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Aug. 23rd, 2006 06:58 pmAs they step into the airport, a businessman coming through holds the door open for them, speaking quickly on a cell phone.
Offhandedly, "Shukria."
"You speak Urdu?" Mahmet asks sharply. Behrooz doesn't notice at first, focused on the sound of the suitcase rolling behind him, but looks up oddly.
Then, realizing what he'd said, "I don't – must've just picked it up."
The man still eyes him, but looks away as they come to plaques with the flights written on them. Behrooz gets out the tickets.
"There's a device in the passport to monitor where you are, and when you cross borders."
From his tone, it's less in case he gets picked up by unfriendly people, and more in case he tries to run off. Behrooz nods, but doesn't look up.
"You'll be met when you arrive at Dulles. They'll recognize you."
Behrooz dimly nods again. At least they'd let him shave, provided long jeans and a simple white t-shirt. He looks up. "It's leaving soon."
Mahmet gives him another long look. "I'll walk you to security."
(It's ok. Just go.)
It's two flights later – a very quick plane change in Kuwait, and now his transatlantic flight from Heathrow is delayed – when Behrooz is sitting in a chair, idly watching a family at the food court nearby, quickly finishing their drinks. Groups walk by, rolling small bags and complaining about the weather delays, occasionally throwing him glances he doesn't return.
He's read his passport a few times – it insists his name is Kateb, he was born in Michigan and has recently traveled to Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Pakistan. The photograph has brown eyes.
It's only interesting for so long.
Behrooz leans back, eyes going to the ceiling, unconsciously clutching at the handle of his bag. The family finishes, and starts cleaning up. The flight won't be leaving for another two hours, it looks like.
Nothing... too wrong with closing his eyes for a few minutes... right?
He nods off.
Twenty minutes later, Behrooz wakes up with a start. He gains a few unsettled looks, but doesn't care – he grabs the handle of his small suitcase and heads toward the closest bathroom. He washes his face off a little, trying to wake up again.
But she-
Why did it take so long?
It doesn't matter, does it? Behrooz heads out again, to get a drink of water, idly hoping he won't have to spend the night in this airport.
The door, however, doesn't lead back to the airport.
Offhandedly, "Shukria."
"You speak Urdu?" Mahmet asks sharply. Behrooz doesn't notice at first, focused on the sound of the suitcase rolling behind him, but looks up oddly.
Then, realizing what he'd said, "I don't – must've just picked it up."
The man still eyes him, but looks away as they come to plaques with the flights written on them. Behrooz gets out the tickets.
"There's a device in the passport to monitor where you are, and when you cross borders."
From his tone, it's less in case he gets picked up by unfriendly people, and more in case he tries to run off. Behrooz nods, but doesn't look up.
"You'll be met when you arrive at Dulles. They'll recognize you."
Behrooz dimly nods again. At least they'd let him shave, provided long jeans and a simple white t-shirt. He looks up. "It's leaving soon."
Mahmet gives him another long look. "I'll walk you to security."
(It's ok. Just go.)
It's two flights later – a very quick plane change in Kuwait, and now his transatlantic flight from Heathrow is delayed – when Behrooz is sitting in a chair, idly watching a family at the food court nearby, quickly finishing their drinks. Groups walk by, rolling small bags and complaining about the weather delays, occasionally throwing him glances he doesn't return.
He's read his passport a few times – it insists his name is Kateb, he was born in Michigan and has recently traveled to Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Pakistan. The photograph has brown eyes.
It's only interesting for so long.
Behrooz leans back, eyes going to the ceiling, unconsciously clutching at the handle of his bag. The family finishes, and starts cleaning up. The flight won't be leaving for another two hours, it looks like.
Nothing... too wrong with closing his eyes for a few minutes... right?
He nods off.
Twenty minutes later, Behrooz wakes up with a start. He gains a few unsettled looks, but doesn't care – he grabs the handle of his small suitcase and heads toward the closest bathroom. He washes his face off a little, trying to wake up again.
But she-
Why did it take so long?
It doesn't matter, does it? Behrooz heads out again, to get a drink of water, idly hoping he won't have to spend the night in this airport.
The door, however, doesn't lead back to the airport.
