Eighty Days to Elsewhere

by kc dyer

  “Loads of room,” she announces cheerfully. “I didn’t see how the seats folded flat. It’s brilliant!”

  Dominic leaps in, bumping into me. When I turn to protest, I see that he’s been pushed by Klahan, who clambers in behind Dom and into the pilot seat.

  “This fine machine,” he chortles as he settles himself in his seat and flips a few switches. “Turbo charge.”

  “Look, Klahan—before we take off, I need to know. Why no customs in Kolkata? Are you smuggling this stuff? Including—including us?”

  Without a word, Klahan reaches under the copilot’s seat and pulls out a clipboard.

  “Customs paperwork here—all complete before I even meet you,” he says evenly. “You show me your papers from customs office. No smuggling. Smuggling for losers.”

  “It’s just when you said there was a change of plan . . .”

  He looks so hurt, I take a step forward, but he holds up a hand. “Change of plan from private runway to Seletar,” he says, smacking his own chest. “I am a marine!”

  My face must have reflected my inner turmoil at these words, because Klahan lifts one arm and points to the seat beside him. “You sit? Keep tabs, I not a criminal?”

  But before I’ve even shaken my head, a figure zips past me.

  “I will!” yells Sumaya, and plops herself down beside Klahan. She brushes pizza crumbs off her fingers and beams at him.

  I try to apologize for insulting his character, but Klahan gives my stuttering attempts a dismissive wave and hands a pair of headphones to Sumaya.

  I trail into the back as the engine revs, shooting a glance over my shoulder up at Sumaya. I can only see the top of her head, which now sports a pair of earphones over her neat blue hijab.

  Dom takes a seat across from me, and because of the configuration, our knees are almost touching. He reaches across to pat my hands, now clenched tightly in my lap.

  “I’ve totally insulted him,” I mutter. “We’re doomed. He’s going to throw me out with one of these parachutes.”

  “It’ll be okay,” Dom says over the noise of the revving engine. “He’s a professional. He knows what he’s doing.”

  And entirely remarkably, he’s right.

  The plane is noisy and the seats uncomfortable, but once we’re up and away, there’s little of the rattle and shake that characterized our first flight. Dom almost immediately closes his eyes, his head resting against the pile of parachutes strapped in beside his seat. Up front, I can hear Klahan laughing even over the noise of the engines, a sure sign that Sumaya is testing out some of her new material again. I hope our pilot’s good mood extends to all his passengers, even the ones with a perhaps too-obsessive need for the paperwork to be in place.

  I pull my hoodie out of my daypack, bundle it behind my head, and lean back. The noise of the plane’s engine laboring upward quite perfectly reflects my roiling thoughts at the moment. Across from me, Dom’s face has relaxed into sleep, his long lashes wafting across cheekbones that have, I notice for the first time, a scattering of freckles. The cabin is pressurized, but chilly, and even in his sleep I can see goose bumps on his arms. I idly wonder about leaning across and tracing the line of his biceps, where it disappears into the sleeve of his shirt.

  Another roar of laughter from Klahan jerks me out of my reverie. It jerks the plane, too, a little, which is unsettling, but nothing less than I deserve. What am I even thinking? Sitting here, mooning at Dominic’s arm muscles. And the soft, soft skin of his lips. It’s been a long time since I have felt lips so soft. Maybe—never?

  Shit. I give myself another shake for good measure. Dominic is the enemy, for goodness’ sake. Okay. Maybe not the enemy, but at the very least, he’s the competition. When this plane lands, we’ll work together to get Sumaya safely into the hands of her auntie, and then? It’ll be on again. The race—my race—to save the bookshop. I need to be first across the threshold of ExLibris when this whole thing is over. There can be no other option.

  Dragging my eyes away from the slightly damp curls at the nape of Dom’s neck, I lean forward to peek into the cockpit. I can just glimpse one side of Sumaya’s animated face. She’s strapped with two shoulder belts into the copilot’s seat, but even so, I can see her gesturing with her hands, eyes bright and a giant grin across her face. My heart swells at the joy that pours off her in waves, and I’m suddenly awash in shame. Any difficulties I’ve faced making my own way in the world seem embarrassingly dwarfed by everything that Sumaya’s been through.

