Love is... Simple

Ms Wyatt, please report to the passenger collections stand at the front entrance at the right-hand side of the Terminal where your driver awaits you. Stand! Stand! I must stand. I have to stand at the front entrance at the right-hand side of the terminal. I get up. I am standing. I am grounded. I am back on solid ground. I take my Partner in Crime by the handle and I stroll through the Airport. Amman airport. A far, far-away land a million miles from home, and I am strolling as if walking on the most beautiful sunny day without a care in the world. I spot him, or rather, he spots me. He stands suited and booted, grey beard, grey hair, and a weathered face. I wave an oh-so-jolly-wave; a wave that says, “I am here. I am here and I am so happy to see you!” He rushes to my aid, nodding once, twice, three times, “Welcome to Jordan. I am Mr George.” He announces his name with such pride in his voice. He takes my Partner in Crime and trots off in front of me. “Queen Alia International Airport” I look at the sign in Arabic and English. Queen Alia: who was Queen Alia? I look to my left, “The Prayer Room.” I look ahead Mr George stands beckoning; the prayer room is beckoning; Mr George is beckoning. I contemplate . . . I walk towards Mr George and his Mercedes. He stands, door open, his head bowed, Jeeves-like, as I slide into the limo demurely. “Who is Queen Alia?” I toss out, randomly. “You Queen Alia!” His head is still lowered, his eyes to the floor. I can only laugh. His head comes up and our eyes meet. “You like Queen Alia: the face, the hair . . .” His hands mimic her hair. He uses his hands a lot. I laugh again, wishing I had never asked the question . . . I laugh again so glad that I had asked the question. Two minutes ago I was not wanted; now I am Queen Alia, whoever she is. I sit silently, gazing out onto the most magnificent city. No, actually I am not gazing out onto the most magnificent city; I am gazing, gazing, gazing into the infinity of outer space, but looking like I am gazing out onto the most magnificent city; but what I am really doing is replaying, you are not wanted, not wanted, not wanted and, I’m sorry I don’t think I can be what you need me to be, over and over again. “Amman is magnificent city!” Mr George interrupts my thoughts, oh so politely. He is smiley, that is the only way I can describe him— Smiley with a capital S. I like Mr George. I smile back at him as he pulls down the vanity mirror in front of me, pointing. I look up and there she is, Panda Eyes. Now I don’t mean little panda eyes; I mean huge panda eyes—two black eyes that stare back at me. Now I feel them coming; I can feel those tears welling. No. I mustn’t. I mustn’t destroy Mr George’s moment: his moment of kindness; his moment of thinking that I am Queen Alia . . . “Here, Queen Alia!” He holds out a tissue. Not just any tissue, but a hanky; a silk hanky. He is giving Panda Eyes his silk hanky. “No, it’s beautiful. I cannot take it.” I hand it back. Oh, Mr George Smiley with a capital S has changed to Mr George Frowny with a capital F, and the back of his hand comes at me as if swatting an irritating fly. “Fine. I will take it. Thank you! Thank you!” Why am I talking in an Indian accent? That really was an Indian accent. Oh God! In five minutes I have turned Mr Smiley George into Mr Frowny George, refused his silk hanky, and spoken to him in an Indian accent. Stop thinking and wipe your eyes; just shut up and wipe your eyes woman! I wipe my eyes. I cannot look at the horror of the panda anymore. I flip the mirror up and continue to wipe, looking down. “Queen Alia . . . She was beautiful . . . The most beautiful queen and married to King Hussein. She was writer . . . She was woman . . . She was woman’s woman. She was helper . . . She was giver . . . She was queen to all the people.” I am transfixed. I am mesmerised. I am obsessed: obsessed by this woman whom Mr George thinks I’m like. “Why did she do all these things?” “She always did before she married King Hussein. She was good human being. You are good human being.” Now this is too much. I cannot sit here letting Mr George think I am a good human being when I am so far from being a good human being. Queen Alia was wanted: I am not wanted. “No, I am not like Queen Alia. Me crazy.” Mr George smiles, his hands stay on the steering wheel this time. “Queen Alia? Many say she was mad . . . She follow her heart . . . You follow your heart . . . You are Queen Alia!” He points to the panda eyes. “Queen Alia cry many tears . . . Good people who follow their heart cry many tears . . .” I will not cry; I cannot cry; I cannot cry in front of Mr George. I change direction. “Oh look, the city it is so beautiful.” We turn into the city; honking horns give way to the beautiful call to prayer; gleaming white houses, kebab stalls, and cafés are interspersed with bustling markets. My head turns at the vibrancy of the cloth and the carpets; and of the people. “Souks, you like souks?” Mr George asks with an excited look in his eye. “Suits? No I don’t wear suits.” Mr George laughs. No, Mr George really laughs, “Souks!” He stops the car and points to the mayhem that is the market. “Oh, a market!” I giggle. “Yes, I love souks!” Whoops, the Indian accent is back in full flow. I like Mr George. We turn into a side street; the sun is beginning to set, and the white buildings of the city seem to glow in its fading eastern warmth. “Dinner at 8 p.m. I take you straight there, yes? Good!” Mr George brings me back to reality. Work, I have to work. I have a dinner for a work project. I have a dinner in the city of Amman for a work project. The Panda is going to dinner to seal a deal. Can I climb that hill? I have no idea. It feels so steep; one step feels too much. “Amman is built on seven hills. Jabels, their name.” Is Mr George reading my mind? My mind? I don’t even know where my mind is anymore it’s so lost in its ever-decreasing circles. We take one roundabout, then the next, and then the next. It is like Spaghetti Junction. “Jabels once had traffic circle. Now most have, how you say, traffic colours?” Ahh! Mr George is sweet. “Traffic lights.” “Yes, those traffic lights—red, orange, green.” He points to the lights in front of us now controlling our conversation. Red: the light is red; red is danger. Why did I not see the danger in the situation? Green: we are ready to go. Go, go. go, Mr George! Queen Alia cannot dwell on the red right now. “You are good person. You will do well in this life.” Oh, Mr George if only you knew. I smile. “No, Mr George, you are good person. Me . . .” I pause. What am I? Who am I? I have no idea right now. I have no idea who I am. “You . . . Good person. I tell you” Mr George has finished my sentence. I cannot respond; he has been too kind. I reach out touching his hand. I am a good, not-wanted person. I am in a foreign, far-away land about to try to make the deal of a lifetime, sitting next to the sweetest man who has just named me Queen Alia: Queen of the Jordanian people; the woman who gave to the poor, who helped the sick, and who enhanced arts and creativity in a civilisation of suppression. Mr George if only you knew how much this little fantasy means to me; if only you knew how worthwhile you have made me feel. I squeeze his hand. “I am not Queen Alia. I am just a woman trying to get through today, and I have no idea how I will do it.” “You will . . . Queen Alia,” he winks. I give way to a fit of the giggles. He will not accept I am not Queen Alia!