“I’ll go with you as far as reception,” Colebrook said. “Nobody’s going to worry about seeing you with a doctor.”
“I’d rather go in alone, thanks. I’m all right.”
Colebrook smiled approvingly. “That’s good. Just remember what the physiotherapist told you about how to lift heavy weights.” Hasson nodded, said goodbye to the surgeon and went towards the gate which led to the departure building. He carried a large and a small case in each hand, keeping his back straight and the load in balance. The pain from his spine and the rebuilt joint of his left knee was considerable, but he had learned that movement — no matter how uncomfortable — was his ally. The real pain, the devasting and paralysing agony, came after he was forced to remain immobile for a long period, and then had to perform a once simple action such as getting out of bed. It was as though his body, denying the magic of surgery, had a masochistic yearning for crippledom.
He went to the passenger terminal where he and his baggage were subjected to a series of fairly perfunctory checks. It turned out that there were about twenty other people on his particular flight, which meant that the flying boat had almost its full quota of passengers. For the most part, they were middle-aged couples who had the flustered, expectant look of people who were not used to long-distance travel. Hasson guessed they were going abroad to visit relatives. He stood apart from them, sipping machine-made coffee and wondering why anybody who had the option of remaining safely at home would set out to cross a wintered ocean.