Read Online The Meeting Point by Austin Clarke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Austin Clarke
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and she wished she had never left Barbados.
“Have a nice holiday, ma’am,” the Chinese woman said, “and goodnight.” She smiled, and took Estelle’s parcel from one hand, and placed it under Estelle’s armpit. She was now able to negotiate the shaking cold iron steps better. Half-way down, she looked back up at the Chinese stewardess for moral support, and the smile on the latter’s face carried her safely down the steps. But still, Estelle was not in a good mood. In her mind she carried the face of a small boy, who had looked at her during the flight, and had then looked at his mother and shouted, “Aunt Jemima.” It could have been that the woman was not his mother; that she was his aunt, Jemima. But Estelle assumed immediately that he was calling
her
Aunt Jemima. After the incident, the Chinese lady (Estelle felt she was the only lady on the plane) had given her some chewing gum, and a copy of
Maclean’s
to read. The Chinese lady had winked at her, when the other stewardesses were not looking, and had nudged her and said, “Never mind.”
She was walking in the dead-man night, in the long line of passengers, filing like crabs, shuffling and scratching; silent as monks and nuns going to vespers. The line was going towards a door at which a man in white coveralls was standing. He held a torchlight in his hand. The bulb was red. He was the same man who had brought the plane to a stop, with the same red-bulbed torchlight. Now, he held the light, the bulb off, pretending that it was nothing at all for him to bring a big jet aeroplane safely from air to ground. He didn’t even smile himself a pat on the back! “This way, please, this way, please,” he was saying. When Estelle drew alongside him, he stared at her; and a puzzled look came to his face. Estellebecame tense. Looks are so deceiving, Estelle, so deceiving … the man was staring at her because the temperature was
ten degrees below zero
; and he, a born Canadian, wrapped in two pairs of longjohns, three sweaters plus his insulated coveralls — and she, from the tropics (“Hey! look at that goddamn lady, from the south! Well, goddamn!”), was wearing a silk dress, with no coat; walking as gaily as a nightenbird, goddamn and I’m clapping my hands on my shoulders one crossed over the other, like a goddamn penguin, hey! Bill, look at that goddamn broad! And Bill, who had already seen her, and had looked and had disbelieved, was himself like a penguin, flapping and breathing from his mouth like a humidifier, whispering, this is a bitch! — meaning the cold. The crabs before her were walking too slowly. The two men remained outside, like ice sculptures, clapping with vigour and vapour, pounding themselves and the cold which sneaked into their bodies, while they watched Estelle. But Estelle was boiling inside.
At last, she reached the gate marked INCOMING PASSENGERS; and she scratched along with the others through a shiningly bright passageway, through a glass door which swung in her face because the man in front was not a gentleman. The door struck her gently in the face. Finally, she was in a large room, on fire with electricity. Looking around, searching for a face to smile with, her eyes caught sight of a black woman sitting on a large bench. At the other end of the bench — it seemed miles away — was a white woman. Although they were both on the same bench, Estelle felt they were sitting on two different continents. Her eyes roamed again. In another corner was a black family: man, woman, two children and a box marked CAPTAIN MORGAN RUM, all huddled in a family portrait of warmth from the cold of stares, and fears of thewinter. They looked so strange in their winter garments that Estelle found herself laughing at them. This family possessed and ruled a bench all by their dictatorial-selves.
Then the passengers went up to a man with CANADA CUSTOMS printed in gold on his shoulders (Estelle noticed there were four others dressed similarly,
“Have a nice holiday, ma’am,” the Chinese woman said, “and goodnight.” She smiled, and took Estelle’s parcel from one hand, and placed it under Estelle’s armpit. She was now able to negotiate the shaking cold iron steps better. Half-way down, she looked back up at the Chinese stewardess for moral support, and the smile on the latter’s face carried her safely down the steps. But still, Estelle was not in a good mood. In her mind she carried the face of a small boy, who had looked at her during the flight, and had then looked at his mother and shouted, “Aunt Jemima.” It could have been that the woman was not his mother; that she was his aunt, Jemima. But Estelle assumed immediately that he was calling
her
Aunt Jemima. After the incident, the Chinese lady (Estelle felt she was the only lady on the plane) had given her some chewing gum, and a copy of
Maclean’s
to read. The Chinese lady had winked at her, when the other stewardesses were not looking, and had nudged her and said, “Never mind.”
She was walking in the dead-man night, in the long line of passengers, filing like crabs, shuffling and scratching; silent as monks and nuns going to vespers. The line was going towards a door at which a man in white coveralls was standing. He held a torchlight in his hand. The bulb was red. He was the same man who had brought the plane to a stop, with the same red-bulbed torchlight. Now, he held the light, the bulb off, pretending that it was nothing at all for him to bring a big jet aeroplane safely from air to ground. He didn’t even smile himself a pat on the back! “This way, please, this way, please,” he was saying. When Estelle drew alongside him, he stared at her; and a puzzled look came to his face. Estellebecame tense. Looks are so deceiving, Estelle, so deceiving … the man was staring at her because the temperature was
ten degrees below zero
; and he, a born Canadian, wrapped in two pairs of longjohns, three sweaters plus his insulated coveralls — and she, from the tropics (“Hey! look at that goddamn lady, from the south! Well, goddamn!”), was wearing a silk dress, with no coat; walking as gaily as a nightenbird, goddamn and I’m clapping my hands on my shoulders one crossed over the other, like a goddamn penguin, hey! Bill, look at that goddamn broad! And Bill, who had already seen her, and had looked and had disbelieved, was himself like a penguin, flapping and breathing from his mouth like a humidifier, whispering, this is a bitch! — meaning the cold. The crabs before her were walking too slowly. The two men remained outside, like ice sculptures, clapping with vigour and vapour, pounding themselves and the cold which sneaked into their bodies, while they watched Estelle. But Estelle was boiling inside.
At last, she reached the gate marked INCOMING PASSENGERS; and she scratched along with the others through a shiningly bright passageway, through a glass door which swung in her face because the man in front was not a gentleman. The door struck her gently in the face. Finally, she was in a large room, on fire with electricity. Looking around, searching for a face to smile with, her eyes caught sight of a black woman sitting on a large bench. At the other end of the bench — it seemed miles away — was a white woman. Although they were both on the same bench, Estelle felt they were sitting on two different continents. Her eyes roamed again. In another corner was a black family: man, woman, two children and a box marked CAPTAIN MORGAN RUM, all huddled in a family portrait of warmth from the cold of stares, and fears of thewinter. They looked so strange in their winter garments that Estelle found herself laughing at them. This family possessed and ruled a bench all by their dictatorial-selves.
Then the passengers went up to a man with CANADA CUSTOMS printed in gold on his shoulders (Estelle noticed there were four others dressed similarly,
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