Through the thick glass of this porthole, the night sea is dim and indistinct, barely defining a line between sky and water. Thirty thousand feet beneath a pillow of air, the ocean's blackness swallows even the indurate light of a full moon, and it is only the clouds lingering ten thousand feet below him that offer some faint sense of promise or hope. Beyond that there is a void that extends under the silver clouds to some unfathomable infinity, like something missing, or everything missing--the way Lewis has always imagined blindness.
Most of the other passengers are sleeping, mouths agape like escape hatches flung open. The businessman across the aisle from him looks like a child this way, a desperate boy who hopes no one will see through the disguise and perceive his pillowy kindness. Lewis's eyes meet those of the only other passenger who is awake, an African man, a Muslim. He wears a white djellaba, which in the dim cabin is so brightly lit by his reading light that it gives him an ethereal look. Beyond him a flight attendant sits calmly in the jump seat, flipping through a French edition of Vogue, her stiffly made-up face lit by the warm light bouncing off the magazine.
Lewis turns back to his window. That must be Africa, slipping by beneath the clouds. He presses his face against the cool glass, which is delicately traced with frost on the outside, trying to see some detail, even to confirm that what he sees is land, but there is only an unappeasable darkness and merely his imagination to illuminate it. It seems to approach silently and steadily like sleep. He watches until the faint glimmer of the ocean is consumed by it completely and they have crossed over. His gut stirs with unease. There is an unrealness to his relationship with this place, so thoroughly insulated is he by the dull roar of the turbines, the soft bumps of turbulence in the jet stream. There is also something vaguely threatening.
Who goes to Africa? he thinks. A few camera-laden vacationers on "safari," transported by four-wheel-drive buses, still a bit aloft, or some dusty, sweaty businessmen, miners or arms salesman, the kind of men you never see in the suburbs of America, mercenaries in suits and ties, and doctors, missionaries and Peace Corp volunteers. Lewis never expected to go anywhere near Africa. Not that he avoided it, either; he just never thought of it. Not once. He changed planes in Paris for the ten-hour flight to Johannesburg without a thought of where he was going. It could have been anywhere. Selling Coca-Cola to foreign markets takes him all over the world. One of the local distributors will meet him at the gate, help him with his bags and take him to an office not that different from what he has seen in Australia or New Zealand. At first he won't even be able to distinguish the accent. They will treat him, as he is accustomed, like a client. There will be a basket of biscuits and South African wine and a hat and sunblock waiting in his hotel room.
Somehow he must have fallen asleep with his head against the window. He looks up for a flight attendant--perhaps some water. At first he cannot find her. She is no longer reading. Then he notices the African man staring with an odd intensity at the galley, where she's talking on the interphone. Something in her stance, the way she looks at the floor, the tenseness of her body, seems a bit off. Lewis presses his face into his hands. There is in this unfirm place, this moment between consciousness and unconsciousness as his mind struggles to reassert command, such fertile ground for doubt. In his stomach he can feel the plane descending. He looks for his watch; it seems early, but it could be the time zone difference. His watch isn't set right.
Then two of the other flight attendants join the first. Lewis frowns. He can't shake the impression that something is not right with this scene. The first flight attendant takes the phone away from her mouth and says something to the other two. They nod, listening intently. She gestures with some urgency, and they move off in a hurry. The African man leans out into the aisle, and with a calm hand touches the hem of the flight attendant's uniform.
"Qu'est-ce qui se passe?"
She leans down to explain, but her voice is too soft to make out. From across the cabin she catches Lewis's eyes on her as she finishes, and it's easy to see that whatever she just said was a lie. As if to prove it, the left wing of the jet dips sharply as the plane makes an abrupt course change, and the lights come on suddenly as the cabin blinks awake.
"Mesdames et messieurs, votre attention s'il vous plaet."
The tone of the captain's message is disturbing, and it's maddening to have to listen to it first in French. Lewis makes out the words la fumTe, "smoke."
"What the hell is going on?"
"English, please!"
Two flight attendants race by Lewis with a service cart rattling with loose items. They aren't taking time to gather anything from the passengers, and they are yelling as they go.
"Seat belts. Tray tables and seat backs up."
"Ladies and gentlemen. May we have your attention . . ." That much he got already, but it is oddly reassuring. He senses that in the worst kind of emergency, the kind you don't survive, there would be no time for formalities, and even though the plane is descending, it still feels normal, still under control. He can feel the subtle pressure building in his ears. The passengers are all looking up at the speakers above their heads as if to hear better.
"We are experiencing smoke in the cockpit. To ensure your safety, we must land immediately at the nearest possible airport. Flight attendants are preparing for a possible emergency landing and evacuation. Please pay close attention to all flight attendant instructions and demonstrations."
"Please take your safety cards out. Look at the brace position." The flight attendant closest to Lewis holds up her card. The passengers take them out like hymnals at church. "Lean forward and hold your ankles," she says, and then she nearly falls as the nose of the plane suddenly drops and the engines rapidly power down to an idle. There are screams throughout the cabin. The plane is falling like a rollercoaster dropping at a carnival. All around him he sees passengers grabbing their armrests. Lewis quickly tightens his belt and reaches for his safety card. The flight attendant has regained her balance, and she is leaning forward with her feet wide apart to compensate for the steep angle of the descent. She's doing her best to remain calm and demonstrate how the passengers are expected to brace for landing, but she is close enough to Lewis that he can see the fear in her eyes.
"Lean forward and hold your ankles. If that is not possible, cross your hands and place them on the seat back in front of you. Lean forward and place your head on the back of your hands. Flight attendants, check brace position." It comes rapidly, first in French and then in English, but it is hard to hear over the terrific noise of the air rushing outside the plane. They are descending at six thousand feet per minute.
"Christ." Lewis drops his card, leans forward and grabs his ankles for the rehearsal. He looks across the aisle--hands on ankles everywhere. He still has that sick feeling in his stomach. If they hit the ground going this fast, this drill will amount to nothing.
"Please sit up. Check the security of your area. Any loose or sharp objects should be removed and placed in a safe place such as a seat pocket. Flight attendants brief helpers at exits. Appel aux h(tesses. PrTparez la cabine pour l'atterrissage."
The last part of the announcement is clipped by a sudden noise and vibration over the wing. The air brakes have been deployed and now the whole frame is shaking. Lewis catches a brief glimpse of the cockpit as the lead flight attendant opens the door. There is no obvious fire, but...
