The Curious Incident of the Girl on the Flight

Charles de Gaulle Airport outside Paris was a buzz with the comings and goings of frazzled, jet-lagged passengers riding the tailwinds of holiday traffic, clumsily shuffling through the betrodden concrete corridors of Terminal One. Maya, part of the throng jockeying for the pole position on the moving walkway, wove through the faces suspended in a limbo of neither here nor there and proceeded onward on automatic pilot. Succumbing to the rhythmic drone of clicking heels and baggage wheels, she slid off the conveyer belt in search of a toilet, following the prompts of those iconic figures, one of whom would lead her to the correct gender assignation in the public restrooms.

Soon relief was in sight, and Maya entered the alcove, veering left instead of the right, narrowly avoiding an embarrassing encounter, and dashed into a stall, its door slightly ajar, indicating vacancy. Dragging her rollerblade into the tight space, she prepared to sit down to business, but it was then that she noticed a dark leather handbag hanging open from a hook on the door. Stunned by what she saw before her, Maya wondered how a woman could be so rushed that she would leave such a valuable possession behind that was so blatantly blocking the exit.

Of course, she had to peek inside the bag. A cursory inspection of the contents revealed that the owner was a girl, not a woman, for the contents were typical “necessities” of a twenty-something female—tons of makeup, shocking pink earphones, a tampon—but NO wallet. Had the owner taken the wallet out of the purse and then forgotten to grab her bag in the hurry to catch her flight? she wondered.

Maya deduced that whoever it was, must have just left, so she hurried out the bathroom, bypassing the ritual handwashing, in the hope of finding a manic individual frantically checking her belongings. However, there was no such panicked passenger.

After several laps of the waiting rooms and a brisk march up and down the concourse, there were still no candidates. In fact, the halls were empty. Hmm, she thought, maybe I should examine the contents of the purse more thoroughly. With that idea in mind, she slipped into a restroom in another wing of the airport so as not to arouse suspicion for being a “frequent flyer” in the same lavatory.

Perched again on another nondescript toilet seat, Maya delved more deeply into the various pouches and pockets, unearthing an eyelash curler, mascara, coral cocoon lip gloss, a brush, aspirin, a USB cable with a European adaptor, scraps of paper, and a hardcover black notebook, sleek in appearance and barely used, maybe a Christmas present. When Maya opened it, she saw that it was a sketchbook with a poignant inscription on the first page:

To Sam,

May thoughts and recollections of journeys through the future be as pleasant as my thoughts are of you at this moment.

All my love,

Claude

Further sifting divulged gum wrappers, the stub of an Air France boarding pass, a class schedule/ID number for the spring semester at New York University, and a piece of envelope with a return address, partially bearing the senders’ last name: “-e-n-t-a-.” This could be useful information, she mused. The address was only about ten blocks away from her own apartment in Astoria.

Amazingly, as she pulled out the black book, it fell open to a page where four crisp hundred-dollar bills were wedged tightly together. What a find! she said to herself. She could buy two-months’ worth of avocado toast with that money, or splurge on the tasting menu at that famous Japanese restaurant downtown, or even get a ticket to Hamilton.

Maya shifted uncomfortably on the toilet seat, wondering if her prolonged stay in the cubicle might attract attention. She knew by the sound of flushing around her that there were many other occupants in the restroom, so it was time to depopulate the stall.

Faced with a dilemma, she hauled her luggage toward gate 29, her uncertainty gnawing away at her conscience. Should she reap the benefits of an unexpected windfall, or should she do the honorable thing and return the purse to the rightful owner? She listened carefully to the announcements over the intercom, half expecting an answer to her query in the form of a disjointed bilingual blurb, half expecting a security alert concerning a missing handbag. Neither was forthcoming. She could approach a security guard and hand over the booty, but she didn’t speak a word of French, and there was no easily traceable information to locate the handbag’s owner. Wouldn’t the guard wonder how she got the bag in the first place, or keep the money for himself?

Maybe she could track down “Sam.” She had her student ID number but knew from her own college experience that officials would not release private information to third parties without authorization. She could visit the locale of the return address and do her own detective work, maybe read the names on the mailboxes outside, or ring the apartment and simply ask for “Sam.” She wouldn’t mention the purse because she wanted to avoid being cast as a thief, especially when a wallet or iPhone wasn’t among the possessions.

It was strange that there was no identification of any kind. The girl might have extracted the iPhone and passport to board the plane, but she wouldn’t have taken out a wallet. Suddenly, in a burst of insight, another scenario occurred to Maya. Maybe someone else had stolen the purse, removed the valuables and hid them in her suitcase before being caught with stolen items.

