Chapter 8. I learn his name

Gradually I drew back from visions of Himalayan mountains and 'spire' scales that measured the sheer -- well, actually the sheer in the literal sense -- 'impressiveness' of mountains. I didn't understand it too well, but I did understand that it was the main thing I'd be interested in if I were ever in the Himalayas - What's it like to stand on a mountain in a huge range like that and look down? How steep and high would the wall be.

Not being a mountaineer (or understanding them even slightly) I would have been more interested in looking up at the mountains. I had once read that there was a place in the Himalayas where, from that one spot you could see two huge mountains from two different continents, two distinct colliding tectonic plates, at the same time. You'd look over your left shoulder up up up into the sky to see the sheer wall of one of them a few miles distant, and then look over your right shoulder and have to raise your eyes up up up into the sky to see the top of the other one!

II began to hear the flight attendants, still asking endless tiresome questions about coffee or tea, irritating me and was pulled away from my fantasies of standing in the Himalayas. Were the still picking up food? Were they living in slow motion? I felt cranky as they chatted interminably with someone in a row in front of me about some sports event and then a TV show of impressive shallowness, everyone shared that, everyone watched that show, and they went on about how they couldn't wait to get to a beach and go surfing. I listened with distaste as their conversation dragged emptily along in contrast to the delicious thinkiness in my mind that the Kalmuk passenger had activated.

It was much too familiar, from some time years in the past when I was still reading, so famliar to be dragged from bright, open places in my books back to drabness. A little lightbulb went on. Maybe that explained a lot about the last years. It had been so long since anything had fascinated me because I had stopped exerting myself to any kind of discovery, and the people around me had never intruded with anything remotely interesting. Maybe my terrible feelings for all those years wasn't depression. Maybe it had been nothing more depressing than being hit over and over again by unending waves of tedious and empty conversations at work and on television and on the phone, always feeling half disconnected as if the voices were coming from far away and everything but sleep was dull and unpleasant, thin and stingy. Maybe I had simply been bored and then the bell jar froze me there. Maybe the whole thing was about being surrounded by crashing banality and stupid people. Well, it looked good on paper, but I had a feeling my analysis wouldn't stand up to scrutiny.

And then from nowhere I remembered a quote from a pro bicycler, about looking at pedestrians as he biked along and saying to a companion, something like "The emptiness of those lives horrifies me." I almost laughed. What, tell me, what could be more boring than being a competitive bicycler? But I guess we all find our own interests -- are they needs? -- to be interesting, and everyone else's to be uninteresting. Talk about being the center of the universe.

My self-criticism wasn't unusual, but my reaction to it was. I felt caught, with a little pleasure at being silly; caught like a beloved child who had stolen a cookie and knew the only response from the grownups would be warm laughter, and I noted that it had been a very long time since I had enjoyed finding myself being stupid.

Finally the stewardesses moved on and my new friend looked at me and smiled quizzically. "What happy thing were you doing back there?" he asked.

"Nothing much," I said, amiably. "Looking at photos of the mountains." Then I leaned across the aisle and thrust out my hand toward his.

"My name is Ginger. You're interesting. I'm very happy to meet you."

"Ivan," he smiled broadly, taking my hand in his huge one. He pronounced his name ee-von,emphasizing the last syllable.
"Yvonne?" I asked, and he laughed out loud.

"Eye-vinn to you."

"How do you do, Eye-vinn," I grinned." So let me see if I've got this right: you make heroic travel documentaries to bring tourists to the 'stans but not Afghanistan. Am I getting it?"

"Not exactly documentaries, they are true feature films. Travel documentaries are -- disturbing. Silly people bouncing about like fox terriers, diminishing everything they see, this disgusts me. Do you think they bring tourism?"

"Not mine" I said.

"Good. No, I must make passionate features filled with love and adventure. You have seen perhaps a fine film from Russia called "Prisoner of the Mountains." I do not hope to make such a fine film as that one. But perhaps you have seen "Ryan's Daughter", this movie with Robert Mitchum, or "Lawrence of Arabia", this movie with Peter O'Toole."

"Yes, of course. All of them."

"Such movies bring tourists."

"Yes, yes, you're quite right. I want to go to Mongolia now because of a lovely movie I just saw, "A Mongolian Tale."

He smiled, and looked at me. "This could be arranged possibly."

Before I could ask what he meant by that strange statement, the loudspeaker called out our descent into Istanbul and the stewards rushed by grabbing out food as if they'd been surprised. My Russian neighbor gazed at his disappearing dinner stoically just reaching to snatch his napkin from the flying tray and pat his lips with it.

"Yes, so it is too bad you're not a writer. I could use a writer."

"Sorry. Not my thing. But you should give me your card. Maybe I can carry your cameras or something."

"Too heavy," he said, fishing in his jacket for a card. "You are staying in Istanbul?"

"Cappadocia. Wherever that is."

"Oh? It is quite beautiful there. I will be meeting with someone who wishes to do a film with the Cappadocian background. It won't be a good film. The background is too unusual, like the moon, too beautiful. He will have Ataturk in a Persian Lamb hat on a horse, shot from below with his head against the clouds." He shook his head. "But I will meet with him. He is a good friend. However that may be some time in the future. Perhaps you won't be there anymore."

"I'm not sure where else to go," I said, sorry at once that I sounded so wistful. "I'll think of something," I said brightly. "I plan to travel a lot." We sat in silence as everyone began to stand and move into the aisle, reaching up to open the overhead bins for their luggage.

"I will find you," he said, looking at me calmly.

We were pushed off the plane in a crush of suitcases and coats and only waved at each other as I ran for a plane to Keyseri and he disappeared down the path of another terminal.

I wondered if we'd ever meet again. He said we would. But that only happens in novels.