Page 215 of Two Marlboros

“Bye, Nathan.”

He hung up. There had been a slight inflection in the way he had said my name, I had heard it. A remote, barely audible aftertaste of tenderness, a signal that no one would have detected but someone who had waited for it forever. I still didn’t understand what had caused that change of attitude in him, and I knew he would never tell me. I could only accept it and enjoy it, with the knowledge that that bit of affection could disappear at any moment, without warning.

I took another puff.

After all, I thought, if that tug-of-war with my father had been going on for years it was only because in turn one was pulling, and the other was being dragged along. It was a game of sides, a pattern that worked only because there were two of us participating, and I was in it because until my fifteenth birthday he had been a good father and I loved him. As for him, I could not know why he continued to drag that situation out with me, but I imagined that the motivations could be twofold: either the need to feel important dictated by an outsized ego, or the desire not to lose that son for whom he had been doting on for years.

I inhaled the cigarette and blew out the smoke, then walked over to the ashtray and crushed it until it went out.

Needless to say, my heart was beating for the second option.

The moment I stood in the boarding line, I shifted my gaze to the huge glass window of the terminal and a shiver of excitement, the same one I had had a few hours earlier, began to circulate throughout my body. In the darkness of the night, only the headlights of the control towers and the lights of the planes taking off and landing were visible. In the distance I also seemed to catch a glimpse of the headlights that bordered the airport runway, but I was not sure. Again, I had that feeling of not being able to sit still, of wanting the hours to flow by as fast as possible, all the more so when I finished the tedious formalities of ticketcontrol and got the green light to begin the craziest trip of my life.

It wasn’t the first time I had been outside the United States, but I had never gone this far, and I had certainly never done it for love, a mixture of elements that had the effect of making my heartbeats spurt at an uncontrollable rate, so much so that I felt like laughing for no reason - I was just happy. When the plane took off, that dumbfounded smile that widened every time I thought of Alan was once again plastered on my face. In just seven hours - alright, maybe a little longer - I would have him back in my arms, and with a little luck we would also be spending Christmas together, a thought that made me crazy with joy just thinking about it. It had been a long, long time since I had had a proper holiday, and indeed, as the years went by, I had even tried to forget what the holidays had been like before my father’s vein burst, for they were precisely the times when everyone seemed happy and loved, except me.

That thought was supplanted by Alan, and I wondered if he cooked on such occasions, since he liked it so much. And what in particular did he prepare? Would I have a chance to taste anything?

Thoughts about Alan and Christmas kept me company for a little over a half hour, after which I collapsed to sleep, lulled by the background noise of air recirculation and engines. It was not a comfortable sleep, but mostly what woke me up was the light filtering through the window, even though it was rolled down almost all the way. I opened my eyes wide and took a moment to remember what I was doing there, so I looked at the time and realized that it was three o’clock in the morning. I rolled up the window a little more and lowered my head to peer in - yes, light was coming in. Three o’clock in the morning. However, my brain had a flicker of intelligence, an unexpected connection between neurons, and the words “time zone” flashed through my mindlike a neon light for a few seconds. I congratulated myself for the insight not entirely expected at that time of night and after all that time on the road, after which I settled back in my seat in a state of mental peace for having solved that mystery and quietly settled back down.

After about a couple of hours it was already late morning and I stood with my face stuck to the window and my mouth wide open like a child in front of a giant package of candy. I finally saw a glimpse of land after hours and hours of ocean, and there were cities and villages, but more like hills and isolated roads. The roads became thicker and thicker until I glimpsed a giant city that could only be London.

I felt like crying at the thought that I was almost there, just this close to seeing Alan again. And as the plane jerked from the landing, I heard a voice inside me begin to scream with excitement and emotion. As soon as I set foot on British soil and passed, for the second time in a few hours, the automatic arrivals gate, a million thoughts and scenarios ran through my mind: there was Alan, but there was also my first trip to Europe. For no reason even Harvey’s words that had called it provincial came back to my mind, but walking through the corridors of the terminal it didn’t seem like it to me at all. Yes, there was a different atmosphere, starting with the sterling prices that caused me a moment’s bewilderment, but for the time being I decided not to think too much about it and just enjoy that unexpected breath of fresh air.

I passed by a group of Englishmen and my mouth widened into a smile when I heard the accent, somewhat similar to Alan’s. I couldn’t tell if it was the same, but it excited me to think that maybe I could get used to it in a few days. I wondered what it was like to see Alan in his environment, whether he had more or less of an accent than when he was in New York. He would occasionally indulge in hints of slang from his adopted city, butwith certain words it was impossible not to pick up where he was coming from, or even just that slight inflection he put into sentences.

My eyes meanwhile caught everything - the restaurant menus, the billboards - with a sparkle of curiosity that I may have last felt as a child in front of some of my father’s teachings in perfect Boy Scout style. It all seemed beautiful, all new, and it was even more so knowing that I could reach Brighton by train; so I bought, with a hint of excitement, a train ticket from Gatwick Airport to Brighton for the modest sum of twenty-five pounds, which I had rushed to change shortly before, turning a blind eye to the deadly exchange rates to which I cast more than a curse. I promised myself to change more bills at a less expensive spot, perhaps at Alan’s suggestion.

I stood waiting at the platform until a South-Central convoy peeped out from a distance, eventually stopping at the platform where I was waiting. A whole series of “Aaah’s” and “Oooh’s” popped up in my head every time I took an extra step inside the train, which struck me as small, but beautiful, nonetheless. Human-sized, that is.