  The plane has leveled out, so I risk unsnapping my seatbelt, and shuffle forward, dropping to my knees in the spot between the two pilot’s seats.

  Sumaya turns her smile on me. “You want a try?” she says, reaching for her seatbelt buckle.

  I shake my head hurriedly. “Just checking you’re okay.”

  Her expression shifts to incredulous. “Are you kidding? I’m brilliant!” She waves a hand to take in the endless, deeply green forest, with fluffy clouds like too-thinly stretched cotton, tangled in the treetops far below.

  The sight of the view outside the window gives me vertigo, so instead I focus on Sumaya. “I think you might be the bravest kid I’ve ever met,” I blurt.

  This makes her laugh delightedly, but when she sees I’m serious, she fires off one of her patented teenage eye-rolls.

  “You need to meet more people, Romy,” she says, which makes Klahan laugh far more than the joke deserved.

  Duly chastised by both of them, I head back to my seat as the plane rumbles through the sky above the dense forests of Southeast Asia.

  * * *

  —

  I distinctly remember snapping myself back into my seat across from a gently snoring travel companion. But the next thing I know, my head is bobbing and my ears crackling. Through the cockpit window, the sun reflects on the deep blue of the ocean below us. We swoop in over a collection of islands—a dozen, or maybe a dozen dozen, poking up through the sea, like the green backs of oddly shaped turtles. The plane circles once, then twice, while Klahan shouts into his headset. And then, gentle as the wafting of a butterfly’s wing, we settle down onto one of the smooth, endless runways of the international airport in Hong Kong.

  chapter forty-three

  IMAGE: Hong Kong Runway

  IG: Romy_K [Hong Kong, April 16]

  #SouthChinaSea #NotaNewYorkMansplain

  580

  From the air, Hong Kong International Airport looks enormous. Perhaps because we are not a commercial flight, our plane is directed over to a small cluster of buildings—hangars and trailers and definitely not the jetways of the mammoth airport I can see across the tarmac. As we roll to a stop, Sumaya yawns and stretches in her seat, and I feel relieved that she got some sleep too.

  When Klahan opens the door and swings the steps down, the cabin fills with hot damp air. A diesel-scented sauna. I’m instantly coated in a sheen of sweat.

  “You stay,” says Klahan, pointing at Sumaya, who blinks sleepily. “And you? Wait with,” he adds, gesturing at me. “We mans go. Sort things out.”

  To give him credit, Dom looks a little startled at this. “I don’t know . . .” he begins, but we’re on the ground now, and I’m all over this shit.

  “Forget it,” I say, pushing myself in front of Dominic so I can get right up in Klahan’s face. “Sumaya and I don’t need a man to speak for us. I’m perfectly capable . . .”

  “Who speak in Singapore?” Klahan interrupts.

  “I did,” I say, but Dom waves me off.

  “We both did. Romy’s right. She can handle things herself. She can be pretty articulate, when she has to be.”

  His eyes crinkle and I can see he’s doing that thing he does to make light of a situation. To de-escalate, maybe. Mansplaining, still, but at least it’s in my defense.

  Klahan turns back to me. “You speak in Singapore,�
� he says. “And they deny.”

  He holds his hands up as I try to explain myself. “No bullshit me. I hear on radio. Any case, it’s not you, it’s her,” he adds, jamming a thumb at Sumaya. “Old society, China. Mans still make decisions.”

  “This isn’t China,” I retort. “It’s Hong Kong. And our company ExLibris, they—she—has applied for our visas. They should be waiting for us.”

  Klahan crosses his arms over his chest, and inhales deeply through his nose before he speaks.

  “I say again. Visas for you, yes. But Hong Kong still China. More than ever. More this year than last year. Next year more still. I think you get in, I do. You two—you leave right away. Need transfer visa. But girl? Girl get in as helper. Big helper culture here. Need mans to sort out. You not in America now. Not everything same as New York.”

