Crime and Punishment

I recall driving in the middle of the night to collect Emma from the train station. We were texting throughout the day of her arrival. Many things went wrong. A demonstration by environmentalists almost caused her to miss her flight, but a strike by ground staff created enough delays that she was still able to catch it. Had it been a direct flight, this would have been ok, but there was a short stopover and she was bound to miss the connecting flight, which she did. A bit of begging and pleading at the counter - Emma is not one to through a fit, she’s very English that way - and they put her on the next flight.

Naturally, she missed her train, and the ticket she had bought in advance was as good as the banged-up phone case that carefully protected her out-of-date smartphone with a broken screen. Emma is not a very decisive person, but not getting to her destination was simply not an option, so she bought a new ticket. Once on the train, she comforted herself with the anticipated six hours of travel to the station closest to where we live. She decided to kick back and enjoy her… But then she couldn’t. The train conductor informed her she was on the right train but moving in the wrong direction. Well, that doesn’t make it righ', now does it?

Sassy responses with a heavy Brummie accent that she screams at the top of her lungs. No one hears them, no matter how loudly they reverberate in the utter silence of her world. It’s only fantasy. “Oh, how silly of me. How far is the next stop? What should I do now?” That’s more like Emma. She smiled and blushed, listened carefully and apologised profusely. She leaned into her second self, a silly blonde with hair bangs and braces. She learnt the microbiology researcher in Cambridge was seldomly helped. She resented the idea that the silly blonde cruised through life more easily than the academic researcher, but she kept that to herself. 

A superstitious person would’ve thought, and maybe rightfully so, that this trip wasn’t meant to be. Someone with means would’ve pivoted to a different destination. Emma could’ve cut her losses short and gone back home, but for her, that wasn’t an option. For all she knew, she had no home. For all she experienced, she had no family. For all she suffered, she was alone. She could’ve been on the way to hell, a hell she didn’t know, but one she chose and that somehow felt far more palatable for Emma than her so-called home. Not even war breaking out would’ve swayed this young woman from her destination.

Eventually, Emma made it on the right train. It was finally time for her to kick back and read the book that weighed down her purse. It was a light read, fitting for a silly girl with bangs on a long journey in the Italian countryside. She was, however, overwhelmed with guilt. Between demonstrations, strikes and bad luck, her arrival moved past the original time by hours and beyond midnight.  She sent a thousand messages to apologise for the inconvenience she was about to cause. I thought it was excessive. Isn’t it enough to fuck up and apologise for our flaws? Do we now need to apologise for the mishaps of life? 

“Just send me a photo of you so I know who I’m picking up at the station.” I ignored her apology and moved to the practicalities of her arrival. It was only then I remembered that I didn’t know who was coming to stay in our home, let alone what she looked like. I looked at the close-up of her face. I thought if I stared at it long enough, I would get to know who Emma was. I waited for the photo to reveal all of her secrets and then some more. I saw a crooked smile and playful eyes beaming with intelligence and mischief. I got a tad annoyed. Someone that naughty couldn’t be all that apologetic for something they didn’t do! 

I stepped out of the car and called out her name. “Emma, over here.” As she approached the car, I tried to have a better look. I tried to match the photo to the reality. I tried to capture the naughty eyes that she showed and hid as she saw fit. Colourful skirt and a cardigan on top of a simple black top adorned by a light orange scarf. She looked like she just stepped out of a Sunday market stall. The one run by the hippie middle-aged white woman drinking herbal tea and burning incense. Not a look I admire, nor ont that I hate. A look more suitable for a yoga instructor rather than a scientist.   

“I’m really sorry I kept you awake that late. Thank you so much for coming out to pick me.” She said it with the classical British politeness. It’s a national sport, right after football and cricket. It’s a landmark more known than Big Ben or the King’s guards. I never cared for it, British politeness that is. It’s so rooted in how the Brits talk that you can’t really tell when and if they ever mean it. “Don’t worry about it. You’re here now, hop in.” She opened the back door and got in the car. 

“Emma, what do you think you’re doing?”  

“Is that rude? I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I was trying to be polite.”

“It’s true I’m here to pick you up, but I’m not your driver.”

“Oh goodness, how daft of me. Of course, you’re not.”

“Well, this is the point you step out, and you come to the front.”

I could say I was annoyed - and I was annoyed - but then I wasn’t. It’s not often that I get a chance to let my authentic voice out without the need to pass it through multiple filters of what is socially acceptable to say. I cherish those moments when my naturally condescending voice runs free. I was, however, aware this was our first encounter, and I needed to rein it in so I wouldn’t put off Emma too soon. Once she got in the front seat, I sneaked a peek at her book as she put it away in her bag. 

“Dostoevsky! Nice.” I was surprised.

“Did you read Crime and Punishment?” She was equally surprised.

“Amongst others, yes.” 

“That’s not very common.”

“I can say the same.”

“True.”

There was nothing blonde about Emma, even if she was blonde. There was nothing silly about her, even if she needed to be silly. The only hippie thing about her was her need to find a home. A need she carried unapologetically. A need I understood and an attitude I respected.