It was warm in the Transit1 Passenger Lounge at Frankfurt, so Sir StaffordNye slipped back his cloak, allowing its crimson2 lining3 to drape itself spec-tacularly round his shoulders. He was drinking a glass of beer and listen-ing with half an ear to the various announcements as they were made.
‘Flight 4387. Flying to Moscow. Flight 2381 bound for Egypt and Cal-cutta.’
Journeys all over the globe. How romantic it ought to be. But there wassomething about the atmosphere of a Passengers’ Lounge in an airportthat chilled romance. It was too full of people, too full of things to buy, toofull of similarly coloured seats, too full of plastic, too full of human beings,too full of crying children. He tried to remember who had said:
I wish I loved the Human Race;
I wish I loved its silly face.
Chesterton perhaps? It was undoubtedly4 true. Put enough people togetherand they looked so painfully alike that one could hardly bear it. An inter-esting face now, thought Sir Stafford. What a difference it would make. Helooked disparagingly5 at two young women, splendidly made up, dressed inthe national uniform of their country–England he presumed–of shorterand shorter miniskirts, and another young woman, even better made up–in fact quite good-looking–who was wearing what he believed to be calleda culotte suit. She had gone a little further along the road of fashion.
He wasn’t very interested in nice-looking girls who looked like all theother nice-looking girls. He would like someone to be different. Someonesat down beside him on the plastic- covered artificial leather settee onwhich he was sitting. Her face attracted his attention at once. Not pre-cisely because it was different, in fact he almost seemed to recognize it asa face he knew. Here was someone he had seen before. He couldn’t re-member where or when but it was certainly familiar. Twenty-five or six,he thought, possibly, as to age. A delicate high-bridged aquiline6 nose, ablack heavy bush of hair reaching to her shoulders. She had a magazine infront of her but she was not paying attention to it. She was, in fact, lookingwith something that was almost eagerness at him. Quite suddenly shespoke. It was a deep contralto voice, almost as deep as a man’s. It had avery faint foreign accent. She said,
‘Can I speak to you?’
He studied her for a moment before replying. No–not what one mighthave thought–this wasn’t a pick-up. This was something else.
‘I see no reason,’ he said, ‘why you should not do so. We have time towaste here, it seems.’
‘Fog,’ said the woman, ‘fog in Geneva, fog in London, perhaps. Fogeverywhere. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t worry,’ he said reassuringly7, ‘they’ll land you some-where all right. They’re quite efficient, you know. Where are you going?’
‘I was going to Geneva.’
‘Well, I expect you’ll get there in the end.’
‘I have to get there now. If I can get to Geneva, it will be all right. There issomeone who will meet me there. I can be safe.’
‘Safe?’ He smiled a little.
She said, ‘Safe is a four-letter word but not the kind of four-letter wordthat people are interested in nowadays. And yet it can mean a lot. Itmeans a lot to me.’ Then she said, ‘You see, if I can’t get to Geneva, if I haveto leave this plane here, or go on in this plane to London with no arrange-ments made, I shall be killed.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘I suppose youdon’t believe that.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘It’s quite true. People can be. They are, every day.’
‘Who wants to kill you?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Not to me.’
‘You can believe me if you wish to believe me. I am speaking the truth. Iwant help. Help to get to London safely.’
‘And why should you select me to help you?’
‘Because I think that you know something about death. You have knownof death, perhaps seen death happen.’
He looked sharply at her and then away again.
‘Any other reason?’ he said.
‘Yes. This.’ She stretched out her narrow olive- skinned hand andtouched the folds of the voluminous cloak. ‘This,’ she said.
For the first time his interest was aroused.
‘Now what do you mean by that?’
‘It’s unusual–characteristic. It’s not what everyone wears.’
‘True enough. It’s one of my affectations, shall we say?’
‘It’s an affectation that could be useful to me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I am asking you something. Probably you will refuse but you might notrefuse because I think you are a man who is ready to take risks. Just as Iam a woman who takes risks.’
‘I’ll listen to your project,’ he said, with a faint smile.
‘I want your cloak to wear. I want your passport. I want your boardingticket for the plane. Presently, in twenty minutes or so, say, the flight forLondon will be called. I shall have your passport, I shall wear your cloak.
And so I shall travel to London and arrive safely.’
‘You mean you’ll pass yourself off as me? My dear girl.’
She opened a handbag. From it she took a small square mirror.
‘Look there,’ she said. ‘Look at me and then look at your own face.’
He saw then, saw what had been vaguely8 nagging9 at his mind. His sister,Pamela, who had died about twenty years ago. They had always been veryalike, he and Pamela. A strong family resemblance. She had had a slightlymasculine type of face. His face, perhaps, had been, certainly in early life,of a slightly effeminate type. They had both had the high-bridged nose, thetilt of eyebrows10, the slightly sideways smile of the lips. Pamela had beentall, five foot eight, he himself five foot ten. He looked at the woman whohad tendered him the mirror.
‘There is a facial likeness11 between us, that’s what you mean, isn’t it? Butmy dear girl, it wouldn’t deceive anyone who knew me or knew you.’
