The Mountain

I dislike puddle jumpers. Unfortunately, they were part of my life. When you travel the world, searching out unique products to excite American minds, you have to accept a few risks. Small planes with duct taped seats are one. Pilots with questionable credentials are another. Today, I was gambling in a twin engine prop plane that was badly in need of a paint job.

The pilot did a lot of smiling and nodding when I boarded. His knowledge of English was poor. My knowledge of Azerbaijani was even weaker. I had separated from my translator earlier that morning since he wasn't following me into Russia. Hilal had been invaluable while I searched for rug manufacturer that would suit the tastes of our discerning customers. His ability to convey meaning in translation was rare. Most of the translators I worked with could only think in one language, and that invariably lead to misunderstandings. Hilal understood nuance in both languages and chose words, at least in English, that held the true intent as well as meaning.

The plane had room for eight passengers, four on each side of the aisle. I took a seat in the back hoping I might rest in privacy. My internal clock was still messed up with the time change, and I had learned early on to take naps whenever I could. I watched two elderly gentlemen board. They wore old suits that looked like they once belonged to Al Capone's gang. Like the rest of the country, they smiled at me, and I smiled back. It seemed to pass as a greeting here though the smiles were practiced and meaningless. They took the seats in the front that gave me hope for the privacy I desired.

The trip had been a successful one. With Hilal's help, I had secured a manufacturer of high-quality hand loomed rugs, intricate designs at a high 60 x 60-knot density. They used only spring sheared wool that, I was informed, gave the carpet a softer texture. It also made them more expensive. One would think that people in the more remote parts of the world would be ignorant of the price Americans were willing to pay for quality. Negotiations proved that theory false. They also had a good handle on marketing. They affixed small labels to the underside that included the signature of the artist who did the looming. A family crest used for generations joined the signature and guaranteed authenticity. It was highly profitable for both their firm and mine.

I watched a slim women climb on board with a small child. She was holding him tight to her breast; his legs were not quite reaching her hips. He looked asleep which I dearly hoped he would remain. She had soft raven hair that cascaded down her back in natural waves. I could see the strain in her eyes that spoke of a difficult morning. Her contented sigh when she took the seat in front of me confirmed my hypothesis. A soft baby powder odor wafted back to my seat. It was pleasant.

I was still three days out from Kimberly. The mother in front of me somehow triggered the thought. She was about the same size as Kimberly. The hair was completely different from Kimberly's short brown, but the ages were comparable. If it were up to Kimberly, she would be holding a child as well.

Kimberly was my enigma. She was a joy out on the town and passion personified in bed. If that were life, I would have married her long ago. It was the nothing parts of life where she, or we, failed miserably. The parts that made up the bulk of living. I missed her and didn't miss her at the same time. I loved her some of the time.

After four years, we had gotten used to each other and suffered through the silence as penance for the good times we knew were never far away. I didn't have the heart to marry someone who I tolerated most of the time. I didn't have the heart to disconnect either. Right then, sitting on the plane, I missed her.

The pilot, in his greasy overalls, closed up the door and pumped his fists together at his waist. The international buckle-your-seatbelt gesture. He smiled and said something in Azerbaijani and then looked at me.

"We go now," the pilot said in deeply accented English. I nodded my head, and he seemed happy I understood. He turned, ducked his head and entered the cockpit. That was the breadth of his in-flight safety briefing. The engines struggled to start, coughed, then kicked into a loud roar after producing an uncomfortable amount of white smoke.