through
the thick brown wrapping Paper as I walked back up the street.
Forty minutes later I was scanning the screens for arrival
information. The Boston flight had only just landed and I
guessed I had a half-hour wait. If one ever wanted proof of
Darwin's contention that the many expressions of emotion
in humans are universal, genetically inscribed, then a few
minutes by the arrivals gate in Heathrow's Terminal Four
should suffice. I saw the same joy, the same uncontrollable
smile, in the faces of a Nigerian earth mama, a thin-lipped
Scottish granny and a pale, correct Japanese businessman
as they wheeled their trolleys in and recognised a figure
n the expectant crowd. Observing human variety can give
pleasure, but so too can human sameness. I kept hearing the
same sighing sound on a downward note, often breathed
through a name as two people pressed forward to go into
their embrace. Was it a major second, or a minor third, or
somewhere in between? Pa-pa! Yolan-ta! Ho-bil Nz-e! There
was also a rising note, crooned into the solemn, wary faces
of babies by long-absent fathers or grandparents, cajoling,
beseeching an immediate return of love. Hann-ah? Tom-ee?
Let me in!
The variety was in the private dramas: a father and tee
ena
son, Turkish perhaps, stood in a long silent clinch, forgiving
each other, or mourning a loss, oblivious to the baggage trol-
leys jamming around them; identical twins, women in their
fifties, greeted each other with clear distaste, just touching
hands and kissing without making contact; a small American
boy, hoisted on to the shoulders of a father he did not recog
og
nise, screamed to be put down, provoking a fit of temper In
his tired mother.
But mostly it was smiles and hugs, and in thirty-five min
utes I experienced more than fifty theatrical happy endings,
each one with the appearance of being slightly less well acted
than the one before, until I began to feel emotionally exhausted
and suspected that even the children were being insincere.
