Arrival

By Malik Mufti

Ismail’s carrier from Amsterdam lands in Boston at 4:20 in the afternoon, precisely on time.  He silently gives thanks and seeps out the darkened womb of the airplane with the rest of the congregation, very slowly at first, then somewhat faster on the narrow jet bridge toward the light of the terminal, and finally at a near run through the corridor leading to passport control.  The shiny glass and metal of the windows and walls afford reflection for passengers adjusting their hair and clothing as they rush along.  Ismail, however, slows down.  Outside, in the darkening sky, some birds land together on a rocky beach, cawing at something indiscernible washed up from the ocean.  He looks at the illustrations which, along with flags and welcome signs, festoon the corridor wall.  A print of an old painting – a lone church in a forest clearing with a priest, face obscured, standing in the shadow of its doorway.  In another print, two youths ice skating: “Harvard College Undergraduates on Fresh Pond, 1697.”  A photograph of a crowd of people, all types and colors, in front of a building with the sign “Mass General.”  A depiction of awesome engines engaged in a subterranean construction project titled the “Big Dig.”

He rejoins the flood of travelers flowing forward.  The knot in his stomach tightens as he approaches the great hall where they are to be screened.  There is a bathroom, and he goes in.  People are examining their reflections in the mirrors that line the walls.  He allows himself the hint of a sneer, then splashes water on his face.  Back in the hall, an officer separates the arrivals: “U.S. citizens and Green Card holders in the red line; all others in the blue line.”  Ismail joins the blue line on the right.  It will be a much longer wait.  He studies the Americans lined to his left.  Some faces are gloomy from the travails of their journeys, but most are jolly anticipating the pleasures of home.  He wonders how they can pack so tightly together and still never seem to touch.  He imagines himself in their midst, but stops short: soon enough.  As his line creeps along, there are several posted notices warning about infections contracted in foreign lands.  He is too distracted to pay careful attention.

As he nears the end of the line, he looks ahead to the border agents processing arrivals at their lecterns, searching out the kindliest faces.  Number Five seems promising.  At last it is his turn, and the officer at the head of the line says: “Number Three.”  He moves toward Number Three but keeps going toward Number Five.  The officer notices and shouts out: “I said Number Three!”  Ismail walks back to Number Three, which has just cleared the previous arrival.  The border agent beckons him forward.  She is petite, with short hair and impressively sharp eyes.  Her name badge says Endicott.  He hands her his documents, which she thumbs through.  After some questions about himself and his finances, she asks: “Have you been in the United States before?”

“No.”

“You have a B-2 visitor visa. Who are you coming to visit?”

“His name is Ra’id al-Tawahini.”  He spells it for her.

“How do you know him?”

“He is a kinsman.”

She is annoyed.  “How exactly are you related?”

“He is my father’s cousin.”

“Address?”  He gives it.  She types on her keyboard.  Waits.  Types some more.

“Will you be staying with your relative the whole time?”

“Yes,” he answers, though it remains to be seen.

“What’s his profession?”

“He owns a bookshop.”  Best not to go into detail.

“Will you be working there during your visit?”

“No.”

“Then what is the purpose of your visit?” 

He considers his answer.  “Just tourism.”

“When do you plan to leave?”

“In twelve days.”  He stares back blankly at her peering eyes.

“Are you married?”

“No.”  He remembers Iman.  Where is she now?

Agent Endicott writes something on a piece of paper, calls over an officer standing nearby, gives him the note and Ismail’s documents, and says: “Follow my colleague for additional processing.”

The officer leads him to a seating area, and tells him to wait until called.  He disappears with Ismail’s carry-on bag and travel documents through a door behind a counter.  Ismail looks around at the other dubious arrivals slated for additional screening.  Besides a couple of scruffy European youths in blue jeans, there are a half-dozen Middle Eastern, African, and South Asian looking men.  Nobody speaks.  Ismail chews on his lips.  Every twenty minutes or so a name is called out, and the traveler is led through the door behind the counter.  They appear to be going in order, and it is almost three hours before Ismail is called.  He is led past the door, through a corridor, into a small cubicle.  A border agent sits behind a desk, Ismail’s documents in front of him and the carry-on standing nearby.  The name on his badge is Morton.  He is plump, with a soft, smiling face.  “Good evening, sir,” he says.  “Please have a seat.”  He runs through several of the same questions Ismail has already answered, ending with:

“Why did you come here?”

“As I already explained, I am a tourist.”

“I understand, sir.  But you could have picked any number of other countries closer at hand to visit.  Why the United States?”  They look at each other.

“America is the greatest country in the world.  I did not want to waste my time anywhere else.”

“You want to play in the big leagues.”

Ismail nods.

“For twelve days.”

Ismail sits still.

Agent Morton leafs through the papers on his desk for a bit then looks up, eyes wide open: “Welcome to the United States, sir.”

Ismail walks back to the seating area, documents and carry-on in hand, almost tearing up with relief.  He takes an escalator down to baggage pick-up and goes past the carousels – he has no checked baggage.  Which way out?  Advertisements line the walls now.  One shows an enormous car, driven by an impossibly beautiful woman in a red dress, plowing through a storm, and proclaims: “Mother Nature can’t stop us.”  Another features a bearded man holding a bottle of beer, with the caption: “He once won a staring contest with his own reflection.”

“Can I help you, young man?  You seem lost.”  The speaker, despite his cane still a strangely sprightly gentleman, smiles at him understandingly.

“I am looking for the exit.”

“You want to go that way.”

Ismail thanks the charming American and heads for the door.  There is another checkpoint.  The agent asks for his Customs Declaration form.  He hands it over.  He has left the box for gifts and valuables blank.  The agent waves him on.  Only a few steps more now.  His mind turns back for a second, to the home that is no more.  But then he musters himself for the errand ahead, steals a fast glance at his reflection in a glass partition, and strides through the open doors.  He is here.

Malik Mufti is Turkish from his mother’s side and Jordanian from his father’s side. He has been teaching political science at Tufts University since 1992.