by kc dyer
Desperation grips me, and I slide my arm into his and pull him close. “Hi, honey,” I say brightly. “Yes, we were telling this nice officer how we’re off to Hong Kong in a couple of hours.”
Dominic looks anxious, but he plasters on a smile too as he fans out the ship tickets to show the officer.
“All very good, very good,” the officer says, tucking his notebook back in his pocket. “Now I need to see the girl’s passport, and yours too, sir.”
I feel him stiffen beside me, but Dominic digs out his own passport, and hands it over silently. The officer flips through it and hands it back without even really looking at it. “And the girl’s?” he says, his voice taking on an oily quality I don’t like at all.
“She’s—she’s our niece,” blurts Dominic. “In America, minors can travel on their guardian’s passport.”
Behind the officer, I can see the whites of Sumaya’s eyes widen in the shadows. Not even a fourteen-year-old buys this excuse. I see her take a cautious step sideways, to free herself of the danger of Dominic’s backpack straps, and realize with a sudden jolt of fear that she’s going to make a run for it.
Which is exactly what happens.
And which is how she ends up dangling by the elbows from the arms of two substantially burlier officers who step out of the alley behind us.
* * *
—
So it is that while Dominic follows the men, who turn out to be immigration officers, to plead Sumaya’s case, I dash into the nearby customs building, clutching Ganesh’s card. And while I have no Bengali, the clerk, after a long discussion with Ganesh—and apparently the ship’s captain—over the telephone, agrees to issue Sumaya some kind of a refugee travel document.
“This is valid only on the condition of her departure from the country,” he says to me. “We cannot, of course, guarantee the reception of the refugee in the receiving country, and she will be refused reentry to India.”
After I show him our tickets on the ship, he stamps the form at last, before escorting me out the door. “Your ship departs in less than an hour,” he says pointedly. “Make sure you are on it.”
He flicks out the light switch and locks the door behind us.
Dashing back to the place Sumaya and Dominic disappeared into earlier, I find what essentially looks like a lock-up in every Western movie I’ve ever seen. With a Bengali in the role of sheriff.
The man sits at a desk in front of a jail cell with iron bars cemented in place from floor to ceiling. There are five plastic chairs—all empty—neatly lined up in a row, facing the desk. The sight of the cell reminds me of my experience in Port Said, and it takes all my strength of will to march through the door into the room.
Spotting Sumaya standing inside the cell does the trick, though I’m startled to see Dominic sitting inside with her, instead of in the waiting area. I can’t ask him why, however, as when I enter the room, I discover the incarceration cell is behind a wall of presumably bulletproof Perspex.
Just as well I hadn’t tried to blast them out.
When I approach the desk, the seated man gestures with his pen at the LED lights on the wall, which spell out the number 142. He then redirects his pen, pointing toward a ticket dispenser by the door. I hurry back to collect a ticket, only to find my number is 143. I race back to the desk and place Sumaya’s document in front of him.
“I’m here to collect the girl, Sumaya Warsame?”
Without meeting my eye, the man reaches into his desk drawer and begins to fill out a double-sided long form.
Several times during this ponderous process, I reach across the desk to point out the departure time on our tickets, but my pleas for speed do not affect his form-filling rate in the slightest. When he finally comes to the end of the second side of the form, he stamps it with the date and signs his name, before sliding it back across the desk, along with Sumaya’s travel document. I snatch them both up, and move over to stand by the door of the cell, only to see the man pull a second form out of his desk. From another drawer, he retrieves what is clearly Dominic’s passport, and then begins anew the agonizing, laborious project of completing the second form.
* * *
—
Twenty endless minutes later, the three of us are running down the pier toward the assigned berth of our Hong Kong steamer. It’s full dark outside, of course, but the pier is lit with sodium bulbs that cast a vivid orange glow along the entire length. A pair of seaplanes are moored to one side, bobbing in the river’s current, while two or three wiry old geezers, all stripped to the waist, load goods into the back of one of the planes. It must have rained while we were inside, as the pier is peppered with large puddles, and the air smells like wet rope and seaweed, with a trace of cigarette smoke from the old guys.
