The Passenger

He Took His Aisle Seat--22C--in the 707 for Rome. The plane was not quite full and there was an empty seat between him and the occupant of the port seat. This was taken, he was pleased to see, by an exceptionally good-looking woman--not young, but neither was he. She was wearing perfume, a dark dress and jewelry and she seemed to belong to that part of the world in which he moved most easily. "Good evening," he said, settling himself. She didn't reply. She made a discouraging humming noise and raised a paperback book to the front of her face. He looked for the title, but this she concealed with her hands. He had met shy women on planes before--infrequently, but he had met them. He supposed they were understandably wary of lushes, mashers and bores. He shook out a copy of The Manchester Guardian. He had noticed that conservative newspapers sometimes inspired confidence in the shy. If one read the editorials, the sports page and especially the financial section, shy strangers would sometimes be ready for a conversation. The plane took off, the No Smoking sign went dark and he took out a gold cigarette case and a gold lighter. They were not flashy, but they were gold. "Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked.

"Why should I?" she asked. She did not look in his direction.

"Some people do," he said, lighting his cigarette. She was nearly as beautiful as she was unfriendly, but why should she be so cold? They would be side by side for nine hours and it was only sensible to count on at least a little conversation. Did he remind her of someone she disliked, someone who had wounded her? He was bathed, shaved, correctly dressed and accustomed to making friends. Perhaps she was an unhappy woman who disliked the world; but when the stewardess came by to take their drink orders, the smile she gave the young stranger was dazzling and open. This so cheered him that he smiled himself; but when he saw that he was trespassing on a communication that was aimed at someone else, she turned on him, scowled and went back to her book. The stewardess brought him a double martini and his companion a sherry. He supposed that his strong drink might increase her uneasiness, but he had to take that chance. She went on reading. If he could only find the title of the book, he thought, he would have a foot in the door. Harold Robbins, Dostoievsky, Philip Roth, Emily Dickinson--anything would help. "May I ask what you're reading?" he said politely.

"No," she said.

When the stewardess brought their dinners, he passed her tray across the empty seat. She did not thank him. He settled down to eat, to feed, to enjoy this simple habit. The meal was unusually bad and he said so. "One can't be too particular, under the circumstances," she said. He thought he heard a trace of warmth in her voice. "Salt might help," she said, "but they neglected to give me any salt. Could I trouble you for yours?"

"Oh, certainly," he said. Things were definitely looking up. He opened his salt container and in passing it to her, a little salt spilled on the rug.

"I'm afraid the bad luck will be yours," she said. This was not said at all lightly. She salted her cutlet and ate everything on her tray. Then she went on reading the book with the concealed title. She would sooner or later have to use the toilet, he knew, and then he could read the title of the book; but when she did go to the stern of the plane, she carried the book with her.

The screen for the film was lowered. Unless a picture was exceptionally interesting, he never rented sound equipment. He had found that lip reading and guesswork gave the picture an added dimension and, anyhow, the dialog was usually offensively banal. His neighbor rented equipment and seemed to enjoy herself heartily. She had a lovely musical laugh and communicated with the actors on the screen as she had communicated with the stewardess and as she had refused to communicate with her neighbor. The characters on the screen relentlessly pursued their script. There was a parade, a chase, a reconciliation, an ending. His companion, still carrying her mysterious book, retired to the stern again and returned, wearing a sort of mobcap, her face heavily covered with some white unguent. She adjusted her pillow and blanket and arranged herself for sleep. "Sweet dreams," he said, daringly. She sighed.

He never slept on planes. He went back to the galley and had a whiskey. The stewardess was pretty and talkative and she told him about her origins, her schedule, her fiancé and her problems with passengers who suffered from flight fear.

The sun rose as they approached the Alps. Here and there, the brightness of a spring morning could be seen through the cracks in the drawn shades; but while they sailed over Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn, his companion continued to sleep peacefully.

Beyond the Alps, they began to lose altitude and he saw the Mediterranean breaking against the shore line and had another whiskey. He saw Elba, Giglio and the yachts in the harbor at Port'Ercole, where he could see the villas of his friends. He could remember coming (concluded on page 210) Triad/the passenger(continued from page 101) into Nantucket so many years ago. They used to line the port rail and shout: "Oh, the Perry's are here and the Saltons and the Greenoughs." It was partly genuine, partly show. When he returned to his seat, his companion had removed her mobcap and her unguent. Her beauty in the light of morning was powerful. He could not diagnose what he found so compelling--nostalgia, perhaps--but her leatures. her pallor, the set of her eyes all corresponded to his sense of beauty. "Good morning," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

She frowned: she seemed to find this impertinent. "Does one ever?" she asked on a rising note. She put her mysterious book into a handbag with a zipper and gathered her things. When they landed at Fiumicino. he stood aside to let her pass and followed her up the aisle. He went behind her through the passport, immigration and health check and joined her at the place where you claim your bags.

But look, look. Why does he point out her bag to the porter and why when they both have their bags, does he follow her out to the cabstand, where he liar-gains with a driver for the trip into Rome? Why docs he join her in the cab? Is he the undiscourageable masher that she dreaded? No, no. He is her husband, she is his wife, the mother of his children and a woman he has worshiped passionately for nearly 30 years.