Francesco Mazzotta - Cellular Activity

The man has apparently regained control of himself. His look is sharp now. He takes a deep breath, then he turns to the woman, with a quieter tone. “Please, take me something fresh to drink, thank you.”

“Any preference?”

“Do as you wish, please. I love surprises.”

Pleased to disengage, Camila hurries to the area reserved for employees, but after a few moments the man’s voice comes back to bite. “What is that?”

“Camila turns to watch, Luis approaches too. The latter is taller than Camila, and she has an amber skin perfectly smooth. Her eyes have an almost oriental shape, and she has prosperous breasts that stands out on the slender figure. Her hair is completely combed to the right side, whilst on the left it’s cut very short and leave her neck uncovered, giving her a seductive look. Luis also recognized Amr, and she is quick to disengage Camila, so that she can go and talk to the captain about having tracked down the suspect.

Luis turns to the man with the yellow t-shirt, which is pointing at one of the windows. As his gaze explore Luis from head to foot, his mouth widens into a big smile. “Heeey, you are really cute, baby”, he murmurs, giving voice to his thoughts. The stern gaze of Luis restrains the man who, mumbling vague excuses, turns back to the window, pointing to something beyond it.

“There’s an airplane flying right next to ours.”

The flight-attendant leans over to look better, pretending not to see the man’s lustful gaze which tries to sneak into her blouse. She sees one of the F14s heeling the Boeing.

“There’s another one on this side too”, exclaims another passenger who sits on the opposite side of the deck. “What do they want?”

Luis doesn’t move, the three flight-attendants have already received precise instructions by the captain, who made the rest of the staff aware of the likely presence of two aircraft. “We just entered Algerian airspace. These aircraft are escorting us for a while, since they’re having a military exercise in the area. It’s not the first time that this happens, don’t worry, everything is fine.”

“That’s a sweet bunch of bullshit!”, a man sitting nearby interrupts her. It’s an old man who, while showing a remarkable baldness on the top of the head, has long thin hair crowning the lower part of his head and two showy mustaches straight out of a portrait of a few centuries ago. The man gets up, talking so blatant. “I’ve flown this route many other times and it’s the first time I see two airplanes escorting us. Those are American F14s Tomcat! I served my country in the Marines, I know how our planes look like. This story about a military exercise is a lie, why don’t you really tell us what’s going on, sweetheart?”

Hearing those words, the man with the yellow shirt turns to the elderly former Marine. “Hey grampa, give it a cut! What’s up with you? Haven’t they taught you to respect a lady in the Marines?”

“Holy Christ”, exclaims the old man, leaning toward a woman sitting on his left. “Did you hear that walrus?” He suddenly makes to move, turning back to the passenger that provoked him: “keep cramming with sandwiches, you black muzzle. Would you yourself give me lessons? Look, I’m gonna get there, miserable tar ball. Not even three walruses of your caliber can stop the old Zeb.”

The elderly man’s face is angry red, and he looks like one who has completely lost control. He capers brightly against the legs of the old woman who sits beside him with a shocked and exasperated expression. The old man tries to step over the seat beside him to get to the middle corridor, and he has almost done, when his feet seem to twist and he loses his balance falling forward.

He’s saved by the providential intervention of Amr, who manages to hold him before he falls to the ground. The man helps the old man to stand on his feet, while he continues to curse the black man with the yellow shirt.

“Go and sit down, old man! You can’t even stand. By the way, it seems that you forgot your white cloak and white cap at home”. The black man ends his speaking by showing a middle finger to the other.

“Let me put my hands on you, and you will see who is left standing”, shouts back the old man.

“Easy, easy… Please calm down”, says Amr, while retaining the old furious man. This one struggles for a while, then he seems to subside, still red in his face.

“Please, gentlemen”, Amr continues, smiling at both litigants. “We all should be a good example to others, every day of our lives. Please, calm down now.”

The old marine frees from the embrace of Amr, regaining control of himself and adjusting his clothes. “Who asked you anything, good fucking Samaritan…”, the aged former soldier mutters to Amr. His sentence suddenly interrupted by the old lady who was sitting next to him. She grabs him by the sleeve, drawing his attention.

“Come here and sit Zeb, this so kind man is right.” Then she turns to Amr and the black man, who still looks the elder with provocative eyes and raised chin.

“Please accept my apologies, my husband sometimes believes he still is twenty years old, and he thinks that it’s still a normal thing to raise a rumble for a word out of place.”

“Shut up you, woman, and move these legs”, the old man mutters as he tries to go back and sit in his place. “I don’t need to have twenty years to knock out a fat guy like that. Anyway, those are American F14s.”

The passenger in the yellow shirt turns back to Luis, making her a wink. Her gaze flies over with icy indifference, alighting on Amr, who adjusts his jacket, smiling heedless of the looks. Then he sits with serene expression and exchanges a few words with the old woman. She is lavish with apologies and thanks. Meanwhile another flight-attendant, July, comes up and with a nod she invites Luis to follow her to the area reserved to the crew.

The hut is small, barely large enough to contain a grown man lying down with outstretched arms. The sun filters through the cracks in the walls and the ceiling, drawing blades of light. Nobody pays any attention to small holes in a country where rain is an extremely rare event.

Both have taken off their hats, a gesture of kindness allowed only in presence of intimate and trusted people. Yidir has a tired expression, deep wrinkles run on his face. Unkempt eyebrows seem tiny claws that curl to reach the lower eyes. “The greatest threats in the desert are those that you can’t see. The sun and the cold can kill a strong and vigorous man, but also the thoughts can kill you.”

“Thoughts?”, echoes Ahmed.

“The desert is strange”, replies his brother. “It’s alive. You can hear it talking, singing, you can see it moving, and it… well, it can watch inside you too. It can see your fears and make them come true before your very eyes. I saw men, as strong as few, crying like frightened children. The desert can show your demons, and trust me, especially at night, the demons in the desert are many.”

“You want to mock me as the elder Mohamed does… You say this just to scare me, but I am not afraid, Yidir. I’m not!”

“You should, Ahmed, you should. That’s the difference between a boy and a man: a man accepts his fears and uses them. It’s the fear that saves your life most of the time. Do you think I don’t have any?”

Ahmed is about to reply, when Yidir makes a gesture with his hand as if to dismiss the subject. Then he turns around, taking something from under a pile of rags left in a corner. “I can’t prepare you for the meeting with your demons, Ahmed. Nobody can. However… There are other hazards to be aware about: scorpions, desert vipers, raiders…”