  And this, of course, shuts me up.

  Klahan turns and swings himself down the steps onto the tarmac.

  “You okay with this?” Dom mutters. “It’s only—I’ve never been here. I think we might need to trust him.”

  I glare out the door at Klahan’s retreating back for a minute, before I throw up my hands.

  “Okay—go, go. But I’m not happy about this.”

  I slam down the jump seat next to Sumaya’s and plop myself into it. She’s shaken off her sleepiness and is bright-eyed once more.

  “Just so you know, in law, women are treated equally to men,” I say to her huffily.

  Her lips curl upwards. “I know this is true,” she says. “But sometimes it is good to accept help, yes?”

  I slump back in my seat, but before I can muster all my arguments, she speaks again. “I planned for a long time to escape the camp,” she says quietly. “I had it all worked out. But some things I did not plan for. The boat taking on water. You and Dom letting me hide on the train.”

  To my surprise and horror, her eyes fill with tears. This kid has not cried once—not when her tiny boat was sinking, not at the jail in Kolkata.

  “Even if I hide on the train, the guards stop me at the end. Send me back to camp. Without you and Dom, I would be back there already.”

  “No—no,” I stutter. So much for being articulate. “I mean, you would have found a way, Sumaya. I’ve never met anyone with the guts you have.”

  This makes her laugh a little, and she wipes away the tears as they spill over. “All I am saying is sometimes things don’t go as you plan. When someone offers help, maybe if you accept, it makes it easier when it’s your turn to help someone else, yes . . . ?”

  Her voice trails away, and we sit there quietly, side by side, for a few minutes. This kid is so much wiser than I am, it’s depressing. I hope she’s right this time too.

  Through the open doorway, all the sounds and smells of a major international airport float in on the steamy air. The smell of airplane gasoline is overlaid with something else. Sweet, and floral and lovely.

  Still.

  “It feels hotter here than in Singapore,” I mutter, and try fanning myself with a skydiving flyer, printed in English and Cantonese. This only seems to move the hot air around the cabin even faster, so I stop after a minute or two.

  Beside me, Sumaya looks unbothered by the heat. Where my shirt is already bearing two large damp patches under the arms, her hijab rests, unmarked by moisture, against her smooth brown face. She’s wiped away all traces of tears, but her eyes are still bright.

  “Here they come,” she says, leaning forward, clasping her hands.

  Sure enough, Klahan is marching back across the tarmac, trailed by a small, dark-haired man and then Dom, towering over them both, bringing up the rear with his long, loping stride.

  I reach over and pat her tightly squeezed hands. “Well, let’s see where sending the men in has gotten us, shall we?”

  The trio stop at the foot of the steps leading to the plane, and Klahan turns to speak to the Chinese man in what I guess is Cantonese. They both bow several times, and then the man hands a manila envelope to Klahan, who bows again as he accepts it. This process is repeated, without the Chinese conversation, as Dom shakes the man’s hand, and bows awkwardly.

  The man then takes the first step onto the plane stairs, and pokes his head in the door.

  “Welcome,” he says, and gives each of us a cheerful wave before he steps back out.

  After a final round of handshakes and bows, he strides away, back toward the low hut.

  Without a word, Klahan marches round to the cargo hatch at the rear of the plane.

  Dom bounds on board. “We’re in,” he says joyfully. “Transit visa only for us, twenty-four-hour limit. We need to get this girl to her auntie’s and be on our way.”

  He holds up three small cards. “Train tickets into the city,” he says. “Let’s go.”

  So that’s what we do.

  * * *

  —

  Our goodbye to Klahan is short, and gruff, at least on his part. When I try to thank him, he brushes it off.

  “I coming here already, bring cargo. Had room to give you a ride. No thanks needed.”

  But he can’t hold on to the gruff exterior when Sumaya throws her arms around his neck.

  “My copilot,” he says, clapping her on the back. “You fly back see me next time, you have your own plane, yes?”

