The voice of departure

Gabriel Gomes

Every day, Mr. Nobody kept to his morning routine. A warm black tea without sugar accompanied by toast on seeded bread smeared with vegetable cream. His greasy fingers gently caressed the pages of whatever historical novel he was reading. So far, no sentence had stirred him and his thoughts as much as the one fired off so brilliantly by the Portuguese Queen Elizabeth. "They're roses, sir" echoed repeatedly in the sometimes hollow, sometimes crowded penumbra of his mind. An empty mind that was the same as his home and his life. With no wife or children and no living close relatives, Mr. Nobody was content with his own presence. He found brief moments of happiness in the novels he read, but they were as fleeting as a brief ejaculation. Tea drunk, always leaving a finger's height at the bottom of the mug, and toast eaten, always leaving the edges on the edge of the plate, Mr. Nobody was ready for another day's work. 

Sitting in his blue Fiat Punto, which never started the first time he turned the key, he took his first big breath of the day, to exasperate the constant anxiety that was metaphorically running through his chest, but literally his soul. He always parked far from his workplace to avoid the extremely expensive parking. Parked at the back of the catering warehouse, he wore wired headphones connected to an MP3 player, the kind that nobody uses anymore. His musical style isn't very defined, but clearly what he listens to the most is Elton John. But if you ask him if it's his favorite singer, he'll just say: I don't know... I don't think so... but... maybe. However the problem is that basically nobody asks.

He enters through the main door, along with the rest of the people who are also heading that way. The difference is that they will be going somewhere, while he will remain firmly rooted in that soil in which he never wanted to be sown. When he enters, she is always the first thing he hears:

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Dear passengers of flight FP905 to Geneva. Boarding will start in fifteen minutes at gate number seventeen. Please have your ticket and ID document with you. Thank you. 

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The voice is serene and assertive, leaving every passenger at the airport with a sense of calm and comfort. It was both a head voice and a chest voice, a clean voice, and a nasal voice. Mr. Nobody wasn't a passenger, never had been and, given the way his life was going, never would be. He knew nothing was holding him there, but there was nothing outside that would excite him enough to go after it. Even though he wasn't a passenger and all he had to do was clean the floors they walked on or the toilets they used, that disembodied yet exaggeratedly full-bodied voice resonated through Mr. Nobody's arteries in almost the same way as Queen Elizabeth's "They're roses, sir". He imagined if a phrase of that caliber were pronounced by a voice of that splendor. And lost in that imagination, the most jovial thoughts, almost bordering on a certain eroticism, flooded his mind. Every day of that miserable cleaning job, that voice was his companion and his most enduring friendship. It had been ten years of unreciprocated complicity, of admiration on only one side. In that voice, categorized as feminine, reverberated the memory of all the feminine essence that Mr. Nobody had wandered through throughout his life. Because every voice builds, evokes memories, and transmits memories. And that was a voice that recalled first love, maternal love, and its warmth. It recalled the first kiss, the first girlfriend, the first elementary school. It remembered the first sermon, the first teacher. It was a voice that remembered and reminded him. In that voice were all the women who had marked his life. And he knew that behind that voice there really was a body, but over the years he became more interested in the sound of that voice than in the possible image that, from time to time and momentarily, fertilized his thoughts. 

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Dear passengers of flight TR104 to Bali. Due to the current weather conditions, the flight will have to wait for a new take-off order. We are sorry for the inconvenience caused and thank you for your understanding. 

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Even in the most adverse or unforeseen situations, the tranquillity diluted in the sound of that voice always conveyed security. It was impossible for anyone in that airport to feel frustrated by any situation that voice reported. It was simply impossible. At least, that's what Mr. Nobody believed, speaking from experience. He thought he knew that voice better than anyone and that while every passenger only listened to what that voice said about their flight, he, on the other hand, made a point of listening to every word that came out of her mouth. A distant, unknown mouth that he would rather not know in reality. Many times he had to pass by with the cleaning trolley next to the room where that voice came from, and many times he even had the opportunity to go and clean that same room. However, he always made sure that this task was taken on by another colleague of his, so he could remain in the imaginary passionate admiration he had developed for that voice over the years. He wanted to maintain this strange stability that had been established in the relationship that had not been consented to by both parties. Since his morning routine was always the same and so was the assertive serenity of that voice, Mr. Nobody believed that in this way the world would continue to turn and he would continue to live in the spiral in which he had settled. 

