No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  I raise my head slowly and sit up. My vision has cleared and everything is in sharp focus.

  I look around wildly, hoping to see Martin in the crowd. He must be there. I bet he’s trying to find out what happened and he’ll be back soon, back with directives and solutions. I can always rely on Martin.

  I look at the seats next to me. They are the usual, steel-framed airport chairs, sectioned off by armrests. The black, padded, plastic-covered seats are empty.

  I wonder where our luggage is. And, for that matter, where is my purse? I lean down again, taking my time, but there is nothing under the chairs.

  I turn to look at the lounge area behind me. I am the only person in a sea of seats and the clamouring crowd is still in front me, but they are white noise now. Voices scream in my head: Where is Martin? What happened? What’s going on? And where is my fabulous white leather Prada purse with the snake-print accordioned sides that I had bought only days before? Where are my Cartier rings, the startlingly huge emerald set high in a bank of diamonds, embedded in rose gold, with a wedding ring to match, a ring inscribed with the date of our wedding and, Us, Always in scripted font?

  I focus on the crowd in front of me. A Noah’s ark of the world’s people are assembled, but there is no camaraderie or friendly intimacy. Kids in their twenties, old folks with walking sticks, businessmen, housewives, a rock star, a construction worker, an executive power-woman, a middle-aged lady in a cleaner’s uniform, and a supermodel.

  The surreal nature of the situation puzzles me and then I am further punched in the gut by three realizations. None of these people is dressed for a holiday, none of them has a companion, and none of them has any luggage.

  I look down at myself and shrink back into my chair. What was I thinking, leaving the house like this? My navy blue sweatpants have seen better days and the pink T-shirt should have been thrown in the trash a long time ago. And I don’t even have any shoes on, for god’s sake.

  I pull my feet up onto the chair and hug my knees to my chest and I am shocked anew by my pedicure, which is chipped and worn, as are my fingernails.

  It’s a tight fit, tall me scrunched up in the chair, but I fold into myself like a scrawny bird, wings hugging in tight and I chew on a fingernail, something I haven’t done in years, but I need to gather my thoughts and try to make sense of what’s going on.

  Where’s Martin? Why doesn’t he come and find me? Why am I here alone?

  And where on earth is here? Perhaps I had decided to go on a yoga retreat, it must have been something like that. Yes, I bet I was on my way to a spa and Martin was going to meet up with me once I had done ten days of downward dogging and nibbling on exotic fruit. But there’s no way I would have gone with nails like this. My explanation doesn’t make sense and I don’t even like yoga—it’s a sorry excuse for people who can’t handle real exercise. Once again, I bury my head in my arms and try to focus on my breathing.

  At least the pain has left my body. The pins and needles have gone, and there is no burning and no stinging. So that’s good, but my distressed heart is thumping like an angry fist, and I cup my hand under my left breast, trying to calm myself down.

  I am not sure how long I stay like that, but I finally decide, from the sanctity of my dark and cozy place, that I am going to find out just what the fuck happened.

  2. AGNES

  I UNFURL FROM MY PROTECTIVE BALL and lower my feet to the floor. The sharp, scratchy carpet pokes at my toes with synthetic fibers. I stand slowly and my head remains clear.

  I raise myself to my full height, six-foot-one, and scan the room. I’ve always loved being tall. I’ve never been one to stoop on the arm of a shorter man, trying to diminish my height and Martin, bless him, short as he is, never wants me to either. He loves me in stilettos, towering, getting a bird’s eye view of the world, and telling him what I can see.

  Which, in this instance, isn’t a lot.

  Tall windows to the left show the same white, unmarked planes I noticed earlier, green astro turf, and black runways. Nothing moves. Planes are neither landing nor taking off, and there are no baggage carts scuttling about.

  I walk over to the window, and cool linoleum replaces scratchy carpeting under my feet. I press my face up against the glass. The cotton wool clouds haven’t moved since I first noticed them, but surely that isn’t possible?

  I will the clouds to move, even slightly, then study them for evidence of the tiniest shape change, but nothing happens, nothing at all.

