And then — the relief of it — some buildings, airport buildings, many of them, and many international planes lined up at the gates. Only a big city would have a large and busy airport, and she sank back in her seat, closed her eyes, and tried to breathe the terror away. But it had settled in. Reason told her that in a year or two she would have marked out her new life, rendered it known and navigable. But for now, she wished she could leap across the next year or, better still, slip into a long sleep from which she would awake and find herself at home.

The future pressed down on her — how to find an affordable flat, how to find work — but first the immediate issue of customs and immigration. Would they recognise this travel document for foreigners, this Titolo di Viaggio per Stranieri? It was stamped by the Australian Embassy in Rome, but would they know what it was here? And would they accept it as legitimate?

A short time later, she handed the document to an official. He looked at it and said something to her. She didn’t understand what he was saying. He repeated himself. She still didn’t understand; this English was unlike any English she’d ever heard before. The man continued to speak, and at last a few recognisable words surfaced. She wanted him to slow down, speak more clearly, but wouldn’t dare ask this of an official. With a few words here and a few words there, she understood enough to respond. And she must have passed, because he waved her on to another official, a woman this time, but with the same incomprehensible English. And again she must have passed because the Italian travel document was stamped, and the official wished her ‘good luck’.

She exited through the doors into the airport, and immediately located a card bearing her name. She was not home, but neither was she stranded.

3 THE RIGHT JOB FOR A SHY MAN

3

THE RIGHT JOB FOR A SHY MAN

Andrew Morrow nods to the technician to place the last carousel on the slide projector. There’s an air of expectancy in the hall. The woman in the front row is still knitting; her hands seem to move of their own accord as she gazes up at him. (The organisers had warned him, ‘She comes to all our public lectures, she always sits in the front row, and she always knits.’) With her fluffy cardigan falling tent-like from collar to calf, she looks like a soft pink pyramid. Only two people have fallen asleep: an elderly man whose head has slumped sideways to rest precariously close to the chap next to him, and a beautifully groomed woman sitting behind the knitter. Given this is overwhelmingly a mature-aged audience, and it is late afternoon on a hot day, Andrew thinks that two sleepers out of approximately eighty people is acceptable.