The Greenhouse

Seven

— Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own? the hostess asks me as I walk down the aisle to the exit. You’re very pale.

The moment I step off the plane, the head hostess taps me on the shoulder and says:

— We tried to find out what food it was, two of us tasted it, but we’re not sure. Sorry. But it’s definitely either fish in breadcrumbs with a cream cheese filling or chicken in breadcrumbs with a cream cheese filling.

An airport official writes an address on a slip of paper that I crumple in my clenched clammy palm.

I’m in a city I’ve never been in before, my very first port of call abroad, and I’m curled up on the backseat of a taxi. The backpack is beside me, and the green shoots pierce through the newspaper wrapping in the top compartment. On second thought, I’m not sure whether I’m alone in the taxi; I can’t exclude the possibility that the woman in the yellow polo might have escorted me to my destination.

When the car stops by a sidewalk at a red light I can see people checking their reflections in my window as they pass.

The driver occasionally glances at me through his mirror. He’s got a big Alsatian in the front seat with a slavering tongue dangling from its mouth. I can’t see whether the dog is on a leash, but his eyes are fixed on me. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, the car has stopped in front of a hospital and the driver has turned around in his seat and is looking at me. He makes me pay double for having thrown up in his cab, but doesn’t look particularly angry; it’s more of a scolding air, perhaps, for my irresponsible behavior.