Peter May - The Critic

And so he had passed through airport security in a fug of mortification, almost forgetting that the slightest misstep could lead him to a police cell somewhere, a full body search, awkward questions that he couldn’t answer.

Now, with the drone of jet engines filling his head, and a coach class seat too small for his big frame, he tried with difficulty to make himself comfortable for the long hours that lay ahead. He opened his eyes at the sound of clinking bottles, and found a pretty air hostess smiling at him. The twinkle of amusement in her eyes made him think that she, too, was probably in on the joke. He glowered at her. ‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘No ice. Water. In fact, make it a double.’

The immigration hall was busy. Several flights had landed within half an hour of each other. Lines of travellers, accustomed to delays, stood patiently waiting to be called forward by humourless immigration officers. Enzo was clutching the forms he had filled in on the flight promising that he wasn’t a terrorist, or a Nazi war criminal, or someone with recidivist tendencies. He wondered if anyone ever admitted they were. He was happy to fill his mind with anything that would stop him thinking about what could happen in the next few minutes. He drew a deep breath and felt it trembling in his chest. A film of cold sweat pricked his forehead. He stepped up to the yellow line. He was next. As he glanced around, he was aware of people looking at him. The kilt, of course. He kept forgetting. Men in skirts were not a common sight in the United States.

‘Next!’

Enzo looked up to see the officer signalling him forward to the desk. He was a large man with a shaven head. He wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled up and took Enzo’s passport in big hands. He looked at it carefully, then at Enzo, then passed it through a code scanner. There was an electronic fingerprint reader on the counter, and the officer said, ‘Put your right finger on the pad.’

Enzo looked at his hands and frowned. Then looked at the immigration man. ‘My right finger?’

The officer gave him a dark look. ‘Your right finger,’ he repeated slowly.

Enzo’s confusion persisted. ‘I’m sorry, which finger’s my right finger?’

The look darkened. ‘The index finger of your right hand.’ It was clear he suspected insolence.

‘Oh, right.’ Enzo laughed nervously and held up his right index finger. ‘ Right finger.’ He pressed it on to the electronic reader to register his fingerprint.

‘Purpose of your visit?’

Enzo felt a sudden, irrational panic. ‘Em…a holiday.’

The immigration officer tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘What holiday?’

Enzo looked back at him, mystified. And then light dawned. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Not a holy day.’ He remembered suddenly what Americans called it. ‘A vacation. That’s what you say, isn’t it?’

By this time the immigration officer had obviously concluded that Enzo was insane. He sighed, shoved the green entry card inside his passport and thrust it back across the counter. He regarded Enzo thoughtfully for a moment, and then something almost like a smile appeared in his eyes. ‘You’re a varr,’ he said.

Enzo felt panic returning. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You’re a varr.’

Enzo knew he was not a stupid man, but however many times he processed this statement he could make no sense of it. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’

The amusement melted away from the man’s eyes, to be replaced by an irritation reflected in his voice. ‘Yo-ra-varr.’

And suddenly Enzo heard it. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘ Au revoir! You’re speaking French. Because I’ve come from Paris.’ He grinned. ‘Only, I’m not French. I’m Scottish.’

The immigration man looked down at the kilt, and looked up again, a looming certainty in his eyes that all Scotsmen were probably insane. After all, they wore skirts, didn’t they? He flicked his head. He’d had enough. Enzo was dismissed.

Enzo walked across the concourse to the luggage carousel with legs like jelly. How could he have been so stupid? He was attracting all the wrong kind of attention to himself. And he knew the worst was yet to come.

He retrieved his suitcase after a short wait and began the impossibly long walk through the customs hall towards the gate marked “Nothing to Declare”. Customs officers stood at desks watching everyone as they passed with darting, suspicious eyes. They always made Enzo feel guilty, even when he really had nothing to declare. Today all eyes were turned in his direction.

A woman with large breasts, barely constrained by the navy blue uniform blouse tucked into her trousers, signalled him to stop. She had a US customs badge on one breast, a name tag on the other. She was Enzo’s age, perhaps older, wiry ginger hair piled up and held in place by clasps. She had a granite face and unblinking blue eyes.

‘Good day, sir. Would you lift your bag on to the counter top?’

‘Sure.’ Enzo tried to be casual. But his heart had pushed up into his throat and was nearly choking him.

‘Open it, please.’

He unzipped the case and threw back the lid. His clothes had been disturbed, unpacked and rearranged. There was a printed sheet tucked into the containing belt informing him that his bag had been opened and searched by officers of the Transport Security Administration. The customs lady looked at the case, then signalled Enzo to move closer. She leaned towards him confidentially.

‘Don’t worry, sir. I only stopped you because…well, I always wanted to ask.’ An unexpected smile split the granite. ‘Are you, you know, regimental under there?’

Enzo frowned. ‘Regimental?’

Her smile became coy. ‘You know. You wearing anything under the skirt?’

And Enzo had a sudden memory of the night before, the sweet smell and touch of Charlotte in the dark. His apprehension dissolved, confidence returning. He gave the customs lady his best eye contact and smiled back. ‘If you want to give me your number, maybe we could arrange a private viewing.’

She flushed with pleasure and was hardly able to stifle a giggle. ‘You’d better get out of here before I drag you next door for a body search.’

It was with an enormous sense of relief that Enzo saw Al MacConchie waiting for him on the other side of the barrier. He hadn’t laid eyes on him in over twenty-five years and was shocked by how he had aged. He was still tall and thin, though slightly stooped now, his boyish good looks long vanished. Most of his hair had gone, too, but still grew in reasonable abundance around the sides, where he had pulled it back and tied it behind his head in a silvery knot. It looked more like a little, curly pig’s tail, than Enzo’s thick, bushy ponytail. But he looked prosperous and suntanned, casual in baggy jeans, chequered cotton shirt, and tennis shoes. One leg of his sunglasses was hooked over the top button of his shirt. He thrust a bony hand into Enzo’s and grinned. ‘Jees man, what happened to you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You were such an ugly boy. Must have grown into your looks.’

‘Cheeky bastard.’

‘And what’s with the kilt, Magpie? We’d better get you out of here fast. You’ll be turning heads. Most of them male. This is San Francisco, after all.’ He grinned and relieved Enzo of his hand luggage and let him wheel his suitcase across the concourse himself. ‘Couldn’t you get a connecting flight to Sacramento?’

Enzo shook his head. He had only wanted the stress of going through security one time. ‘Afraid not.’

‘Man, it was a three hour drive down here. You’re going to have to get yourself a rental on the way back.’

Enzo noticed how MacConchie hadn’t fully lost his Scottish accent. Nor had he fully adopted an American one. It lingered somewhere in mid-Atlantic. ‘I appreciate it, Al, I really do.’