State of Wonder - Ann Patchett [31]
“Milton,” she said. She had to remind herself that an embrace was not in order.
“You are quite late. I was concerned.” And he looked concerned. His eyes peered into hers for any sign that things had not gone well.
“My luggage was lost. I had to go to the claims office. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know that anyone would be here to meet me.”
“You have no luggage?” Milton said.
“I have an overcoat.” She patted at the coat and saw that one sleeve was almost to the floor. She pushed it back in the bag.
On his face she saw a look of sorrow and responsibility. “You’ll come with me?” He took the small bag from her and put his hand very lightly on her upper arm, moving her a few steps backwards into
the crowd.
“I filled out all the forms,” she said.
He shook his head. “We must go back.”
“But we can’t go back through security.” To move backwards through a security door, a door clearly marked to indicate that all traffic flowed in one direction, was as likely as going back in time, but there was Milton, his hand now resting on the shoulder of the security guard. He leaned his body slightly forward and whispered something to the man with the gun and the man with the gun held up his hand to stop the people who were pouring ahead to let Milton and Marina through. They walked the wrong way through customs where a man in uniform had two hands deep inside a woman’s purse. He then held out one of those hands to Milton and Milton shook it as they passed.
“I’ll need your paper,” Milton said to Marina, and she handed it to him. Already they were moving past the carousels. They stepped into the claims office which was now crowded with different people who had lost their luggage on later flights. They pushed against one another, angry and sad, thinking they had been the only ones.
The girl working behind the desk saw them, or sensed them, as soon as they stepped inside the door and she raised her head. “Milton,” she said, smiling, and then she was off on a tear of Portuguese. Marina put together the girl’s opening and then lost the thread—“Isso é um sonho.” The girl waved them up to the front where she and Milton began a conversation in passionate animation. When a man who had waited more than an hour for a word of recognition began to protest, the girl made a clucking sound with her tongue and silenced him. Milton gave her the computer printout and she read the report she had typed up herself as if it were a document of compelling mystery, then let out a long sigh. From his wallet Milton took a business card and quickly folded a bill around it, talking, talking. The girl took it from him and he kissed the tips of her fingers. She laughed and said something to Marina that may or may not have been lurid in nature. Marina looked back at her, dumb as a sock.
The outside air was heavy enough to be bitten and chewed. Never had Marina’s lungs taken in so much oxygen, so much moisture. With every inhalation she felt she was introducing unseen particles of plant life into her body, tiny spores that bedded down in between her cilia and set about taking root. An insect flew against her ear, emitting a sound so piercing that her head snapped back as if struck. Another insect bit her cheek just as she raised her hand to drive the first one away. They were not in the jungle, they were in a parking lot. For an instant the heat lightning brightened up an ominous cloud bank miles to the south and just as quickly left them in darkness.
“Do you have what you need in the small bag?” Milton asked