Strangers: A Novel(84)
“We talked about this several times already, Joanna. The notion of a god in human form is simply lost on me, even if I do come into this church at times.”
She turns toward me, gives me a serious look.
“Is it because your parents died so young?”
Exactly the same question she asked me before when we were talking about this. And my answer was the same then as it is now. “No. I felt like that before as well. I just don’t believe in his existence.”
We sit there in silence for a while, dwelling upon our individual thoughts. Joanna seems to be satisfied with my answer. Then she digs around in her purse, pulls out her phone, and unlocks it. “I have to call my father and tell him we’re not at home anymore, that they should pick us up from here.”
I nod.
“Hi, Dad,” Joanna says. “Just wanted to let you know we’re not at home anymore. We thought it would be better not to stay there … No, I’m fine … In a church … Yes … To the airport? A bit more than an hour … Yes I do … A cab? But why aren’t we … Because we didn’t feel safe there anymore … I don’t think anyone will find us here … Yes, that’s right … So straight to the GAT?… OK … Yes. Bye, Dad.”
Joanna lowers her hand, still holding the phone. “My father wants us to take a cab to the airport. He thinks the lounge of the General Aviation Terminal will be safer than this place. That’s the terminal for private aircraft. He’ll make sure they’ll take us in there.”
“Hmm…” I think we’re actually quite safe in this church. On the other hand, the thought of a lounge with something to eat and drink is quite pleasant, too. And it’ll make the time pass more quickly if we take a cab to the airport.
“OK, fine by me. When should we leave?”
“Right now. Actually, I’d be glad if we can get out of here a bit earlier.”
“Can you call us a cab?”
She makes the call. Then she puts the phone back into her handbag and gets to her feet. “OK, let’s go. It’ll be here in two minutes.”
We wait inside the church. I’ve pulled the door slightly ajar and look outside every couple of seconds.
The cab must only have been a few streets away when Joanna called; it doesn’t even take two minutes before it pulls up.
The driver cocks his head when we tell him the destination. “I’d have to charge a special rate to go there.”
I don’t understand. “What’s that supposed to mean? You have a meter.”
“Yes, but I have to drive back the entire way without a fare because I’m not allowed to pick up passengers at the airport. It’s outside my area. I have to charge thirty euros extra to go to the airport.”
“Fine. Just drive,” Joanna says, agitated.
The taxi meter reads 184.60 euros when we arrive at the glass-roofed GAT hall an hour and five minutes later.
Joanna thrusts two hundred and twenty euros into the driver’s hand and gets out of the car. She waits until I’m alongside her, then nods toward the building. “It’s best if you let me talk to them, OK?”
We walk toward the entrance side by side, and I suddenly feel as though I’m just a hanger-on. As we go into this fancy terminal, it’s like we’ve left the pitiful remainder of the world we shared behind us for good and entered another world, one that’s completely normal to Joanna but completely foreign to me. The world of rich people.
The hall is bathed in a warm light, the atmosphere very inviting. Joanna heads over to the information desk. She talks to a friendly young woman who, after finishing the conversation, reaches for her handset and speaks to someone on it.
I reckon I’ll probably have to show my ID at some point as well. Hopefully my name won’t be on any lists relating to what happened at the train station. Who knows what ideas the investigators might get in their heads if someone who was allegedly at the station during the explosion has vanished, with no trace of a body.
“You coming?” Joanna tears me from my thoughts and points at a brightly lit passageway labeled Passport Inspection/Federal Border Guard.
“Dad’s sorted everything out. We’re expected up in the VIP lounge.”
It seems I’m not on any sort of list, as the rotund border guard checks my passport silently and impassively, then hands it back to me and nods. I can go through.
Joanna walks purposefully toward a set of stairs with a white railing, I traipse after her. Two minutes and twenty-six steps later, we enter another world altogether.
The modern yet tasteful atmosphere of the VIP lounge envelops us. Joanna shows her ID to a young staff member, who gives us a knowing nod and leads us past dark, comfortable-looking leather environs to a table laid out in white. Apparently Daddy’s organized a late breakfast for us while he was at it. Though, when I see all the food being wheeled to the table on top of two trolleys, I wonder how many people he was assuming would be here.
I make a remark to this effect, and immediately feel Joanna’s discomfort. She’s visibly struggling with having slipped back into the role of the well-heeled daughter.
“You’re going to like being in Australia,” she says while I’m eating my scrambled eggs.
“Yeah, maybe,” I reply. “But how do you think your father … or indeed, how are you going to like showing up back home with a complete stranger in tow? A stranger to your family, and to you as well?”