The 21 hours of flight to Taipei were boring. I was next to a woman who slept most of the
way. She woke up only to ask me give way
for a toilet trip.
So, I sat by the window on my way back. As I was
organizing my reading materials, a well dressed Asian lady checked her boarding
pass that indeed, her seat was next to mine.
I was pleased that it was a woman, my return trip
companion. And if she had a weak
bladder, then I now was in the window seat, and “she can go to the toilet as
often as she needs” I consoled myself.
She was very methodical. She took her high heeled boots off along with
her “nylons”, and put on the ugly flight slippers immediately. Then, in Mandarin, asked the flight attendant
for magazines.
I have never been good at telling the age of Asian
women. I am usually about 20 years
off. But when she needed something from
her bag and she took her right slipper off to step on her seat and reach the
bag, I saw a noticeable bunion. So,
perhaps my age, I thought.
I was preparing myself to doze off. The flight attendant came by with the
useless, wasteful and ineffective hot towels.
I declined, but my companion asked for two of them! By now, I had no interest in sleeping. Two! I
had never seen anyone do so. As if she
wanted to eradicate leprosy.
What she did next was pure fiction. She wiped off the retractable lap-table, her
seat belts, her seat’s arm rests and controls for volume and channels. Then, with the meticulousness of a pathologist,
she folded the hot towels into triangles and placed them, one atop the other,
at the edge of her left arm rest.
All this, and she did not even acknowledge my
presence!
“Perhaps I am too sloppy for her,” I rationalized.
The flight attendant came by offering drinks. She ordered something in Mandarin and I asked
for whisky.
When the drinks arrived I saw that hers was an
aperitif of sorts, made of plum, I think.
A small, barrel shaped green bottle with a dried fruit in it. She stabbed the fruit with a toothpick a few
times and took her first sip.
Then, as if she suddenly noticed me, she raised her
glass “Cheers! My name is Ma.”
So, was I supposed to forego sleep?
“We should not be silent for 16 hours,” she
suggested.
The woman knows what she wants, I convinced myself.
I looked at her hands. Like her bunion, her thumbnail showed a
certain age given the texture and lines it had.
Her face was ageless though, and I could not have given her more than 30
years of age if looking at her face alone.
But she had the hands of an artisan. Well defined muscles, veins, and rounded
finger tops. She moved them like a
potter would around wet clay.
“So, the usual first question,” she asked with the
ample smile taught to all Asians. “First
time in Taiwan?”
It was going to be boring, I knew it.
“Oh, for 15 years now? You should know every corner of that little
island!”
(“Choya” the little bottle read. The one with a dry plum in it she was
mercilessly stabbing while talking to me.)
“Ok, then the next question…”
I stopped her short.
I was feeling like a 4th grader answering questions from my friends’
moms.
“My turn: what do you do?”
She smiled of that smile that says “Ok, so you want
to be the smart one, eh?”
“I am a pianist.”
Aha! I knew her hands were those of an artisan.
“Piano. I
have to admit I am more of a string instruments guy, although one always knows
about piano.” I was hoping that the
conversation would end on that note.
“So, people who do not like piano still know Chopin,
yes? Every teenager boy likes
Chopin. You were a teenager once, no?”
True. I once
was and once did.
“Sure, his Nocturnes were among my favorites. I played them on badly scratched records.”
“Ok, let’s see: do you remember which ones were your
favorites?”
It had easily been 30 years since I last was a
teenager. I did not remember how many
there were. But for some strange reason
two of them had stayed in my mind.
“Nocturnes No. 7 and 20,” I said, proud of my
pedantism.
“Oh, I do have a C-man next to me!” she exclaimed in
pleasure. “Are you an artist?”
I never know how to answer that question.
“I try to do literary work.”
“Try? Either
you are very lucky or you have another job!
Trying does not pay for business class around the globe.”
“I am a public health researcher with a keen
interest in the arts—is that better?”
“Yes! “ And she pricked and stabbed the dry plum
with her toothpick. In a flash, scenes
from “The Marathon Man” haunted me.
“So, why the 7th and 20th? Obviously there is a reason since you
remember the specific Nocturnes.”
Took me a while trying to replay the feeling of
these two Nocturnes – impossible! I had a
general sensation as to what they were, but nothing more. However, to my scare and surprise, I could
articulate a few feelings.
“The 20th reminds me of the people I met
over the past decades. There is revolt,
fear, determination, passion, pursuit and calm about their existence.”
“Hmm… Interesting recollection – go on.”
“The 7th,
if I remember correctly, is simple. It
is introspective but simple. It is more
black and white. It is perhaps like the
people I would like to meet at this stage in my life.”
I wanted to ask her useless questions like “where do
you play?” or “tell me more about you”, but resisted. These questions have no usefulness on
flights, when people meet and depart like frothy waves upon vast beaches. Without consequence.
“You seem to know who you want to meet.”
“Well, in some way.
We learn what makes us comfortable with age, no?”
“I suppose.
Although we do revert to old loves even if now they erupt in your inner
spaces differently. Look at you – you
remember the Nocturnes after all these years!
But if you listen to them again, you may decide that the 7th
is more complicated than you once thought.
Or that the No 20…”
“Sure. But
why did you disinfect your whole sitting area with hot towel??? I have never seen anyone do that!”
She smiled, as if she had anticipated that obvious
question.
“It makes this inherently impersonal space a bit
more personal for 16 hours. I know it is
a strange thing to do, but I like to have a space, a person, a note, a heartbeat
in a very intimate way for the space of a moment. That is how an artist interprets things – by
making them her own, fully, unequivocally her own for a short while. Do you do that?”
I had not thought about it that way. I took another sip on my 21 year old Royal
Salute, the only whisky on board, and wondered if indeed, I do build time
cocoons around spaces, people, or a heartbeat.
And if I make them mine, as if the photography of the experience, framed
in some wood or metal, or just the feeling of the moment.
“Maybe.
Although I would like to make people be unequivocally mine for longer,
if they accept.”
“It does not matter as long as you know that you
have to let them go one day. Or that you
have to leave them to someone else; or for someone else.”
I was very happy.
Finally got a travel companion who could fill these hours with
meaningful insights.
Then she decided to watch a movie, and I thanked her
for the fun ideas and that I would now sleep, and perhaps listen to Chopin in
my dreams.
“You better dream of the next exciting people you
plan to meet!” she said with a smile that was now tired.
I thought the two bottles of “Choya” were
having an effect -- or was it the revenge of the plum she stabbed without mercy?
The sleeping cover given by EVA Airlines was as
thick and comfortable as the one we have at home, so once my body was pretzeled
just right, the comfort of sleeping a few hours was delightful. And I did so without regret.
…. I woke up a few hours later and she was still
watching movies.
“Any Chopin?”
We landed in Los Angeles uneventfully.
“I enjoyed the conversation. Thanks for making me think about Nocturnes
and C-sharp.”
“I hope public health and the arts always mix well
for you. After all, health is more than just the absence of disease, yes?” And
as she was leaving, turned back and whispered “The 20 is really not a Nocturne,
but don’t worry about it…”
November 7, 2010
©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013
©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013
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