Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [56]
“Is he with her?”
“Yes, but she probably won’t be awake for another hour.”
In his mind, David pictured mother and child. “I’m very hungry,” he said. “Is that wrong?”
“Of course not,” Dr. Ahmed said. “The cafeteria’s on this level. Go out those doors and follow the signs.”
David piled his plate with so much food it was appalling.
They were serving a buffet breakfast, and in addition to the usual fare there was pineapple, of course, watermelon, cantaloupe unlike any he’d ever tasted, and coconut syrup so unusual and sweet and perfect with pancakes that he vowed to stock up on it before leaving. And while eating he again wondered what was wrong with him. How could he feel so hungry? It was as if he’d been on some sort of fast during his wife’s pregnancy and now that their baby was dead it was over. And then once more an overriding sense of fatalism came over him, an uncanny sense of strangeness about this journey in which everything had happened in an unbreakable, predetermined sequence. And following this same chain further into the future, he had a terrible premonition of his own fate.
“Mr. Pepin?”
It was an older man who’d addressed him, and at first glance David thought he was a pilot. His stiff blue uniform had epaulets on the blazer and a set of wings pinned to the breast. He held his cap in his left hand—a briefcase tucked under his arm—and he held out his free hand to introduce himself, his grip firm and dry. “Dr. Ahmed told me you’d be here,” he said. Though he was at least in his sixties, the man’s expression was fresh, alert, with a youthful glint in his blue eyes. He was very pale, nearly albino, as if he’d meticulously avoided the sunlight his whole life. Smelling of pepperminty Barbasol shaving cream, he was thin and fit, and David could imagine him slapping his flat stomach in pride. His white crew-cut hair was still thick, without any sign of thinning, a full head’s worth that he’d take with him to the grave. For the first time in many hours, in the gentle beam of this man’s attention, with his groomed uprightness and grandfatherly scent, David felt safe.
“I’m Nathan Harold,” he said. “I’m with United Airlines. I’m a disaster liaison, though my field of expertise is transportational psychology. May I have a few minutes of your time?”
David nodded, and the man eased a chair out and sat down. He placed his thin black briefcase on the table, snapped the locks, produced a folder with David and Alice Pepin on the tab, then closed the case and stood it next to his feet. There was a set of wings emblazoned on the folder’s cover, over which he crossed his hands. “Let me first extend the airline’s deepest regrets, and my own. I’m so very sorry.”
David found himself suddenly embarrassed by all the food he’d heaped on his plate, and now, even more acutely than before, he felt a crushing sense of guilt. He was afraid his expression might give him away, or might otherwise be wrong, so in spite of the man’s kindness, he struggled to look at him.
“How’s your wife doing?” Harold asked.
“I haven’t seen her yet,” David said. “She’s still sedated.”
“How are you managing?”
David could focus only on Harold’s hands, which were beautiful, large, and powerful. His nails, from the crescent moons of his cuticles to the neatly trimmed edges, seemed cared for not vainly but fastidiously. They looked as if they’d never once been bitten or chewed. And then the man did an amazing thing: he unfolded his clasped fingers and turned his left palm open toward David, as if he’d detected his fascination and was holding it there for his inspection—a palm more striated and densely webbed with lines than any he’d ever seen before. It caused him to briefly raise his eyes to Harold’s—he was smiling warmly—and then look down at his open hand.
“I had my palm read once in Italy,” Harold said, “in Palermo. I was in my twenties then. Long time ago. Anyway the woman, a gypsy, she said two things to me. First she said that I was an old soul. She could tell by all the lines. She said I’d lived many lives before and had the potential for great