  I turn towards the crowd at the information desk. Where, I wonder, are the arrival and departure boards? The ground crew behind the desk are in uniform but there are no logos or badges, and their suits are dull navy and old-fashioned. Even their jaunty sailor hats are reminiscent of a 1970’s poster, retro and boxy.

  I need to speak to one of the crew.

  I push my way to the front of the crowd, elbowing people aside, but a strange thing happens: as soon as I reach the counter, an invisible rubber band snaps me back to the end of the line. It happens so fast that I can’t put the brakes on. The fourth time I reach the counter, I grab it with all my might, fingers digging in, but still, I find myself being flung backwards. It doesn’t hurt, it’s more like I am rewound, like a film clip that keeps jumping back.

  After a dozen times, I lose my cool. “What the fuck? Seriously? What the fuck is going on here?” I am shouting but I don’t care. “Is there some goddamned vortex or what? What the fuck?”

  “She’s a new arrival,” someone says, and I spin around.

  “Who said that?” I snarl. “Can someone please explain what’s going on?”

  “Your Introducer will show up eventually,” someone else offers. “You have to wait.”

  “My what?”

  “Better hope you don’t get Agnes,” an elderly woman with a Jamaican accent and a tight yellow perm says. “She’s a crazy girl, that one.”

  “Martin!” I scream, “Martin, I’m here! Where are you? Please, I’m here, I’m here!”

  “I’ll get someone for you,” a tall bony woman in her sixties says and she pats my shoulder. “Agnes? Agneessss!” She bellows, and I am astounded at the strength of her lungs, given that she looks skeletal. I also notice that she is sporting a snow-white billy goat beard that matches her brows and bouffant hair. I shrink back. I want to tell her that there are many ways to deal with unwanted facial hair, but she is yelling again and wouldn’t have heard me anyway.

  “Agneessss!”

  “Yeah?” A tiny gothic girl pops up from under the Jamaican woman’s arm.

  “Help this woman,” my bearded friend tells her. “How come we’ve got to tell you how to do your job? How you think you ever gonna get out of here?”

  The girl shrugs and snaps gum. She eyes me. “That her?”

  “How many other new ones you see?”

  I am ping-ponging between them, my head bopping this way and that, like I am watching a tennis match.

  The gothic girl looks at me and sighs. “Come with me,” she says.

  “Why?” I am suspicious.

  “Because I’ve got the answers you’re looking for. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t give a shit but it’s my job to be your Introducer. We’ll find a Lounge Room and you can take a load off and I’ll tell you what’s what but I’ll be upfront, you’re making me nervous, man, you’re so freaked out.”

  “For god’s sake,” I snap at her, “forget the stupid fucking lounge. I need to know where I am, how I got here and what’s going on.”

  “Julia,” Agnes says kindly, “the sooner you shut the fuck up and follow me, the sooner you will be enlightened, whatever joy that may bring you.”

  That the girl knows my name both horrifies and silences me. I decide that the best course of action is to follow her away from the crowd and hear what she has to say.

  We walk down a long, spotlessly clean
corridor and I hear an odd beeping sound, like a truck reversing. The sound gets louder and I turn around in time to avoid being mowed down by a small airport buggy with flashing orange lights. A blonde woman is perched forward, hanging onto the steering wheel, pedal to the metal. She is in her late fifties, with a Maggie Thatcher helmet of hair. Her pug-dog eyes are popping and unblinking, and her grin would scare off monsters at Halloween.

  “Who the fuck was that?” I ask, still pressed against the wall.

  “Shirley the Driver. Who knows what she really does. I never see her actually giving anyone a ride. Come on, we’re here.”

  Agnes leads us into a lounge with red walls. Lamps in various shapes and sizes create soft shapes of light in the room. It is like being inside a red lava lamp only nothing is moving. The room is filled with red bean bags and there are hanging basket chairs with fuzzy red cushions, and the floor is covered with soft, rectangular pieces of red foam.