But one day, a simple triviality as human as the act of thinking caused Mr. Nobody's world to temporarily stop spinning and the spiral in which he lived to turn into a straight line, like the ones that form on hospital multi-parameter vital signs monitors when someone proves the ephemerality of life. And indeed, Mr. Nobody's heart suddenly stopped when he heard that slight change in the voice he admired so much. 

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Dear passengers of flight CA273 to Moscow... (SIGHS) ... Boarding will start in twenty minutes at gate number eight. Please have your ticket and ID document with you. Thank you. 

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For the first time in ten years, that voice was no longer assertive, direct, and sure. All it took was a simple sigh, which was apparently indifferent to anyone else in the airport, for Mr. Nobody to shudder at the possibility of something happening to that voice. A sigh, according to the dictionary, can be a groan, a longing breath caused by pain or passion that moves the spirit, or even the sign of a vehement desire. At that moment, and given the circumstances, for Mr. Nobody that sigh was all this and more. Something was wrong. It was undoubtedly the first time that Mr. Nobody felt that that voice, behind all the informative and cozy assertiveness, felt trapped. In one of the places where you have the most freedom to go anywhere in the world, that voice felt trapped. And that's what made her and Mr. Nobody so similar. That sigh made him believe that that voice needed more than a body to free itself because it certainly had that. A voice that, even surrounded by airplanes, needs something more than to fly. And it was precisely on that day that that voice realized that what it probably needed to free itself was sincerity. She needed to say something she wanted to say, something that really showed how she was feeling. And Mr. Nobody understood this immediately, has her greatest admirer. 

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Dear passengers of flight HL521 to Luanda. Boarding will start in five minutes, at boarding gate number four. Please have your ticket and ID document with you. I'd also like to say that it's important to be yourselves, however difficult that may be. Thank you.

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This time, all the passengers at the airport listened carefully to the announcement until the end, even though it wasn't a flight they were interested in. That kind of sharing, that kind of message, aroused a curiosity never seen before in that airport. Mr. Nobody was no longer the only one looking forward to the next announcement, although he was more concerned about the true emotional state of that voice than the message. For it was only the voice itself that he admired, that he knew how to recognize, that he had fallen in love with. The voice is a kind of fingerprint that immediately identifies us without even the need for a face to be associated with it. The voice is a mediator of the word, preceding it, and that's why Mr. Nobody wasn't so interested in the content of what that voice was saying. Even though it had begun to diversify and enthuse more and more listeners besides him. 

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Dear passengers of any flight to anywhere. I would like to inform you that I'm feeling a bit down today. And that's okay. It's normal to feel this way sometimes. The important thing is to embrace life's ups and downs, even if the ups make you dizzy and the downs seem like dead ends. 

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As sad and drained as Mr. Nobody could feel outside that airport, given the lonely and routine spiral in which he lived, inside he felt that at least that voice gave him some comfort and companionship. Even if it didn't speak directly to him. Even if he didn't recognize it. The voice of any human being is seen as one of the first signs of life. When we are born, the first thing we do is cry, and only then do we know that everything is okay. That voice at the airport became Mr. Nobody's life and he was fine with that, especially now with the sincerity in her sharing. The voice also serves to have meanings, which is why it has different tones, rhythms, and intonations. Until now, her voice was almost mechanical, as it was limited to being informative, always giving the same information. Even if it reported something unexpected, it would do so in the same way. But now, with the type of content it has started to say, we are beginning to hear a personality being built into the fabric of that voice. It's curious to think that the voice comes from the vibration of certain muscular tissues, such as the vocal folds, but that it takes on a fabric of its own, as well as a personality that is sewn into that fabric. Even if that personality doesn't represent the personality of the person who sustains that voice. All this is fascinating, thinks Mr. Nobody, as he listens in amazement to that voice's new message. 

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Dear passengers and everyone else in this airport. Today I decided to share with you a poem I wrote. I hope you enjoy it. 

I go where I want

but I don't get where I want to go.

All the crossroads

of crossed crosses

tear at my desire

to break away from the destination

to which I will never arrive.

I fly with a body that weighs me down

that doesn't want to uproot itself.

I am a finite spiral

that has no watertight center.