‘Of course it wouldn’t. Don’t you understand? It doesn’t need to. I amtravelling wearing slacks. You have been travelling with the hood12 of yourcloak drawn13 up round your face. All I have to do is to cut off my hair,wrap it up in a twist of newspaper, throw it in one of the litter-basketshere. Then I put on your burnous, I have your boarding card, ticket, andpassport. Unless there is someone who knows you well on this plane, and Ipresume there is not or they would have spoken to you already, then I cansafely travel as you. Showing your passport when it’s necessary, keepingthe burnous and cloak drawn up so that my nose and eyes and mouth areabout all that are seen. I can walk out safely when the plane reaches itsdestination because no one will know I have travelled by it. Walk outsafely and disappear into the crowds of the city of London.’
‘And what do I do?’ asked Sir Stafford, with a slight smile.
‘I can make a suggestion if you have the nerve to face it.’
‘Suggest,’ he said. ‘I always like to hear suggestions.’
‘You get up from here, you go away and buy a magazine or a newspa-per, or a gift at the gift counter. You leave your cloak hanging here on theseat. When you come back with whatever it is, you sit down somewhereelse–say at the end of that bench opposite here. There will be a glass infront of you, this glass still. In it there will be something that will send youto sleep. Sleep in a quiet corner.’
‘What happens next?’
‘You will have been presumably the victim of a robbery,’ she said.
‘Somebody will have added a few knock-out drops to your drink, and willhave stolen your wallet from you. Something of that kind. You declareyour identity, say that your passport and things are stolen. You can easilyestablish your identity.’
‘You know who I am? My name, I mean?’
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen your passport yet. I’ve no idea whoyou are.’
‘And yet you say I can establish my identity easily.’
‘I am a good judge of people. I know who is important or who isn’t. Youare an important person.’
‘And why should I do all this?’
‘Perhaps to save the life of a fellow human being.’
‘Isn’t that rather a highly coloured story?’
‘Oh yes. Quite easily not believed. Do you believe it?’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You know what you’re talking like? Abeautiful spy in a thriller14.’
‘Yes, perhaps. But I am not beautiful.’
‘And you’re not a spy?’
‘I might be so described, perhaps. I have certain information. Informa-tion I want to preserve. You will have to take my word for it, it is informa-tion that would be valuable to your country.’
‘Don’t you think you’re being rather absurd?’
‘Yes I do. If this was written down it would look absurd. But so many ab-surd things are true, aren’t they?’
He looked at her again. She was very like Pamela. Her voice, althoughforeign in intonation15, was like Pamela’s. What she proposed was ridicu-lous, absurd, quite impossible, and probably dangerous. Dangerous tohim. Unfortunately, though, that was what attracted him. To have thenerve to suggest such a thing to him! What would come of it all? It wouldbe interesting, certainly, to find out.
‘What do I get out of it?’ he said. ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’
She looked at him consideringly. ‘Diversion,’ she said. ‘Something out ofthe everyday happenings? An antidote16 to boredom17, perhaps. We’ve notgot very long. It’s up to you.’
‘And what happens to your passport? Do I have to buy myself a wig18, ifthey sell such a thing, at the counter? Do I have to impersonate a female?’
‘No. There’s no question of exchanging places. You have been robbedand drugged but you remain yourself. Make up your mind. There isn’tlong. Time is passing very quickly. I have to do my own transformation19.’
‘You win,’ he said. ‘One mustn’t refuse the unusual, if it is offered toone.’
‘I hoped you might feel that way, but it was a toss-up.’
From his pocket Stafford Nye took out his passport. He slipped it into theouter pocket of the cloak he had been wearing. He rose to his feet,yawned, looked round him, looked at his watch, and strolled over to thecounter where various goods were displayed for sale. He did not even lookback. He bought a paperback20 book and fingered some small woolly anim-als, a suitable gift for some child. Finally he chose a panda. He lookedround the lounge, came back to where he had been sitting. The cloak wasgone and so had the girl. A half glass of beer was on the table still. Here,he thought, is where I take the risk. He picked up the glass, moved away alittle, and drank it. Not quickly. Quite slowly. It tasted much the same as ithad tasted before.
‘Now I wonder,’ said Sir Stafford. ‘Now I wonder.’
He walked across the lounge to a far corner. There was a somewhatnoisy family sitting there, laughing and talking together. He sat down nearthem, yawned, let his head fall back on the edge of the cushion. A flightwas announced leaving for Teheran. A large number of passengers got upand went to queue by the requisite21 numbered gate. The lounge still re-mained half full. He opened his paperback book. He yawned again. Hewas really sleepy now, yes, he was very sleepy…He must just think outwhere it was best for him to go off to sleep. Somewhere he could remain…Trans-European Airways22 announced the departure of their plane, Flight309 for London.
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1
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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3
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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4
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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5
disparagingly
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| adv.以贬抑的口吻，以轻视的态度 | |
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6
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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7
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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8
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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9
nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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14
thriller
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| n.惊险片，恐怖片 | |
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15
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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16
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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17
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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18
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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19
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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20
paperback
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| n.平装本，简装本 | |
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21
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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22
AIRWAYS
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| 航空公司 | |
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