martinsmithstories

Photo by Michał Parzuchowski on Unsplash

As I waited inside the airport for my suitcase to appear on the baggage carousel, I watched the old woman and her granddaughter hover near the ATMs. The seer had upped her ante, for she brandished a walking cane and sunglasses, and her gnarled, outstretched hand sought to clamp upon the wrist of any unsuspecting cashed-up passer-by.

My suitcase appeared first on the carousel, so I stepped forward and grasped the handle. But, to my surprise, I couldn’t lift it. As the bag continued to travel along the carousel, I broke into a trot and firmed my grip and tried to lift again. No luck. Still trotting, I checked the label. Mine. Again I tried to lift, but the bag wouldn’t budge. What the hell was in there? Concrete? A corpse? Cocaine? Who the hell tries to smuggle cocaine into Colombia?

Still my suitcase moved along the carousel, and still I clung on and trotted along, until I had to release my grip to avoid being dragged through the carousel exit hole in the wall. As I awaited my suitcase’s return, a Customs official and his dog approached the baggage area. The dog’s tail wagged, and the official kept his hand on his gun. Good God! I thought. It’s Officer Sanchez and his celebrity drug-sniffing dog, Sombra. I tried to remain calm and adopt a cherubic countenance, but my sympathetic nervous system betrayed me, for my face warmed and my mouth dried.

My suitcase reappeared, but Officer Sanchez and dog stood within pistol-whipping, scrotum-snapping distance of me, so I averted my eyes from my suitcase and let it pass me and disappear through the hole again.

Twenty minutes and ten laps of the carousel later, only my suitcase remained on the carousel. Yet Officer Sanchez and his faithful Sombra still lingered.

‘Ese es su bolso, señor?’ Officer Sanchez said.

I looked about whilst I whistled the Midnight Express theme, hoping Officer Sanchez addressed another, but, alas, the hustle and bustle of the baggage area had dissipated, so only me, my suitcase and my guilt remained.

‘Señor!’

‘What? Who? Me?’ I said as I struggled to maintain eye contact with his menacing stare.

‘Sí. Ese es su bolso? Bolso … that bag.’

He pointed at my suitcase as it passed by again, and Sombra released a growl and a baring of his fangs to elicit a prompt response from me.

‘Is that my bag, you ask? That suitcase? Yes, yes. It’s mine, Officer. Sorry, I was a little distracted admiring your beautiful airport.’ My guilt now manifested itself with a flushed face, a soaked shirt and a shifty look. ‘But someone has tampered with my suitcase, Officer. There’s no way it was that heavy when I boarded my plane at JFK Airport. I should know. I can’t afford excess baggage on my salary and credit card limit.’

Sombra growled as Officer Sanchez unclipped a pair of handcuffs. I was about to surrender to a thirty-year prison sentence in a filthy, rat-infested Colombian cell shared with a dozen miscreants of dubious hygiene habits, when a young man called out, ‘Tío!’ He walked up to Officer Sanchez and slipped a bundle of peso notes into his hand. Officer Sanchez nodded, and with a faithful Sombra giving me one last growl and baring of his fangs, they headed towards the next carousel.

‘Roger?’ the young man said. ‘Roger Rogerson?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I’m Carlos. From your hotel. I’m here to escort you to the ferry. Do not worry about my uncle and his dog. Where is your luggage?’ I pointed at the sole occupant of the carousel before us, and Carlos stepped over and picked up my suitcase with ease and walked towards the exit.

***

And then I met her. The One. A sweet, bubbly, winsome bundle of thirty-something fun. Natasha. At the terminal, while waiting for the ferry to Isla Grande. Our hands brushed when we reached for the last slice of Torta Negra at the ferry kiosk, and I looked up, and a million amperes of electricity shot straight to my heart. I apologised and blushed. She apologised and flushed. I said, ‘You take it,’ and she said, ‘No, you take it.’ I said, ‘I insist,’ and she said, ‘No, I insist.’ A weather-beaten old man said, ‘Oh, por el amor de Dios.’ He snatched the plate and made a beeline for the register, pushing his walking frame.

We laughed, then I said, ‘I’m Roger.’ She said, ‘I’m Natasha.’ I told her I was a routing clerk from Richmond, Rhode Island. She told me she was a nail technician from Nashua, New Hampshire. I said, ‘I’m staying at Hotel Isla del Sol.’ She said, ‘Me, too.’ I said, ‘Four nights.’ She said, ‘Me, too.’ I laughed and said, ‘What a coincidence.’ She laughed and said, ‘Yes, what a coincidence.’ I said, ‘Indeed.’ She said, ‘Indeed, indeed.’ I paused, lost for words … but she saved me, for she took my hands in hers and told me I had strong yet gentle fingers, though my cuticles needed pushing back. Said she’d happily give me a file and buff. And we talked and talked, and laughed and laughed, and flirted and flirted, until the next thing I knew, the ferry docked at Isla Grande, and Carlos escorted us to the reception, where we registered.

Natasha picked up her key and turned to me and said with a wink and a pout, ‘Meet me at the bar at seven.’ I looked at my watch. It was six. As she headed off behind her porter, she called out, ‘And bring your dancing shoes.’

***

I flamingoed all the way to my room. How lucky was I? I thought as the porter placed my suitcase on the bed. First day; no, first hour; no, first minute of my arrival, and I was going on a dream date in a dream location with the woman of my dreams. Cha-cha-cha! Right, I thought as I fandangoed before a full-length mirror, just time for a quick shave, shower and samba. But what to wear? To make an impression? I pondered with a Paso Doble chassé. I opened my suitcase, accompanied by a rumba, but found it not full of clothes but a pale, sinewy, hairy flesh.

‘What the?’ I said.

The flesh stirred and unravelled. A pale arm stretched out, followed by its pallid twin, and then two legs emerged and stood. The legs held up a gaunt torso, and last came a head, and I gasped as I looked into the face of my twin!

‘Who the hell are you?’ I said.

‘I’m Rodger, Roger. I’m your holiday selfie.’

‘My holiday selfie?’

‘That’s right. Everyone takes them when on holiday. We only come out once a year; twice, if we’re lucky. My word, it’s been a trifle stuffy curled up in our suitcase.’

‘But I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, it’s quite simple, Roger. You’re the miserable Roger. You know, the one stuck in the daily grind for fifty weeks of the year, hunched over that computer terminal of yours with a permanent scowl on your face and getting narky and tired and thin as you fight the commuting crowds, the complaining customers and that prick of a boss of yours, all for a lousy pay packet that barely covers your rent, let alone your credit card repayments. Whereas I, well, Matey, I’m the jolly Rodger. With a “d”, as in debonair, decadent and devil-may-care.’

God, I thought as I looked at my twin, do I need some sun, fun and a dozen or more shots of rum, or what?

‘Right,’ Rodger said. ‘Time to get dressed and catch up with that ravishing Natasha. Here, take these.’ He handed me three tablets and a bottle of water.

‘What’s the green one do?’ I said.

‘Gets rid of jet lag.’

I popped the pill and washed it down. ‘The blue one?’

‘Save that for later. In case you get lucky with Natasha.’

‘And the white one?’

‘That’s a Dream Maker. Pop one and all your dreams will come true.’

I thought of the night ahead with Natasha dancing in my arms, buffing my nails and, hopefully, fulfilling the predictions of a peso-rich sibyl.

And in the white pill popped.