An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [62]
“Orly 2 to London.”
He glances at me through the rear-view mirror. “You make a life in London?”
“Newfoundland.”
“Finland?” he says.
I switch to the French name. “Terre-Neuve, Canada.”
“Canada! Beautiful nature. So cold. Snow, mountains, big cars, houses of ice.”
I lean forward in my seat. “We don’t live in igloos. It’s cold often but you get used to the weather. Newfoundland summers are the best anywhere. Where are you from?”
“I come to Belgium two years now. Paris last year. My family come from eastern Congo. Zaire. Refugee camp. You know Zaire?”
“Only from reading TinTin in the Congo. You’re far from home. You miss it?”
“No miss camp. I start home in this country. You have home?” He reminds me of the last line I read in Defoe’s Crusoe before I fell asleep in the hotel:
Now, I look back upon my desolate island as the most
pleasant place in the world, and all the happiness my
heart can wish for is to be there again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
’twas brillig in the slithy cove
IF WE CAN’T LAND IN St. John’s,” the captain says, “we’ll go on to Halifax.”
I don’t care if there’s thirty-two centimetres of fresh snow on the ground or that gusts are in the fifty-kilometre range. The minus five degree temperatures shouldn’t stop a plane from landing either. We pass through turbulence. Pressure builds in my ears. The plane drops then rises again. “Looks like we’re going to have to abort the landing,” the man in the seat in front of me says. A baby starts crying. The woman next to me grips the armrest. There’s a jolt, a bounce then the brakes screech while the plane slows down on the runway.
The airport is swarming with throngs of stranded passengers. On my way to the taxi stand, I pass a young man lying on the floor on top of a sleeping bag. Outside the terminal, a man holding a clipboard asks me where I’m heading.
“Cliffhead, near Cape Spear.”
He points to the first taxi in the line. I open the door then slide my laptop and backpack along the back seat. The interior smells of stale cigarette smoke. The seatbelt doesn’t work.
“How long you here for?” the driver says.
I talk over the noise of the radio. “For as long as people will have me.”
He laughs. The snow-covered roads make for a quiet ride except when the driver slams his palm into the horn because the car up ahead is going too slowly. I slouch in the seat and close my eyes to make the time go faster. I picture the Crimson Hexagon looking pink under a white gauze of snow. I imagine being naked with her, under the covers in the peak of the house. The driver turns up the heat. The car fills with the smell of the pine freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror.
I can hear the dogs barking as soon as we stop in front of the barn. The path to her house is neatly shovelled in places, drifted over in others. The key is under the step where she said it would be. I open the door slowly to let one dog out at a time. Folio comes first and jumps up on me. The other two rush out from behind. They squeal and bark then hop on me.
“Calm down. Stop!” I hold them off with my backpack but they jump and knock it out of my hands. I can’t fight them so I sit on the front step and let them lick my face. Octavo and Quarto hear something in the woods then dash off. Folio pokes her nose in the backpack. I pull out a purple ball I bought in a shop in Oslo. It glows in the dark and has a remote sensing device that goes at the end of a key chain. I throw it. Folio hops through the snow then tears back to me and drops it at my feet.
“Good girl. Come on in.”
Norah doesn’t allow the dogs beyond the porch area. I make an exception this one time for Folio. She follows me into the porch and then into the kitchen. I read the note on the table next to the open bottle of red: Make yourself at home. Enjoy the bread. Cheese is in fridge. Will arrive between 9 & 10. We’ll toast our reunion. Folio hops up and rests her paws on the table.
“Get down. Bad dog.” I take her by the collar to lead her to the porch.