Francesco Mazzotta - Cellular Activity

Ahmed almost no longer listens to his brother, his attention drawn by the rough envelope which Yidir is slowly unfolding. The older brother watches the other’s eyes getting bigger as the carefully stored object comes to light.

An arm knife.

While Yidir pulls the blade, Ahmed’s gaze bounces from the liner, finely woven with stripes of different skin colors, to the strings that fix it to the arm. The handle is made with dark wood such as ebony. The elongated curved blade seems to come to life under the rays of the sun filtering through the breaches in the wall and seems to shine with a light of its own, while Yidir twirls his knife with skilled mastery. “Don’t ask me about the meaning of the engravings on the blade, they belong to a language that was already too old and forgotten in our grandfather’s days. When I received this knife I was as old as you are now, and since then a lot of time has gone by. Take it, it’s yours.”

Ahmed is completely hooked. He moves his hands slowly, almost afraid to touch that object of wonderful workmanship.

He weighs it, realizing how light and thin it is, then he looks up to his older brother, watching him smiling.

“Don’t be fooled by its lightness, it’s an arm blade. It must be light and not restrain your movement. Trust me, it’s extremely durable and sharp, and in the right hands it can be really dangerous and deadly.”

Suddenly serious again, Yidir takes Ahmed’s hands in his own. “Ahmed, it isn’t like here in the village out there. The world can be ruthless in most cases. To get caught can mean death without even realizing it…

There are many things out there that can kill you.

Be awake, my brother.

Be ready.”

“It’s him”, Camila says softly, reporting to the co-pilot the seat number where Amr sits.

“Keep an eye on his moves and report on anything that seems noteworthy”, he replies.

When Camila releases the intercom button, Luis is talking: “I don’t know what to think, that man doesn’t convince me. He seems calm, affable… He was kind to help that old man. If he hadn’t intervened the old man would have fallen to the ground, and I don’t even want to imagine what else would have happened if he had reached that other passenger.”

“He would have eaten him”, Camila Jokes. “That guy is a giant.”

The three girls hint to a smile through clenched teeth.

“Anyway”, says Luis, “he isn’t exactly how I imagine a terrorist.”

“Why? How many terrorists have you seen live during a flight?”, responds July, whose r betrays her French origins. The third woman called by the commander is thin, and the look in her blue eyes shows a sharp intelligence.

“Fortunately none”, answers promptly Luis, “but that’s not the point, it’s just that…”

“… he’s a handsome man, even if that hair should be readjusted”, intervenes Camila, while pouring a fizzy drink and preparing a tray for the man with the yellow shirt. “But this doesn’t make him a saint, don’t let your guard down girls.”

Camila moves back to the passengers deck, heading for the black man. “Here’s the drink you requested, sir.”

The man doesn’t answer. He looks at her, once again his expression looks dazed, almost sleepy. After a moment, still staring with a void look, he takes the glass from the tray and with a mechanical movement takes it slowly to his mouth. Meanwhile Camila exchanges a few words with the passengers seated nearby.

The man with yellow t-shirt sends the drink down all in one go, with a curious gurgle, and then puts down the empty glass on the plastic tray on top of the food trolley.

Meanwhile Camila observes Amr, with fleeting glimpses. The man has closed his eyes again, he seems resting.

“I’d better head to the bathroom”, the man with Bart Simpson on his chest exclaims suddenly, apparently awake again. “My damn arm… now it seems that I can’t feel anything from my neck down. I absolutely have to move a little.”

He gets up, and his huge bulk towers over the tiny Camila. The man moves from his seat, and he literally invades one lane between the rows of seats as he almost completely fills the narrow corridor. He heads limping towards the universal symbol that indicates the bathrooms, leaning his hands on the head restraints of the seats. Camila feels uncomfortable when he passes by, rubbing against her and giving off a smell showing how a dose of deodorant, however generous, can’t replace a good shower.

He finally toddles past her, slowly moving along. The flight-attendant looks at the man’s back, wondering how he could sit in one of the passenger seats. He walks about two meters when he suddenly freezes in the middle of the lane. One of the other passengers shots a puzzled look to the flight-attendant.

“Are you all right, sir?”

For a few moments nothing seems to happen. The man is still in the middle of the corridor.

“Sir?!? Are you okay?”

A movement, followed by a liquid noise, catches Camila’s attention. A low murmur raises from the passengers.

A dark spot expands on the back of the man’s blue shorts. A small trickle drips on one of the legs, to form a tiny smelly puddle between his feet. The liquid is dark, and the spots where heavy droplets hit the floor seem to have a lively effervescence, more akin to an acid behavior than a drink.

“Sir, please”, says Camila while moving to get closer.

Something happens.

Like a slow-motion movie, the huge mass of the man collapses to the floor, falling backwards and almost overwhelming Camila. The woman half-jumps back to avoid him but she falls to the ground, too.

She recovers quickly, rushing toward a nearby intercom to report the incident to the co-pilot.

The other women of the crew arrive at the place of the incident.

The man lies unconscious on the ground, his eyes rolled back as a whitish, foamy trickle drips from a side of his mouth. His yellow shirt has raised to the navel, revealing a swollen huge abdomen and a stretched skin.

July rushes, dragging a cart full of first aid tools. She is the first to provide assistance, giving a heart massage to the man. The woman is thin, her blows can barely move the skin of the man lying lifeless on the ground. One of the passengers comes forward, he is a man of about forty, looking strict and orderly, with a dark goatee and glasses that give him a gravedigger aura. “I’m a doctor”, he exclaims. “I can help.”

“I think it’s a heart attack”, says July, while working on the emergency tools to turn the defibrillator on.

Meanwhile, the doctor begins the CPR, alternating the insufflations with vigorous pressures on the chest area.

The doctor puts his mouth on that of the other, injecting air, before proceeding with another series of strong blows to the solar plexus.

The other passengers observe the scene murmuring softly, while the capacitors in the defibrillator get charged and the hissing intensity increases.

The doctor blows again in the mouth of the lifeless man, then he leans his ear close to his lips, trying to detect the slightest breath of life.

Luis tries to calm down the passengers that move and get up, asking them to remain sitting in their seats.

The doctor gives a knowing look to the flight-attendant who prepares the defibrillator, then he tries again to blow in the man’s body lying on the ground.

Camila looks up from the scene, looking for Amr. The man is no longer in his seat, neither among the passengers moving to see what’s happening.

At that moment, a shuffling sound comes from the body of the unconscious man, like the gurgling of a clogged sink that is suddenly released.

July emits a groan of anguish. Everything seems to take place quickly and in slow-motion at the same time. Something is happening. Camila turns to watch, following the gaze of her colleague. The doctor’s body shakes, as by effect of an electric discharge. The man tries to get up, to pull his lips from those of the passenger lying on the ground, but he can’t. Something is holding him.