Stubborn Archivist

by Yara Rodrigues Fowler

  Here was the wide mouth, the big open bellied loneliness of the Atlantic.

  Of course, there had been no first trip. No stepping off the plane into the soil.

  Always hot-looking São Paulo appeared under the plane. Always bright with turquoise swimming pool ovals and rectangles between every other building and even on the roofs. Where the earth was broken here it was orange. She would wait for the first discernible human to appear. And then the airport carpark, the airport buildings, the runway.

  And then the clapping.

  As a person who listened for each humm hrrr sound change of the plane machinery she appreciated the clapping, which was by no means undiscriminating. Because there were good landings—excellent landings, in fact—and there were bad landings, terrible bum bumpy watch out when opening the overhead compartments landings. And then there were difficult landings executed well—for example during a storm with high winds and noisy rain—which left everyone grateful and full of awe.

  There were landings so good that you woke up already parallel to the trunks of the trees, little plane wheels whizzing like car tyres on the ground.

  Going through security she could pick her passport. Pick her language. She waited for people to react with surprise but they never did.

  Of course, there had been no first trip.

  And then there was arriving back. Back back. Over the sea over the island shore. The moving back down, down down of the plane, over the sea over the island shore, over the winter bone bare fields that were usually brown and grey-brown but one year had been all white.

  And then her favourite bit. And it only happened some years, on the years when there were no clouds and when the plane was made to wait its turn on the runway and when she was awake and sitting on the right side of the plane. On these years the halves of the city sprung and held apart like two hands clapped together. Beneath her known buildings rose, oriented by the curving river bone of her glass gristle city.

  These years she rush rush rushed to find the house before the plane twisted and she was facing the sky again. She worked backwards outwards from the river bank—there was Big Ben, the wheel, that park was Battersea of course yes there was the power station, so that was Clapham Common or was that Wandsworth, so that railway line went to Balham, and that was her common, that square was the blue square of the Lido, which meant her house was just down one of those roads—

  Stepping off the plane everything was muted. This was how it always was. This route through the airport had none of the Christmas rush of going, no red tinsel, no music and no baubles.

  When she was a child, before her mother got her British citizenship, they had always had to wait for her by passport control. She stood in the other queue that moved more slowly and had more people in it. They waited until finally she approached the booth. They could half hear the questions, then half hear her sentences. She was asked what she was doing. Where was she going. And at first she answered yes and no yes—tired but polite—yes and no and of course.

  Until, not reacting like they should have to the words I am a doctor, yes I am a doctor she became more tired and more righteous that is my husband and that is my daughter and this is my address. And angry and tired and almost making a scene in yesterday’s clothes, and by this point it had been weeks since she had spoken for that long in English, she said—Yes yes ok. Thank you. But after they stamped her passport and let her cross the line, she turned and said quietly, shaking Excuse me what’s your name? What is your name? Okay. Yes. I will be making a complaint. Tomorrow I will make a complaint.

  They waited for their bags in this silence.

  Every year they walked to the car through the unhumid cold, the unhumid wind the unhumid grey. The quiet air had no smell and made your cheek skin chap. Everything horrid and too cold but also never quite as cold as she had thought it would be.

  They drove through West London and then across the river until her places began to appear—her bus routes, her parks, her house.

  The weird staid neatness of the house. Its unlit uncolours. Can’t get to sleep.

  Everything muted.

  When she was a child—

  They took the night flight leaving on the day before the last day of school, meaning that year after year she missed all its seasonal English permissiveness—the Christmas assembly where Mr. Williams sang both the girl and the boy parts from Summer Lovin’, her very own nativity play, the end of term game of spin the bottle at Toby C’s house which meant that Jade first kissed a boy a whole three months before her.

  They piled into the car (did you lock the back door, who has the key, okay one last passport check) with unclosed prepacked suitcases waiting for the traffic to thin through Wandsworth and Fulham and on that bit of motorway before Heathrow. Her dad, who was always sure that this year would be the year they missed their expensive flights, became more nervous like—Shit shit where did all this traffic come from? What time is it? What time is it? Bugger.

  In the airport he arranged their passports on the counter and their overweight bags on the scales.

  No no this is my passport and this is hers and these are hers.

  Do we have seats together?

  Darling would you like to sit with dad or me?

  What do you mean can you sit by yourself?

  In the waiting space after security even through the dark, her dad looked for a seat by the glass walls. When she was little she had sat on his lap. As a very special treat on his tenth birthday, her dad had been taken by his parents to Leeds airport to watch planes take off. Even now even through the dark he liked to watch the little golden lights.

  Look at that one. That’s a big machine, my word. A 747 perhaps.

  But as soon as she was old enough to read she had stopped.

  Where do you think it’s going? California? The Middle East?