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Mr. Nobody had no words, because he didn't know if they would drown in the tears that streamed down his face as they left his mouth. Nor would he have anyone to pass them on to, because although everyone in the airport around him was dazzled by the sharing of that poem by that voice, no one was interested in listening to Nobody, literally. In fact, everyone was dazzled by that poem, which caused some inconvenience at the airport. Not only did some passengers miss their flights and were late catching them, but some flights even delayed their departure because the pilots and flight attendants were listening to that piece of literary and audio art. From that day on, something began to happen that didn't happen at any other airport in the world. The stories of the airport voice who got tired of giving flight information to vent her emotions and recite poetry multiplied and spread faster than any epidemic plague. Many people were already going to the airport, even if they didn't work there or didn't have to take any flights or pick up any passengers. They went, almost as a pilgrimage, just to witness the phenomenon that didn't exist at any other airport. It wasn't long before all flights were canceled. Everyone (passengers, pilots, flight attendants, airport staff) preferred to stay at the airport waiting for the next share of that voice. The most fascinating thing about it all was the sudden, piercing silence that settled over the airport every time you heard the NA NA NA NA that preceded each sharing. 

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Dear passengers: today I'm sharing a song with you, because what good is life without music? 

(PLAYS Rhapsody On a Theme of Paganini, Op. 43: V. Variation XVIII by Sergei Rachmaninoff, performed by Valery Gergiev, Mariinsky Orchestra & Denis Matsuev)

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Mr. Nobody scrubbed every surface he passed, whether it was the floor, sinks, urinals, or toilets. He couldn't explain exactly where such intensity came from, but that voice and that music became part of him, they became the blood in his veins. He had come to know that voice better in the last few weeks than he had in the ten years he had accompanied it on each of his working days. And given the sincerity he already recognized in that voice, he began to know how to distinguish the different voices in that voice. He began to recognize her voice of alarm. Her voice of sadness. Her voice of freedom. Her voice of despair, frustration, or consolation. Her voice of anguish. Even her agnostic voice came out from time to time. But only an admirer like Mr. Nobody could recognize that. And all this through the voice she uses saying "Dear passengers". 

Despite the increasingly intimate closeness he felt with that voice, it was still an unrequited or consensual relationship for both parties. He was still a body wandering through the human traffic of an airport, while she was a voice, something ethereal and untouchable, for which he developed a platonic feeling, because, as has already been said, he was more interested in the idea of the desire for that sound matter than in the possible person who served as a vehicle for that voice. Sometimes it could even be a man, or even someone non-binary, but none of that mattered. Perhaps that feeling was due to some kind of lack he felt in his life, but of all the voices heard in that airport, none echoed in his mind like that one. None comforted him and kept him company like that one. But the saddest thing about it all was undoubtedly the fact that that voice could never see him, precisely because it was only a voice. At least, he thought, until the day that... 

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Dear Mr. Nobody who cleans this airport: I would like to inform you that you don't have to scrub the surfaces you walk past so hard in search of your reflection in them to find yourself. I would also like to inform you that you do not go unnoticed and that I see you. I've always seen you.

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After that day, and this time for good, everything changed. That attentive voice, which accompanied him every day, described Mr. Nobody as no one had ever described him in his entire life. Not even himself. And so he decided to thank her by slipping a poem describing her under the door behind which she was hiding. She, in turn, was so moved by that gesture and that poem that she decided to share it publicly, reciting it to the entire airport, because for the first time in forever, like Mr. Nobody, nobody was going anywhere. As we said before, every flight was canceled.

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Dear people present at this airport, I would like to share with you a poem that was written for me, entitled Dance:

dancing voice

tantruming voice

which becomes 

aphonic

hoarse 

clear 

crystalline 

drunk

a voice that wants a body

voice that is body

voice body

body that is voice

a voice that dances free

by getting rid of us

breaking through our mouths

but that takes with her 

our

body

require it 

needs it 

dance with him 

marries him

and together they bring

messages

ideas

thoughts

senses

passing voice

from one body to another 

who will receive it in itself 

through its ears.

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From the moment that that completely mesmerizing voice spoke directly to him, Mr. Nobody had become somebody. But now, and with the recitation of that poem of his, to which that voice imposed all the fullness and stunning vivacity that characterized it, the voice recognized Mr. Nobody in front of everyone, which renamed him Mr. Somebody. From that moment on, that voice became his safe haven. It became his life. His home. And a voice that becomes our home will always be a voice of arrival and never a voice of departure.