Aliya

A lost bird is singing somewhere up in the beams of the roof. The Imam is calling for prayer. It is 5.03 am in Dubai Airport. The center of the world is a frenzy as usual but Aliya, the Information Desk officer, like some kind of mythological character (Karonte?), takes care of chaos with a smile. Meanwhile, she draws flowers on a piece of paper.

Few horrors are so intense, so chilling and at the same time so familiar as that one arising out of loosing the wallet and keys while in the airport.

A mature man, obviously traumatized with the cold shivers of wallet-loss, arrives sweating at the Information, Aliya awaits with a calm smile.

His voice trembles while he explains that he has lost also some important paintings by Australian aboriginals somewhere behind the security screens. Aliya looks at him. She makes a phone call. Sends him to some lost and to hopefully end the nightmare.

Myself, I have lost the book "Conversaciones en la Catedral" of Mario Vargas Llosa. I left it in my seat. Late night flights are a recipe for disaster in this sense. However, I imagine I will recover it. Aliya calls the airline and talks in with them.

I fantasize I will write to Mr. Vargas to tell him the story about his novel. But no luck: the book is not there, Aliya tells me with condescendence. I guess they threw it away. I imagine a dusty room full of forgotten novels.

Now two Chinese men stare at Aliya while she´s on the phone. I ask them what do they want, one of them shows me a book of instructions for some cryptic machine. He wants to either check the machine in or carry it in the cabin. They are on their way to South Africa.

The scenes are so interesting I decide to stay a few minutes. A Congolese woman is the next one. She is worried because the name of the Hotel she has booked in New York is not the one that appears in her Visa documents. "It is not a problem", I tell her. "People change hotels all the time", I say. "But you know", she says in French, "these Americans are very tricky!".

A group of women in colourful saris approach the desk. As Aliya is busy with the Congolese I ask them what do they need. They want to know their gate. I point with my fingers to the screens down the corridor and tell them they can just read the information there. "Go that way".

I see them dissapear walking the screens. They do not see them. I realize they did not understand and feel terrible. I imagine them starving in the middle of the desert, far from the airport.

A group of Spaniards passes by looking for a place to light a cigarette. I show them the way to the Tapas Bar. Later I end up having a shot of vodka and a bit of real caviar. Obviously, it is a rip off (Carpe Diem, what the hell).

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