Pierre Auguste Renoir At the Concert paintingPierre Auguste Renoir After The Bath paintingPierre Auguste Renoir After The Bath 1888 painting
Sand gave way to snow. Europe in winter, beneath its white, transforming carpet, its ghost-white shining up through the night. The Alps, France, the coastline of England, white cliffs rising to whitened meadowlands. Mr. Saladin Chamcha jammed on an anticipatory bowler hat. The world had rediscovered Flight A 1-420, the Boeing 747 _Bostan_. Radar tracked it; radio messages crackled. _Do you want permission to land?_ But no permission was requested. _Bostan_ circled over England's shore like a gigantic sea-bird. Gull. Albatross. Fuel indicators dipped: towards zero.
When the fight broke out, it took all the passengers by surprise, because this time the three male hijackers didn't argue with Tavleen, there were no fierce whispers about the _fuel_ about _what the fuck you're doing_ but just a mute stand-off, they wouldn't even talk to one another, as if they had given up hope, and then it was Man Singh who cracked and went for her. The hostages
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