat on the plane was not next to the Lazars, but several rows distant from them. If they had arranged it that way on purpose, I thought, it was an encouraging sign. They too wanted to avoid excessive intimacy, which would make us get on each other’s nerves right at the beginning of the trip. And indeed, for the first three hours of the flight I saw them only once, on my way to the toilet. They were sitting in the last row, in the smokers’ section; their breakfast trays had not yet been removed, but the curtain on the window was drawn. Lazar’s wife was sleeping, the dark glasses clutched in her fist, her head buried in the chest of her husband, who was studying some papers. My parents, who were only a little older than they were, would never have dared to display such intimacy in public. I intended to slip past without their noticing me, but Lazar took off his gold-rimmed reading glasses and asked me affably if I had managed to sleep. “I didn’t even try,” I replied immediately. “I’ve decided to tire myself out in anticipation of the flight to New Delhi tonight.” I could see that this practical answer was to his liking. “Do you find it difficult to fall asleep in the air too?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “So you’re like me,” he pronounced happily, as if he had found an ally. “I’ve never been able to sleep on a plane. We’ll see what happens tonight.” His wife raised her head; without her glasses her eyes looked red and puffy with sleep, but theyimmediately lit up in that mechanical, indiscriminate smile of hers. “What nice parents you have,” she said unhesitatingly, as if she had just seen them in her dreams. “Yes,” I nodded in agreement , and added without knowing why, “They’re not hysterical .” But she understood. “That’s right,” she said. “Your mother told me that they actually encouraged you to make the trip with us.”
“Yes, India has apparently kept its charms for Englishmen of the older generation.”
“You won’t be sorry you came with us,” she said soothingly, as if she still felt that she had to overcome the vestiges of my resistance. “You’ll see.” I didn’t answer, only smiled faintly. It was on the tip of my
And so, even if a drop of mystery has fallen here, there is still no one capable of sensing it. Certainly not the young doctor’s father, Mr. Rubin, a tall English Jew wearing an old felt hat purchased five years before on a trip to Manchester, the city of his birth, who has been listening for some time in profound and patient silence to the lively explanations of the hospital director, whose hands, now that his luggage is sailing away on the con veyor belt, are free to sketch the map of India over and over in the air, pointing out the possibilities of various alternative routes, while his plump little wife, dressed in a loose blue tunic, her eyes no doubt already smiling behind her big sunglasses, listens calmly to the polite small talk of Mrs. Rubin, a lean, bony En glish Jewess, who steps ahead of her toward the guard, who in a moment will separate with a gesture of his hand the passengers and the people seeing them off, but who will not be able to separate the common thought, new and pleasant, that has begun spinning itself secretly — yes, secretly and without a word — be tween the two middle-aged women, each of whom is now imag ining to herself a possible love story between the young doctor- son, who still sees the journey as something that has been forced upon him, and the sick daughter, waiting thousands of miles away in a state of total debilitation.
To my great relief my seat on the plane was not next to the Lazars, but several rows distant from them. If they had arranged it that way on purpose, I thought, it was an encouraging sign. They too wanted to avoid excessive intimacy, which would make us get on each other’s nerves right at the beginning of the trip. And indeed, for the first three hours of the flight I saw them only once, on my way to the toilet. They were sitting in the last row, in the smokers’ section; their breakfast trays had not yet been removed, but the curtain on the window was drawn. Lazar’s wife was sleeping, the dark glasses clutched in her fist, her head buried in the chest of her husband, who was studying some papers. My parents, who were only a little older than they were, would never have dared to display such intimacy in public. I intended to slip past without their noticing me, but Lazar took off his gold-rimmed reading glasses and asked me affably if I had managed to sleep. “I didn’t even try,” I replied immediately. “I’ve decided to tire myself out in anticipation of the flight to New Delhi tonight.” I could see that this practical answer was to his liking. “Do you find it difficult to fall asleep in the air too?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “So you’re like me,” he pronounced happily, as if he had found an ally. “I’ve never been able to sleep on a plane. We’ll see what happens tonight.” His wife raised her head; without her glasses her eyes looked red and puffy with sleep, but theyimmediately lit up in that mechanical, indiscriminate smile of hers. “What nice parents you have,” she said unhesitatingly, as if she had just seen them in her dreams. “Yes,” I nodded in agreement , and added without knowing why, “They’re not hysterical .” But she understood. “That’s right,” she said. “Your mother told me that they actually encouraged you to make the trip with us.”
“Yes, India has apparently kept its charms for Englishmen of the older generation.”
“You won’t be sorry you came with us,” she said soothingly, as if she still felt that she had to overcome the vestiges of my resistance. “You’ll see.” I didn’t answer, only smiled faintly. It was on the tip of my
Similar Books