As we run, Sumaya, who was apparently not at all bothered by her jail experience, tells me how she spent most of the time testing out new stand-up material on the burly guards.
“Do you speak Bengali?” I gasp, as we take the last corner.
“No. But Dom laughed, so the guards knew it was funny, and they laughed too.”
Suddenly, a loud low tone fills the air. We hurtle up the dock to see the steamer is already more than a hundred yards into the shipping channel. Skidding to a stop, we reach the gangway as the ship’s horn sounds again—a final, irreversible indicator that we have indeed, missed the boat.
chapter forty
IMAGE: Street Vendor
IG: Romy_K [Kolkata, India, April 15]
#MissedtheBoat #GoingAirborne
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After a panicky discussion dockside, we can’t come to an agreement. Dom argues for hiring a motorboat to overtake the ship, but I’m too worried it won’t see us in the dark. And what if we go to the expense and it doesn’t stop for us? In the end, we decide to head back to the place the rik driver dropped us, as Sumaya insists she spotted a hotel sign in English on the street. Around us, the street vendors are packing up their wares. Bananas, gold bangles, and knock-off sneakers are all being carefully packed into boxes. As we reach the corner of the pier, I agree to at least look into Dominic’s idea, so we pause under the lights to examine the map on my phone.
It’s a long way to Hong Kong.
The marina office is further along the pier, in the opposite direction of the street, so we agree to split up and meet in thirty minutes. Dominic trots off toward the marina office, and Sumaya and I head in the direction of the possible hotel.
We’ve only gone maybe three steps when a voice comes out of the darkness.
“Hong Kong, did yah say?”
The voice belongs to one of the men we’d run by earlier. He is quite possibly the tiniest, wiriest man I’ve ever met. His skin is brown as a nut, and his face gnarls up like a dried apple as he draws on a cigarette.
Sumaya and I listen silently as he speaks. And truthfully? While what he says scares the shit out of me, it just might be a solution to our problem.
* * *
—
Ten minutes later, the sound of footsteps running along the pier coalesces into the shape of Dominic. He slows as he sees us, still standing almost exactly where he left us, and his face is puzzled as he hurries up.
“No luck. The marina office is closed,” he says, panting a little. “But it opens really early. We can head over there first thing in the morning. Did you find us a place to stay?”
“We didn’t look,” I admit. My heart is pounding, and I’m not sure if it’s from the absurdity of our possible new plan, or the simple fear that saying it aloud will make it real.
“I have—another idea.”
“A better idea,” adds Sumaya, eyes gleaming in the darkness.
There’s a clanking sound followed by a low rumble behind us, and the small man steps off the plane’s float and back into the puddle of orange light on the pier.
“All preflight checks complete,” he says, lighting a fresh cigarette from the stub of his old one. “Ready to take your gear on board.”
“Our gear on board?” repeats Dominic faintly.
“Dominic, this is Klahan Wattana. He’s a pilot from . . .”
“Thailand,” offers Wattana. He reaches out a hand and Dominic shakes it. “Been a pilot since I was with the marines in the war.”
“He’s about to depart on his regular flight to Hong Kong,” I add.
“In a plane,” says Sumaya, directing a beaming smile up at him. “Like a real plane, Dom!”
“Can I—ah—talk to you for a minute, Romy?” Dominic says, and I follow him a few steps to the right. This takes us out of the puddle of light from the streetlamp. Behind us, I see Sumaya handing my suitcase over to Klahan Wattana, who hoists it into the back of the plane.
“A pilot since he was in the war?” hisses Dominic. “What war?”
“I—ah—didn’t ask him that,” I say. “But I saw his paperwork. It looks legit. And he’s not worried about bringing Sumaya. In fact, he says it will be easier for us, since he’s landing at a private airstrip.”