  Her mum would sit opposite them, not responding or participating. She unpacked and repacked her hand luggage, found and refound her boarding pass, and counted the presents and counted their corresponding relatives.

  Shit shit shit.

  What is it?

  Oh shit

  What is it

  Did you buy something for Priscila’s new boyfriend?

  Shit.

  Can you go to duty free and pick a bottle please.

  Yes. Yes.

  And then a look over her shoulder and in whispers—

  Baby can you run to the bookshop while your dad is in duty free and buy him a book you think he’d like?

  Er

  The present I got him this year is very small. I’ve been busy!

  Her mum put a note in her hand.

  Don’t tell him. Go. Go!

  Her mother was not afraid they would miss their plane; she was terrified of falling out of the sky.

  Please Wait. Go to Gate. Boarding. Last Call. Última Chamada.

  But you were a great baby. Never cried. Never cried even at take off. You were a great baby. Always happy.

  The first time that she had flown alone there had been some discussion, a negotiation.

  Mum wouldn’t you and Dad like to go early and have some time just you two, like you used to when I was younger?

  Mum, I can go myself.

  I’ll be fifteen then, very grown up.

  Can’t I stay for the last day of school?

  No no of course I still want to see Vovó and Vovô.

  But I talk to Ana Paula on Facebook whenever I like.

  Yes of course I understand how to get a flight.

  I know you can’t take liquids.

  Mum—

  I’m okay in the house alone I promise.

  But fine if you insist I will invite Jade and Elena over.

  Her parents left on the Monday night.

  Byebye kiss kiss hug.

  We will text you as soon as we land, you must answer the phone.

  Big big hug. Abraço.

  Oh you are so grown up look at you.

  You know I didn’t ge
t on a plane by myself until I was twenty-seven.

  Abraço

  There was always here and there was always there.

  Home is where the

  Home is where the

  Home is where

  maracujá

  manga

  cajú

  apples even

  abacaxí

  amora

  ameixa

  namora

  amoras were they blackberries or mulberries or

  amora

  namora

  enamour

  what even is a gooseberry?

  Only when she was older did she realise all that time

  some of these fruits had been living double named double lives

  one soft and wet and café da manhã

  the other shrivel sour and in Sainsbury’s

  There was always here

  and there was always

  As an adult—

  Adamant not to abjectly fear flying like her mother, she made elaborate plans.

  In the case of a fire she would lie on the ground and feel her way out, using the poltronas. She counted how far she was from the exit before sitting down. Some planes promised emergency lights but who knew if these would turn on. She was very good at holding her breath and could put the pillow cover over her mouth. But what if the emergency door didn’t open?

  In the case of a collision with another plane—this one posed a serious problem. It was not covered in the safety talks or videos. The other plane might be hidden in clouds and would move at such a speed that no one would see it not even the pilot. In this case—there was no solution to this one.

  In the case of a water landing, she would survive. There is no question of this. She would have her lifejacket and she would sit on something that could float like a flat part of the wing or a door. If it was a hot part of the sea even better. Even if there were sharks she would sit on the floating part of the plane or on the inflatable slide. The only problem would be those waves the size of a block of flats that come in the middle of the sea.

  In the case of a hijacking—this one would also be tricky. But people liked Latin America these days (didn’t they?) so on balance it seemed unlikely to happen.

  In the case of a malfunction—this one she worried about. What if the crew didn’t notice? It could easily happen—hubristic pilot who, affected by some external pressure either personal or professional, ignored the fatal warning signs.

  In the case of someone opening a door—this one terrified her. Why would they create doors that could be opened? Was it actually possible to open the doors? If not why did they have a sign warning people not to open the door? Would they run out of oxygen? Would they all fly straight out? No she would not. She would fold her body around her armrest and she would stay there.

  Of course there had been no first trip.

  Only—

  These huge airports

  their grey, like the sea

  the wideness before the sea

  She held her documents, flew over the ocean

  there was always here

  there was always here

  Part III

  2015

  Tiago

  The year began with a bicycle.

  Her parents were away, so she threw a party in the big house in Tooting. She put white lilac and silver discounted Christmas tinsel all over the kitchen and the downstairs corridor and used it to cordon off the upstairs. She hung white baubles from the banisters and door knobs. She made caipirinhas using limes and ice and sugar, and put it out in jugs ready to serve in white plastic cups when people arrived and even though it wasn’t a big party Elena brought her speakers (because otherwise it wouldn’t really be a party, would it?)

  You must all wear white. I’ve told everyone coming that they must wear white.

  Before it started the three of them sat together in the kitchen. They had pushed the dining table to the wall, leaving the room wide and empty and too well lit—they would turn down the lights when everyone arrived—Jade and Elena were sitting on chairs facing the middle of the room and she handed them white plastic cups. Music was playing.

  Jade held the drink to her face—Fuck!