Now Maya felt even worse about the poor owner of the purloined purse who might end up being victimized twice. She had begun to formulate an image of what “Sam” was like. The inscription on the page indicated she was someone worthy of adoration, a sensitive person inclined to artistic renderings, possibly in her third year at college but most likely the recipient of a scholarship because someone from her working-class neighborhood wouldn’t be able to foot the bill at one of the nation’s most prestigious universities. Maybe she had been doing a semester abroad studying studio art or art history at a city renowned for its culture. Obviously, she was either incredibly naïve, or scatterbrained for losing he purse in a crowded transit area probably rife with pickpockets. She seemed like a girly girl, a bit vain, insecure maybe, someone overly convinced of the ability of makeup to improve upon the unfiltered image of one’s natural state.

Stuffing the purse in her backpack and joining the ranks of the other boarding passengers waiting restlessly in line, she vowed to find “Sam.”

Nine hours later, the tarmac at JFK was a collage of blaring sirens, racing vehicles, and ground attendants waving neon flashlights with more than the usual amount of fervor. A clamor arose inside the plane as the flight was redirected to another terminal, and news eventually seeped out that there had been a bombing at the Air France baggage carousel, resulting in numerous causalities.

The scene unfolded like a familiar movie as Maya blocked out everything except the urgency to get home, an act which was accomplished several hours later. What a close call! What a tragedy! Later that week when her anxiety dissipated, she wondered if “Sam” might have been one of the victims. The local paper didn’t mention victims’ names, and It wasn’t until the end of the week, on the subway to Manhattan that she saw an article in the paper about a memorial in the Village for one of the victims—a girl named Samantha Gentani.

In a flash, Maya realized that the last name could have been the last name on that envelope scrap, but this Sam lived in the Village not in Astoria. What a shame that she didn’t have a chance to return the handbag. On the subway ride home later that day, she examined the picture again, but it didn’t fit with Maya’s previous conjectures. This girl had a rough demeanor, a buzz cut, no makeup whatsoever, and was older than she had imagined—maybe in her forties.

Although this recent revelation was unsettling, In her mind, she rationalized that $400 would make up for all the money she had lost over the years, due to irresponsibility or theft. Maybe this was all part of the checks and balances of divine reckoning, but still that faceless ogre—uncertainty—emerged once again as she thought about that picture in the paper. Why would Sam need a brush when she barely had any hair? She wasn’t wearing any makeup in the photo. Wasn’t she from Astoria? Of course, that could have been her parent’s address.

The next day, despite her misgivings, Maya decided to skip work and visit the Astoria address, but she would have to be careful. The family members would be grieving, so she had to broach the subject with delicacy. Winding her way through the noisy, trash-littered streets of Astoria, dodging in and out of traffic and under the overpasses, she arrived at the dubious destination and tentatively rang the bell. The door creaked open and an elderly woman with sharp, brown eyes emerged from the crevice.

“I’m here about Sam,” Maya said.

“Samira’s at work now and won’t be home until tonight,” the woman replied in a thick, unrecognizable accent.

Secretly stunned by this news, and not quite able to digest it, Maya muttered something about coming back later and hurriedly descended from the stoop.

Samira? Not Samantha? And she was alive?

It was then, with a pang of realization that Maya knew that Samantha Getani, the victim of the terrorist attack, was not the owner of the purse. Then whose bag was it? The other “Sam” was returning from work that evening, and Maya needed closure. This incertitude had been consuming too much of her time.

On her way home, trudging through the sludge, she bought takeout, climbed the three floors to her apartment, and flopped on the sofa to consume egg rolls and the news. Every channel carried the terrorist attack, the death toll now rising to nine, many in critical condition, and one suspect by the name of Claude Bouquentar.

What? She recognized the name instantly. The person who wrote the name in the notebook was called Claude, and Bouquentar and the mysterious “-e-n-t-a” on the envelope could have been his last name. that was when Maya realized that the handbag belonged to a woman associated with a terrorist. The news report also mentioned a phone number to call if anyone had news related to the attack, so Maya called the next day and made an appointment to speak with agent Herrera of the FBI. He confirmed that the words written in the black book were those of Claude Bouquentar and that information, along with the envelope scrap was essential evidence.

“You know,” he said. “We found something interesting at the crime scene that ties in with your story. There was a French credit card found in a wallet near one of the victims. It had Claude Bouquentar’s name on it.”

“Who was the victim?” asked Maya with growing curiosity.

“A lady by the name of Sam Gentani,” answered the agent. “She had a police record for pick-pocketing, and we originally thought she was Claude’s accomplice, but now it seems we were wrong. It appears that Samira Bouquentar was his accomplice, and now we have her address. I hope you also realize that the FBI is offering a $20,000 reward for any information leading to the arrest of the terrorists.”

A month later, Maya had not only closure, but $20,400 more in her bank account.