  “Is this a playroom for kids?” I ask, but Agnes shakes her head.

  “There are hardly any kids here and they’ve got slides and nets and balls and shit. Stuff to climb on and break their necks, if they could, which they can’t. But they’re on the other side, they’re not in this nook.”

  “Nook?”

  “Where folks like us hang out. The kids move along quickly anyways, it’s different for them.”

  This girl is making no sense at all. She waves me to sit and I sink down into a bean bag and cross my arms, thinking that the sooner I let her do her spiel, the sooner I’ll be out of here.

  “Ready whenever you are,” I comment, with no small amount of sarcasm, and I watch in horror as she pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

  “You can’t smoke in an airport!” I protest, but she lights up and exhales a cloud in my direction.

  “Sure you can,” she says. “You want one?”

  I shake my head. “What’s the scoop here, Agnes?”

  “What’s your hurry, Lady Jane? I’ll tell you this for starters, you’ve got all the time in the world, we both have.”

  She shakes with laughter and I want to hit her. I glare at her, hating her muffin-top belly that spills over the waistband of her tight black jeans. I hate her sleeve tattoos, her red and purple hair and most of all, I hate her piercings, all of which look infected. Nose, chin, ears, brows, they are disgusting.

  “I tell you what, you motherfucking annoying child,” I say evenly, “talk now, or I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t leave,” she says and she blows a smoke ring.

  I lunge for her, knock her off her bean bag, and pin her to the ground. Her eyes are wide, like a panicked raccoon and the cigarette burns a hole in the carpet but I don’t care.

  Agnes stops moving. She lies underneath me and she looks up at me and grins without warmth or humour. “You’re dead, Julia, dead, dead, dead.”

  “How do you know my name?” I dig my knees into her spongy upper arms, wanting to hurt her for saying such stupid things.

  “I know, because I’m your Introducer. I’m here to show you the ins and outs of this life. Although, it’s not a real life in the way you are used to. It’s a no-man’s land of wait and count your sins, and try to find the right way to atone, so you can get the heck out of here.”

  I bounce on her a few times, as heavily as I can, and I watch her face for a reaction. I’m trying to get her to tell the truth but she doesn’t speak or move, and I cross my arms and wait.

  “You can’t hurt me,” she says and she reaches for the cigarette and lies on her back, smoking, with me pinning her to the ground.

  I notice that the cigarette burn on the carpet has vanished and I stare at the spot where it was. I’m about to ask Agnes about that, but she starts talking.

  “I’m dead too,” she says. “I think I’ve been here for a while but I don’t know how long. Time is weird. It’s like that thing that happened to you when you got to the front of the counter and you got bounced back. That happens a lot. Groundhog day, only not in any world you know.”

  “You. Are. Full. Of. Shit.” I say, slowly, and I roll off her and sit cross-legged on the floor.

  But something in what she says rings horribly true. “Where’s my husband? How come he’s not here?”

  She gives me an inscrutable look. “You’ll figure that one out for yourself. I’m just here to give you the guided tour: Purgatory for Dummies.”

  “This is Purgatory?”

  “It’s no island cruise, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Why didn’t I go to heaven?” I sound childish and forlorn and Agnes laughs like I have said something hilarious.

  “Because you were a bad girl! We, all of us here, we were crap people.” She stands up. “Come on, time for the tour, I’ll show you around.”

  I stand up, numb, and I nod. I tell myself that by the time she gets to the end of her tour, I will have woken up and I’ll recognize this for the bad dream that it is. And my husband will be by my side and my life will return to normal. Oh Martin. I can see you so clearly. All I want is for you to come and find me.

  3. VERSACE

  WE WALK DOWN A LONG HALLWAY. White institutional walls look like they have been painted with high gloss enamel. The floor is snowy linoleum and everything gleams. Steel beams hold a warehouse ceiling some twelve feet above me, and large silver pipes intersect like fat serpents, connected by shiny concertina folds.

  “This is the Clothes Room,” Agnes says and she opens a door.