I located my seat and sat in it. The journey would take just over half an hour, and I wondered how many more little bits were separating me from him. I shivered at the idea of being so close and shivered even more at the thought that he had no idea. When the doors of the train closed, I remembered the bag of chips I had bought at JFK and pounced on it, for the meal on the plane had filled me just the right amount, and I licked my fingers without restraint despite being in a public place.

On the train I tried hard not to fall asleep so I wouldn’t miss my stop, but it was rather complicated. From time to time, I would suddenly wake up and look at the screen showing the route, breathing a sigh of relief because we hadn’t arrived yet. Then I would again lose myself in fantasizing about the next fewhours and my eyelid would drop, repeating that cycle of sleep and wakefulness for an endless amount of times.

However, when the voice over the loudspeaker announced our arrival at the Brighton stop, I felt more awake than ever; I grabbed my suitcase and carry-on luggage, tossed the bag of chips into the small basket (which I thought was a convenient and ingenious accessory), and headed for the exit.

The doors swung open, and I was overwhelmed by the cobalt blue of the station. It had nothing, + really nothing, to do with the size of any station in the United States, had it been even a subway station, but I found it welcoming, almost familiar; my eyes followed the blue arches that supported the station’s glass roof, very industrial in style, and a series of lights placed next to each pillar. The smell of the air was different from what it was in New York, but it was unlike any other city I had been to. I seemed not only to smell it, but to feel it on me, on my skin, perhaps because of the humidity. I didn’t know much about Brighton except that it was a seaside town, and so I imagined the piers, the walks on the beach, perhaps similar to what I had seen in California.

I followed the stream of people that led me toward the station exit, and as I walked my attention was caught by a large Christmas tree placed just past the head of the tracks, decorated with lights, a few balls, and an array of greeting cards strung between the branches. I continued toward the station doors, and as I stepped outside the building I knew, in that moment, that my heart belonged there. The sky was barren and the air cold, but neither could stop me from gaping, once again, at that town with such a Victorian flavor. Opposite the station exit was a three-floors building with elegant arched windows each of which gave onto a small terrace. I dragged my bags to take a look at the street next door: below the building was a wood-finished pub and a couple of flowering plants above the front door, while onthe other side of the street stood a series of red-brick buildings not exceeding five floors. My vision was interrupted for a moment by the passage of a double-decker bus, which was not red but looked much like the ones you might see in any London brochure. It passed me and pulled into the street that had enchanted me, a single-lane road where traffic flowed smoothly. A row of trees started at the sidewalk of the pub and continued for who knows how long, I couldn’t see it; but my attention kept being caught by the stores, all single-glazed, except for the pub and the small supermarket to my left that I had only just noticed. I took my suitcases with me because my curiosity to peek at the other streets that departed from the station as well was great; so, I looked out into one that enraptured me by a hypnotic sequence of all-white houses, one after the other, all with arched windows that in an overall view almost seemed to form a series of waves.

I stayed watching the station square and the surrounding streets for a while longer, hoping that Alan would take me for a ride because I was already in love with that city - as well as with him. And yes, compared to New York, it was just a different world, on so many levels that I couldn’t have even listed them all, but if I had to sum up that city with one adjective, perhaps I would have chosen “gracious.” It seemed to me that the stores were manicured and the streets neat, the air crisp and clean, a kind of Zen Garden where nothing fell out of place.

I turned and my gaze fell back to the supermarket, and the sudden gurgling of my stomach suggested that perhaps I could buy myself something to eat. The automatic doors of the place opened onto a small room dense with shelves and merchandise, with aisles so narrow that I was almost afraid to put my bags through them. From where I was, I could already catch a glimpse of the checkout counter, and I marveled at how small it was compared to the supermarkets I was used to; yet that size seemed to be sewn onto me, and I was certain that I would findwhat I needed, and perhaps more. I grabbed a sandwich stuffed with salad, tomatoes, and something else I couldn’t see, grabbed a small bottle of orange juice of only half a liter, and, as I walked between aisles, my eye fell on a box of Lindt pralines that I had occasionally seen even overseas. They cost five pounds, and I couldn’t have said for sure whether it was a lot or a little, but I took them anyway just so I wouldn’t show up empty-handed at Alan’s house, and basically also because they gave a more romantic touch to that venture.

I walked out of the supermarket happy and satisfied, and in not even two minutes I was already taking a bite of the sandwich and drinking the orange juice that really tasted like orange, and not like sugar with a certain fruit aftertaste. In a way it was much more bitter than what I was used to, and my doubts were answered when on the plastic card around the bottle I discovered the words “no added sugars,” and it was written large enough that I thought they considered that a plus.

As I finished filling my stomach, about noon and a half according to the station clock, I noticed that there was a cab stand in front of me. There were several parked, but my attention was caught by a sleek white Toyota with a light blue tinted nose; leaning against the back door, phone in hand, was what must have been the taxi driver. I threw away the plastic sandwich and the empty bottle, then grabbed my cell phone and set out to search for Ash’s text message.

I found myself clutching the phone and felt a gnawing in my stomach, but not from hunger. It was very close to the moment when I would find out whether I had screwed up colossally or I was the genius of the century, whether I was going there to be rejected or to live happily ever after - more or less. But I had to take courage, because at that point it would have been stupid to give up or panic, so I approached the man next to the car, a tallman with glasses and graying hair, and I took a deep breath, but he beat me to it.

“Can I help you?”

There, I thought, now I really can’t go back.

“Yes, actually I should go...” and I showed him the address from the phone, “...here. Could you tell me how long it takes?”

He looked at the address for a few seconds, then nodded.

“Twenty minutes. And it’s circa twenty pounds.”

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