  They looked at her.

  Jade laughed—This reminds me of that time—except I don’t think you put limes in it that time—this taste reminds me of that time in year eleven when you came back with that bottle of kuh chacha, kuh . . . how do you say it?

  Cachaça! Ka-sha-sa!

  Kuh-shaa-ser?

  The doorbell rang.

  It’s easy to remember—she said, standing up to answer the door and leaving the room—it’s easy to remember because the Cs get softer as you move through the word—

  The journalist guys she worked with were at the front door. They had arrived way too early with their girlfriends, who were all called Sophie and wearing glitter on their eyelids, and their roommates, who were called Barney and wearing blazers and holding bottles of ale for the fridge, or red wine that was actually a little cold, don’t open it yet—gosh I’ve never been this far south of the river!

  Tooting is quite nice isn’t it?

  You never told me your house was so large!

  Later later, just in time for the virada, some of their old friends from school, and Jade’s friends from art school and their friends and their partners arrived loud and laughing, already drunk and holding open bottles of sparkling wine or vodka and lemonade mixed in the big plastic two-litre bottles, because this was what they did when they were all together again.

  They spread themselves through the kitchen and down the steps under the winter-stripped rose bush into the garden. The night was dry and crisp and although their breath froze in front of them no one was cold and everyone was talking because as each person had arrived she’d put a plastic cup of caipirinha in their hand.

  She stood by the kitchen door and looked around her.

  Two people were dancing by the stove. Nathan who sat next to her at work had cornered Elena by the steps and Jade was standing inside interrupting the friend of the guy that Gee had brought with her. There were lights between her mother’s vases and her paintings on the wall. Two of Elena’s friends were dancing under the kitchen tinsel. She stood by the door by the concrete steps under the rose bush branches.

  But why did you ask us all to wear white? Elena had said.

  Because—

  shhh

  Ten!

  Because—

  sh

  Nine!

  Eight

  Seven

  Six

  Five

  Four

  Three

  Two

  ONE

  Happy

  Happy happy new feliz

  Feliz ano

  Feliz dois mil e HAPPYNEWYEAR

  And at the end of the night when they had all left at the end of the first day of the new ano novo she saw that someone had left a bicycle.

  She had a good job at a big name organisation. It wasn’t permanent but each time her contract ended another had come and then another. One time it was plastic surgery, the next time playboys with yachts and this time kidnappings. It turned out 2015 was going to be another important year for Latin America’s biggest democracy! So she had stayed in London for Christmas because of work while her parents had gone to Brazil. It was so expensive there was no point going for just a few days anyway.

  In mid late December, in the moments before her parents had left, they stood in the corridor by the front door with their two suitcases.

  But will you be warm enough?

  Yes.

  But—should I show you how to change the settings on the boiler again?

  No.

  And do you have enough cash for dog food?

  Yes.

  Her mum pouted.

  Her mum said—You know I didn’t want to go without you but Vovô is getting old and—

  No no obviously, of course Mum.

  Okay. Her mum hugged h
er and almost tearing up, her mum said—Okay then baby.

  Okay.

  Vovô will be very impressed that your job is so important.

  Yes.

  Okay then

  Okay

  Bye

  Byebye

  Bye

  I love you

  Bye.

  She closed the door.

  Later, at night in the big and empty house she ran herself a hot bath with bubbles and put music on.

  She got in the bath. She lit two big candles and then turned the lights off. She left the door open. There was no reason for her to get dressed or make herself meals or turn the lights on. She felt her hands turn soft.

  She had planned to spend hours in this bath. But everywhere was so dark. The whole house was quiet for her.

  She moved her body in the water.

  She got out and lay in her bed.

  She worked up until the 23rd. On Christmas Eve she woke up late in the dark morning in her dark room at the top of the big and empty house. She lay there with her eyes closed for the whole of the morning until she became hungry. Then she put on socks and turned on the landing light. She fed the dog. She made breakfast food at lunchtime and ate it on the sofa.

  For her parents it would still only be the morning. They’d arranged to call her in the afternoon after they got back from the beach and after they’d all had lunch.

  She lay on the sofa.

  She waited on the sofa with the dog all day through the end of their night and their morning and then their afternoon, until it was time for them to call. Outside was dark.

  They had arranged to call her before they did the presents. When they eventually rang, they passed her round on an ipad.

  She spoke to them, headless, wearing her dressing gown. Vovô, vovó, Ana Paula, Marcos, mumãe, papai, all bright, bright colours blue orange green yellow amarelo green around them.

  Feliz Natal!

  Feliz Natal

  Feliz Natal querida!

  Is it cold there?

  Sim! Yes very.

  It’s very sunny here very hot!

  Looks lovely.

  Que saudade

  Feliz Natal prima!

  We were at the praia this morning