  We go inside and I gasp. I have stepped into a department store of the highest order, and it’s filled, floor to ceiling, with endless couture. The shelves are piled high and a dozen full-length mirrors echo the opulence.

  “This is utterly fantastic,” I say. “Oh my god, look, it’s vintage Dior! That’s unbelievable. Do you know how much that dress is worth? What’s it doing here?”

  “It’s doing the same thing as all the other shit,” Agnes says lighting another cigarette. “Nothing.”

  “And this, oh my god, beaded Versace. It’s impossible, this dress was one of a kind, no one knows what happened to it and now, here it is.”

  “You can wear it, if you like,” Agnes says. She looks bored and leans against the wall, picking at her nail polish and letting her ash drop onto the floor.

  “I can? But doesn’t it belong to somebody?”

  “Not anybody who gives a shit. The rules are, you can wear anything you like, but you can’t take extras out of here.”

  “Who takes care of the clothes?” I ask, and Agnes shrugs.

  “No idea. But they get cleaned and rehung.”

  “How will I choose?” I wail, holding up the beaded Versace cocktail dress and the Dior ball gown. “Look, two treasures! I can’t possibly choose. I’ll hold onto both of them while you finish giving me the guided tour, and we’ll figure the rest out later.”

  “Julia,” Agnes says patiently, “read my lips. You can’t take anything with you. You get changed into the clothes here and wear them out. That’s it.”

  I look around. “Isn’t there someone I can leave one of them with? Like a holds counter or something?”

  Agnes shakes her head. “There’s no one. So put one of them on, or both of them if you’re that in love with them, and we’ll move on. You’ll find this fascination with dead people’s fancy leftovers wears off pretty quickly.”

  I look at the two creations. “I have to try them on,” I say. “Where’s the change room?”

  Agnes points at a curtained corner and I shoot inside taking the garments with me.

  I zip up the Versace and fit the Dior gown on top of the tight-fitting cocktail dress. It looks a bit odd but it works. No way am I letting go of either of them. I head back to Agnes who eyes my ensemble but doesn’t say anything. “What must I do with my things?” I ask her.

  I feel oddly detached from my ol
d sweatpants and my pink T-shirt. Once again, I try to remember where we could have been going, my husband and I, that I would have been so poorly dressed. It annoys me that I can’t remember what happened. I stare at the sad bundle of clothes I am about to get rid of and I wonder if I can come back and find them again if I want to, but I tell myself that I don’t care. I have triumphantly scored not one, but two couture outfits, each worth thousands of dollars, so who cares about a pair of stupid old sweatpants and a faded pink T-shirt?

  “Dump your stuff in the bin,” Agnes points.

  “I know the value of these garments,” I tell Agnes, running my hands appreciatively over my Dior. “And I’m not going to let items like these go to waste. Do you have any idea what they’d sell for online? Let me tell you, I do know and I could even tell you in various foreign currencies.”

  Agnes shrugs and turns to leave and I follow her out into the hallway when I stop abruptly.

  There is something I know for sure. These are not my feet. I am never without shoes, and I would never have gone anywhere with a pedicure in such a sorry state. These are not my feet.

  I stand there, holding the hem of my ball gown, staring at some stranger’s feet when I hear Agnes clear her throat.

  “Gotta move on,” she says. “C’mon.”

  “Wait,” I say and I point, “those feet. They are not my feet.”

  “They are so your feet and I’m getting seriously bored, okay? We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, so please, accept the fact that those feet are your feet and let’s move on.”

  “But something’s very wrong,” I say, and she laughs.

  “Yeah, like you’ve only noticed now. Look, Queen Julia, if you don’t come with me, I’m going to leave you here and they can get some other asshole to intro you.”

  All of a sudden, I feel strangely drugged, woolly, and confused, and I can’t think straight. Where did those feet come from? Am I trapped in a stranger’s body?

  I lean against the wall and close my eyes. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the stoner brain swamp, but my nerve endings feel as if they have been soaked in soap suds and everything is blurry and slippery. I’ve lost my grip on reality. This is it: I’ve lost my mind.