Dominic waves his hand wildly in the direction of the plane, which is now fully lit up with lights on both wings.
“Even so—he’s an airplane pilot. Isn’t that against the rules?”
Strangely enough, having to defend my idea is making me more enthusiastic.
Or, at least a bit less scared.
“Look,” I say firmly. “He makes a regular monthly flight to Hong Kong. The plane is not a commercial aircraft, okay? His specialty is flying seafood back and forth across Malaysia, but he says he’s modified the plane to take passengers. And he’ll take us right now, Dom. Instead of a week, we can be in Hong Kong in a matter of hours.”
“Holy shit,” he says quietly, and then glances over his shoulder. “All the way in that little plane?”
“Yes. It’s a pontoon plane, modified from”—I pause to check the flyer Klahan handed me earlier—“an old Canadian Beaver. It was a bush plane, so not as many comforts as a commercial jet, but it’ll get us there.”
For the first time, Dominic snickers. “Really? A Canadian bush plane?” He holds out a hand and I give him the flyer, which describes the services offered by Klahan’s company in English, Bengali, and what might be Cantonese. He glances over it and then nods his approval. “Seems legit.”
“Not much different than your helicopter, really. And Teresa didn’t say no planes at all, right?”
“You have a helicopter?” Sumaya says to Dominic as she walks up. “I’ve always wanted to ride in a helicopter!”
“It wasn’t his,” I say to her shortly. I can’t help feeling disappointed that Dominic is not more impressed with my success. “We hitched a ride in one before we met you. Are you in, Dominic? He says he’s ready to leave.”
Dominic steps back into the lamplight, pausing to look from my face to Sumaya’s and back.
“Are you sure about this?” he mutters. Behind him, I see Klahan step across from the edge of the dock onto the pontoon of his plane.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I stare up at him. “It’s only—he’s here. It’ll get us there faster. And . . .”
“And I think it’s a brilliant idea,” adds Sumaya. “By this time tomorrow, I could be with Auntie Nkruna.”
Dominic takes a big shaky breath, and then puts a hand on Sumaya’s shoulder.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Before I change my mind.”
I feel a little less sure of things myself as Klahan helps the three of us into the back of the plane.
“Is that—duct tape?” I say, pointing to a silver patch on the inside of the door.
Klahan shrugs. “It inside door. Don’t matter so much on inside.” He slaps the fuselage of the plane fondly as Sumaya clambers up the fold-out steps. “This old gal strong as ox.”
“I hope so,” I say, climbing over my suitcase to reach the seats. “I really hope so.”
Sumaya practically levitates through to her own seat, her face alight with excitement. “Alhamdulila! We get to fly!”
She holds up the ends of the seatbelt.
“Peace be on his name,” says Dominic, absently, as he shows her how to clip the seatbelt in place. He hands her his earphones, which she immediately places right over her hijab.
“And luck on ours,” he whispers to me. “Are you sure this thing is actually airworthy?”
“You doubt me?” says Klahan, appearing out of nowhere. His voice is low—different than before. Growly. “You doubt my plane? My angel?”
“No, no . . .” begins Dom, lifting his hands placatingly. “It’s only . . .”
“YOU DOUBT ME?” yells Klahan. A little saliva flies onto Dominic’s face.
Dominic, thoroughly alarmed, leans back. “No, man, it’s . . .”
“Good!” says Klahan, suddenly grinning. He reaches with one thumb and wipes the drop of spittle off Dom’s forehead. “’Cos that would be cray-zee.”
He pulls the door closed, then pushes past Dominic and swings himself into the pilot’s seat.
Dom looks at me, the whites showing all the way around his irises. You sure about this? he mouths.