  Her smile says it all.

  chapter forty-four

  IMAGE DETAIL: Hong Kong Train

  IG: Romy_K [Hong Kong Island, April 16]

  #AmericansAbroad #NameInLights

  3700

  We have arrived at the hottest part of the day, and the pavement around us steams as we step out of the terminal. To one side, the tarmac sweeps all the way down to a spot where it is lapped by the water of the South China Sea. Inside the train station, everything is ultramodern. Unlike most of the MTA stations in New York, these trains have glass and steel doors between the platform and the track. You have to be inventive to throw yourself in front of a train in Hong Kong, is all I’m saying.

  We have reserved seats, which involves a trek through the train cars until we find the correct one, but I don’t mind a bit. The train is air-conditioned, and I for one am not complaining.

  As we glide smoothly along the tracks into the city, Sumaya’s nose is glued to the window, and I’m right behind her. The airport itself perches on an island in the South China Sea that, from what I can see, appears to be made up entirely of concrete runways. But as soon as we pull away from the airport, an astonishing range of scenery unfolds outside the windows of the train. We follow a chain of islands linked by bridges all the way into the city. Sumaya, who has borrowed my phone on the promise that once she is with her auntie I will forward all my pictures to her, is snapping away through the glass.

  I feel a hand on my arm and turn to see Dominic is holding up his phone. I take it from him and see that he’s been searching ships crossing the Pacific. There are two scheduled to depart Hong Kong harbor in the next twenty-four hours. One to Vancouver via Yokohama, and the other straight through to San Francisco.

  Bingo.

  I hand the phone back, and then, because I can’t help it, I reach over and squeeze Sumaya’s hand. The thought of carrying on this journey without her, even once she’s been safely delivered into the arms of her family, is something I can hardly bear to think about.

  Sumaya slides over so I can see out the window beside her. We travel along the azure coastline, the color of the water deepening as the clouds above us begin to break up. The water lies flat, corrugated with tiny ridges, and overslung with bridges linking the many islands. Then, proving the world is far, far smaller than it appears to someone desperately trying to race around it, the train stops at a station, and all the remaining seats are filled by travelers wearing—mouse ears. It’s the connection to the Hong Kong Disneyland Resort, and for a short time, anyway, the carriage
is filled with accents that remind me of home.

  One family approaches the open seats across from ours, and the child, a small girl with a pink polka-dot bow between her Minnie ears, bounces into the seat by the window. The child’s mother, no ears but decked out head to toe in Yves Saint Laurent, including handbag, snatches her daughter’s hand up and physically hauls her out of the seat.

  She ignores Dom and gives me a tight, red-lipped smile. “We’re supposed to sit with our own people, Maddie-Jo, honey,” she says to the girl.

  “But I want a window,” whines Maddie-Jo.

  Sumaya turns away from the view and smiles up at the mother. “These seats are free,” she says politely.

  The smile freezes on the mother’s face, and she jerks the child out into the aisle. “Daddy’s got better seats for us in the next car,” she hisses, dragging the now-sniveling Maddie-Jo behind her. “With the rest of the tour group.”

  They vanish up the aisle.

  Sumaya gives me a little shrug and a smile, and turns back to the view. On the other side of me, Dom, who has not said a word during this whole exchange, releases a long breath.

  I start to climb over him, but he reaches up and puts a hand on my arm. “Let it go,” he says in a quiet voice.

  By this time, I have one leg in the aisle, and the other awkwardly jammed between his. As I try to step my second leg into the aisle, he closes his knees, trapping my leg between his.

  “Look. They were American. I need to say something.”

  “Let it go,” he repeats, this time shooting a glance at Sumaya. She hasn’t noticed our little battle of wills, and is still focused on taking pictures. The train takes a hard right, and outside the window the view of the sea is replaced by a busy freeway. Above us, the hillsides are neatly terraced, filled with trees decked in the fresh green of springtime.

  His leg strength might be superior to mine, but I’m feeling more furious by the second. “I need to say something,” I repeat, struggling to free my leg. He’s actually crossed his ankles by now, a tactic that does, in fact, defeat me.