The engine revs, loud and long, drowning out any possibility of a reply. I give up trying to talk, shoot Dom a tremulous smile, and strap myself into a seat beside Sumaya. She is still beaming all over her face, having missed the little exchange, and bopping to whatever is coming through Dom’s earphones instead.
Dom is still trying to find the buckle side of his seatbelt when the little plane starts to taxi. In seconds, we’re hurtling along the water, bouncing so much as we hit each wave in the river that I’m convinced we’ll never make it in one piece, when suddenly—the plane is airborne.
“WHOO-hoo!” shrieks Sumaya, throwing her arms in the air.
And we’re on our way.
chapter forty-one
IMAGE: Singapore Immigration Document
IG: Romy_K [Airborne over SE Asia, April 16]
#BayofBengal #DeathtoDrugTraffickers
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Klahan handles the plane as if he was born in a pilot’s seat, which boosts my confidence long enough to get us in the air, at least. Maybe takeoffs are always this bumpy in a small plane? But even after we burst through the grey mass of cloud, the plane never seems to settle, trying its best to rattle my teeth right out of my head. It’s far too noisy to talk, so I plug in my earbuds and scroll through the playlist on my phone. According to the screen, it’s after midnight Kolkata time. Exhaustion hits me like a truck, but with the shaking of this tiny plane, there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep.
When I can’t sleep at home, I generally find that something orchestral does the trick, but at the moment, all I can find for some reason is Wagner. Since it already feels like we are living through the “Ride of the Valkyries,” I give up and switch it off.
The thing about flying, I am learning, is there is room for a certain clarity of thought. I pull my notebook out of my daypack and uncap my pen.
Things considered while flying over the Bay of Bengal:
1. No one stamped my passport when I collected Sumaya and Dom. Why?
2. Speaking of Dominic . . .
3. Point #2 is evidence of the fact that I don’t know how to put my thoughts on this man into words.
4. I think he might be growing on me. I refuse to commit to more than that.
5. Something has happened since Sumaya entered the picture. All I can see is his obvious concern for her, and his kindness. It’s given me a better look at who he is.
6. Maybe at who I am too?
7. I whispered #6 when I wrote it out, mostly because I remembered what Mrs. Gupta said on the train. Man, that lady could stitch.
8. In any c
ase, once Sumaya is safely with her auntie in Hong Kong, we can flip the switch back into competition mode.
9. After all, this flight is knocking a ton of time off our journey. Suddenly, meeting Teresa Cipher’s deadline for the ExLibris position seems—well, not assured, but back within the realm of possibility.
10. Yep. Point #2 notwithstanding, after Hong Kong, all bets are off.
Sometime after we’ve been in midair for an eternity or two, Klahan waves at us and snaps his fingers. Dom’s brows draw together at this, and as he staggers forward, I have a moment to wonder how often Frank Venal summons him in a similar manner. After a moment he’s back, and kneels beside me to tell me that Klahan is planning to refuel in Singapore.
“I thought we were flying direct,” I say, when the plane gives a giant buck, and Dom’s head smacks hard against the metal ceiling of the cabin.
“You okay?” I shout as he drops into his seat and scrabbles around for his belt.
Safely buckled in, Dom smiles. “Luckily I have a hard head,” he says ruefully. “But I did bite my tongue.”
One wing dips suddenly, and all the saliva dries up in my mouth. Dom reaches over and pats one of my knees.
“Everything okay up there?” he bellows at Klahan.
“No worry—all good,” Klahan yells back as the plane shudders again. “We fly over little cyclone. Few air bumps.”
Little cyclone? Dom mouths at me.
I swallow hard and glance from him to Sumaya. Her eyes are glued to the window and she’s beaming.
No worries there, for sure.
The plane goes through a series of quick lurches, the air beneath us suddenly feeling as if it is made from corduroy, and I clutch both the armrests with a death grip. The act of grabbing the left armrest means I knock Dominic’s elbow off, and I can feel his gaze turn to me.
“You okay?” he asks as the plane makes a substantial dip.
